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.

14. Chapter 14

Author's Notes: Long year, extremely busy with health issues, work, family life, and a dozen more things. Frankly, the time I used to have to write this is getting slimmer, despite having dozens of ideas and a near perfectly-clear timeline and ending planned out for it. Frankly, a good deal of my time is spent trying to figure out a workaround to this, but I'm running dry. I'm not even gonna bother with the idea of a (P)atreon, simply for the fact that I wouldn't even have time to post there anyways, either (also, the potential legal hassle makes it too risky for however rewarding it would be). If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

Harrenhal

The wind that entered his room was warm, the hottest he remembered feeling in his entire life. According to the castle, the season still carried a chill, but even at its earliest stages, a western spring was warmer than a northern summer. He looked around himself, looking to all his belongings. Anything that he once claimed was his was missing now, packed with his clothes, armors and other belongings. The room was as bare as it had once been when he first arrived. Only now it's even smaller. It was a relief, too. His feet had gotten dangerously close to the end of the bed, its moderate size no longer enough for his towering form.

For the first time in years, Geralt skipped his morning training. Thousands upon thousands of times swinging his sword had long since paid off, and a few days' break could hardly undo it all. Looking in his room's silvery mirror, he took a moment to look at himself. The roundness of his cheeks was nearly entirely gone, but a hint remained, the last vestiges of a fleeting childhood. His body was bulging with muscle, hardly an ounce of fat across its surface. Though the warlock's scar remained as a reminder of his first howling year in the Westerlands, the line had since thinned. His hair remained cut short, and to add to it, every morning he shaved the shadows of a near-full beard. His eyes remained the steely grey of House Stark, the one aspect of himself that had not changed in all those years.

Dressing himself in the clothes he'd left out, now fitting a bit tighter than he'd like, he mulled over his coming departure. I've done my part and bid my proper farewells. He'd parted with most of the household the night prior, bearing simple but meaningful gifts for each. For Tygett, he'd given three, an amber necklace for Darlessa, a crimson doublet for Tyrek. For the man himself, he'd ordered a custom-made surcoat, only instead of Lannister gold for the lion, he had it made a silvery-grey. It was simple enough, perhaps too simple, but it had earned him a genuine smile.

A man forced to live in another's shade is like to value any chance he'd get to bask in his own sun, Geralt had figured. His guess had earned him a brief yet deep few words from the Steel Lion. Rare are the lords that can say their reputations and triumphs are owed to their own sweat and blood, rather than their forebears. You are amongst those few, Geralt. Stand proud, my lord, you have earned it.

Gerion had a much livelier reaction by comparison. Without a wife and children, his gift would have come far less expensive, but Geralt had underestimated the costs of scribing. For the youngest of the lot, far too free a spirit to ever grant importance to that which so many coveted, he'd gifted a map. Stretching from Westeros to Essos, even scratching some of Sothoryos's clouded northern edges, it had been as intricate as the one carved into the table at the top of the Lord's Tower. If I'm to be wed soon enough, ser, your own wifeless days are numbered. This ought to help with your escape when that time finally comes. Gerion had boomed with laughter, hugging him tightly and slapping him on the back. Shameless and irresponsible, my lord, I'm glad to have had such a positive influence on you. You'll be sorely missed around these halls, Geralt. Do visit soon.

For Kevan and Genna, he'd held off. Though their gifts were ready, they too would travel north with their eldest brother's entourage, time he'd have the chance to spend with the pair before truly saying goodbye. To his great surprise, a piece of his heart ached at the thought of leaving the Rock for good. However strange and peculiar his time may have been there, he'd learned to grow fond of the West. But however much he knew he'd miss it all, an even greater part of him yearned for home. And now it's finally time.

The pair of blue roses by his window reminded him of that. As it turned out, though it had started in the winter, a strange surging of beautiful, blue roses had begun spreading across the south, propelled further by the spring's long-awaited arrival. What had started with a few at the northernmost edge of the Riverlands had journeyed all the way down, a scarce few sprouting in the Westerlands and the Reach. Their rise in fame too followed, for few, if any other flowers, bloomed so beautifully in the dead of winter. While some of the ladies were charmed by their like, immediately demanding them in their gardens and their décor, Geralt could only laugh. When Cerenna demanded to know why, he explained those were native to the North, and that the West was finally privy to his homeland's beauty. When he found a pair waiting for him in his room the night before, he'd looked at the letter beside them.

I suspect we'll see many more of these soon, now that our path is northwards. Perhaps we can have them as part of our new home, my crimson and your cobalt. Though I would have preferred to deliver your brothers and sister to you, for the time being, perhaps this bit of home will suffice for now. It's the least you deserve.

Your friend now and always, Myrielle.

Friend, Geralt thought amusedly, I can think of a dozen different words she meant to say instead. While she certainly wasn't wrong, he remained surprised at her own restraint. Propriety first and foremost, Lady Genna taught her well. He chuckled as he picked up the roses. My hands must be larger now, I remember how much bigger this used to be. He lifted one up to his nose and gave it a sniff, his body relaxing as its familiar scent rushed through his lungs. Caressing the petals with the back of his fingers, he asked softly, "And just how far has your journey been? How's father's garden treated you? Finally full of poppo yet?"

The rose almost seemed to shine at that, but then so did everything with the morning's golden rays. Shaking his head he placed them back on his desk. Perhaps Myrielle can find a way to weave one into her dress and another onto my doublet. It'd be a shame to leave them he– "Geralt?"

He jumped, hand on his chest just above where his heart was furiously thundering. Turning wildly, he was nearly floored at the sight, hand on his bed to keep himself steady. Her timid look turned into the brightest of smiles. "Geralt!"

When he'd last left her, she'd fit perfectly in one of his palms, perhaps half the size of her rose. Now she stood taller than it, perhaps as big as his own head. Her hair, once kept in a tight bun, had since come loose, trickling down her shoulders in dark green waves, while her crown was adorned with cobalt petals. Her skirt had grown longer, a grassy dress that went to her knees, and yet despite the skin that remained exposed, she did not show a single sign of the winter's parting cold. Eventually, Geralt found his voice again, "…Chitch?"

"Geralt! It is you!" She giggled excitedly, eyes shining vibrantly. She immediately ran to the ledge of the desk, fearlessly jumping off it. With great speed and reflex, Geralt closed the distance and caught her in his hands, now the size of a proper doll. About to admonish her for her risk-taking, she immediately jumped the moment he brought her close to his face, wrapping her little arms around his head and kissing his cheek. "I missed you."

"Chitch, I–" But when she ended the hug, looking up at him with large, adoring eyes, his strength waned. Is this why you let us get away with so much, father? His smile came back, soft and gentle. "I missed you, too."

"I told Lyanna! I told her and Benjen you'd be fine." She giggled victoriously, immediately sitting on the palms of his hands and looking up at him. She waved her arms at him. "And you are! And now you're a giant!"

"And you've been learning a lot of words." Geralt chuckled, cocking his head to the side. "No more 'Ger' or 'Lya' or 'Ben' friends?"

"Always! But Lyanna's been teaching me. Benjen, too!" She explained emphatically, standing on her two little feet and turning to face the window, spreading her arms and breathing the morning gale in. "Sometimes, she's taken me to lessons with Master Luwin, so I learn to read and write and to history!"

At that, Geralt's blood froze. "…She's taken you to Luwin?"

"Wait! Don't be angry, please." She turned right back around just as quickly, hugging one of his thumbs. Though the tension remained, he was frustrated by just how easily she'd disarmed him. "She made sure no one could see me, and since no one has, she said I could join her."

"…Alright, so long as no one saw you." Geralt sighed, still trying to keep the pit in his stomach from deepening any further. Smiling again, he asked, "So, what did you learn with Lyanna and Luwin?"

"Westeros!" She shouted, raising her arms. "The North, House Stark, Dorne, the Westerlands, Casterly Rock, the South–"

"All places in Westeros, aye." Geralt interrupted amusedly. "And what did you learn of those places in Westeros?"

"I learned where you were." She replied with a smile that tugged on his innermost heartstrings. "I learned where Ned and Ben are! About where you were staying, and counting the days until you returned!"

She's growing. I didn't know that she could grow. Now she can count, learn of places and people… A thought at the back of his mind worried him, worming his way to the front of it until it moved his mouth for him. "Chitch, not that I'm not happy that you're here, believe me, this is about as great as surprises can get. But… how did you find me? What happened to your rose? Your first rose?"

"My first rose?" She pointed out the window. "It's still where you planted it! Your father lord visits it every once in a while, and Lyanna too. Sometimes Brandon comes, too! The other roses grabbed me. Grabbed my head."

Grabbed? "When you say grabbed your head, Chitch, you mean you felt something pull you? Pull your mind? Your soul?"

"Yes!" She nodded eagerly. "I can jump between roses, see?"

She immediately focused, and in the shadow of a moment, turned into glowing dust in his hands. His breath hitched, letting it go once he saw the second rose glow now, as opposed to the first. In a soft flash of light, she appeared next to it, leaving it glowing, while the first one had wilted entirely. She pointed at the glowing flower. "See?!"

"Aye, I see." He nodded carefully. The wilted one was what caught his attention, all too similar to the broken flower in his dreams. "What happened to the other rose?"

"The other rose? Oh." When she turned to it, she stepped close, holding it with gentle little fingers. As she caressed the darkened stalk, her voice lowered. "Oh, they do that. Once I've finished hopping between them, they just…"

You've been killing your own flowers this carelessly?! The hell is the matter with you?! It took all of Geralt's restraint not to let that out, it was clear enough the dead flower was weighing on the little girl now. He sighed deeply, walking up to his desk and caressing her back with two fingers. "…And how did you know to find me? I hear your flowers have been growing more and more in Westeros."

"Oh?" Her eyes brightened again, and she gave him a toothy grin. "Oh! Because I heard your voice! I was just in the glass gardens, resting, when I heard you. I wasn't sure at first, you sound rockier. But then you said poppo and I knew it was you!"

Of all the things I could've said. He smiled with relief. But at least we're a step closer to figuring you out. "What about Lyanna? How'd your lessons with her and Luwin start?"

"Well…" She looked down for a moment, a soft sadness in her eyes despite her smile. "When you and Benjen left, I felt lonely. So Lyanna started coming more and more. She couldn't visit my garden all day, but one day, she came with another blue rose. Said she'd 'bring part of me along' to her lessons. When she left, I heard her voice again, so I followed it, and ended up in Master Luwin's chambers!"

"Maester Luwin." He corrected, only for Chitch to blink owlishly at him. Still got a lot of lessons to go, don't you? He shook his head. "And he never saw you."

"He never saw me." She nodded proudly. Her pride fell as she rubbed one of her arms, looking down sadly. "…Almost no one sees me."

"Someday, they will. No need to rush to that yet, believe me." He said, picking her up, with one hand and rubbing her head with a calloused thumb. Looking back at the dead rose, he asked softly, "Are you stuck here?"

"No! I still have that rose left, and the one in the glass gardens never goes bad!" Good. Then the glass gardens can never be touched. "I can use roses to step in and step back out again."

"Good, because I think it's time you head back." She pouted dejectedly, and it took all of his strength not to give in. No, if there's one place I could never risk her, it's her staying here. I'm gonna have to go over how to call her with Lyanna, can't have her jump whenever anyone calls. That, in turn, led him to speak reassuringly. "I'm sure Lyanna's waiting for you."

"Lyanna left, said that they're riding for Hallenhar." She scratched her chin, excitedly smiling once more. "She told me there would be several blue roses there, that I could see everyone there!"

"Then return to Winterfell. When we're at Harrenhal. We'll call for you through one of them. I promise." As he emphasized that, he felt the ends of his lips curl upwards, tilting his head as he lowered his voice, "Friends don't forget friends, remember?"

"I remember! That's why I never forgot you!" The words hit him like a hammer, a strange, familiar pain welling in his chest. Why? It's not like I've forgotten anyone. He blinked when she hopped off his hands, running to the remaining, glowing rose. Turning around at him, she waved ecstatically at him. "Bye, Geralt! See you soon!"

As she began to glow, he waved at her softly, smile infected with melancholy. "See you soon, Chitch."

In a flash, she was gone, and so too had the second rose dried and died. He sighed tiredly. What's with the melancholy, all of the sudden? If anything, I'm seeing my family soon again. But when he tried to remember the direwolf's sigil over Winterfell's walls, instead he saw brief flashes of two wings on a sigil, over thousands of men bound by dreams. He groaned bitterly. The flashes are getting worse. Though he'd never forgotten where he was while awake, more and more often did he wake up from sleep disoriented, confusing names, places and memories. He grunted, picking up his luggage and tossing the dead flowers out into the ocean. I'll have to think of an excuse to Myrielle about what happened to the roses. Better off not souring the journey before it begins.

The lie itself had come to him fairly easily when she had asked. So far from home, it's best to let the wind carry them to the Sunset Sea. When she looked a little downtrodden by that answer, he showed her the letter he still carried in his pocket for safekeeping. As an added measure, he swept her for a kiss when he was sure no one else was looking. That was enough to brighten her again and convince her that he'd deeply appreciated her gift. Easier to do knowing it's not a lie, I didn't think I'd see Chitch again for several more months.

As the castle roused, ready for departure, he'd been sure to knock on a final door, his packs already taken by the maids and manservants. Tyrion had opened the door to him quickly, though not too unlike how he'd first met him. Ruffled hair and puffy, reddish eyes served as tell-tale signs of his pain and frustration. Geralt sighed, bending on one knee with a soft smile on his face. "Good morning, my lord."

Tyrion didn't answer, lower lip quivering and looking down at the floor dejectedly. He'd grown more than a bit than the little boy he'd met when he'd arrived, but somehow he seemed smaller still. Geralt patted him on the shoulder firmly, his hand engulfing half his arm as well. Before he could continue, Tyrion muttered, "I won't see you again, will I?"

At that, Geralt chuckled, his grip tightening gently, though still he wouldn't meet his eyes. "Of course you will, my lord, why wouldn't you?"

"You're lying." He replied simply. Finally, he looked up, puffy red eyes staring at him, though there was no quivering in his voice this time. His tone had the dull ache of melancholy, not the bleeding wound of sadness. "You'll wed Myrielle soon. Your brother Brandon will inherit Winterfell just like Jaime will inherit Casterly Rock. That means you can't stay here nor there, but you'll go somewhere close to your family. You'll be far away, and father won't let me visit."

…Gods damn it all, you're too smart for your own good. Geralt sighed and his smile faltered. "Aye, most of that is true. But you've said it yourself, our brothers will be lords, and our fathers won't live forever. Myrielle and I will surely live someplace close to the North, on that matter, you're right. But we'll also look for a place close to the West. We aren't sailing halfway 'round the world and settling in Qarth, and knowing your cousin, we'll certainly visit Lannisport from time to time. And that's only a day's ride away from here."

"Maybe you'll come. But you'll come for a fortnight at most, or else leave your lands, lords, and people unattended for too many moons. I'll see you once a year at best, for only a few days, if not less." Tears welled in his eyes when he looked down again. "This is goodbye, isn't it, Geralt?"

Geralt's mouth stilled to a line, and it was all he could do not to frown. Tywin's only streak of foolishness is overlooking this boy's mind. It's a wonder someone as intelligent as he could act so unwisely. Setting aside platitudes and superficial niceties, his tone dropped in tenor, but came out no less warm. "Tyrion."

Looking back up at him again, Geralt sighed. "Farewells aren't something we can avoid. Hells, I've had to say goodbye to my family for what, four years? More? Those are a part of life, as much as all the good is. And you underestimate yourself too much still. You're no less a lion of Casterly rock than your brother, your sister, your cousins or even your father. You'll be your own man sooner than you think, and there's no reason you cannot visit. Aye, it'll ache and ache some more to part with friends. I went from three brothers and a sister to a house full of strangers. Believe me, I know. And you know what the hell of it is?"

Though his sadness remained, Tyrion hung on to his every word, expression rapt with attention. Geralt allowed himself a small smile. "Now I'm feeling the ache of leaving this damn mountain. I'll miss the friends I've made here. I'll miss your brother and Daven and Cerenna, your uncles and aunts. I'll certainly miss you. But just as I'll miss you, I'll be happy to see my family again. Someday, that'll be your life as well. The bargain between joy and loss, whichever way you go. Continue to be as you are, and you'll find no shortage of friends either, wherever you may go. Should you ever visit the North, you already know you'll have one. But, until that day, this will have to suffice."

From the depths of his cloak, he pulled out an elegant, oak case, laced with crimson silks wrapped into a neat bow. Tyrion blinked owlishly, looking between Geralt and the box. When Geralt chuckled and nodded, the boy took it. Unravelling the silks, he carefully opened it, gasping at what lay within. Finely made, a short, steel dagger lay within. The pommel was coated in gold, its end a lion's head, embedded with two tiny rubies. As the boy remained slack-jawed Geralt continued, "Unfortunately, I won't be here for your next nameday, so you'll just have to accept your gift early."

Tyrion stared at him wide-eyed again, with one hand carefully grabbing it. Though strong, Geralt had commissioned the blade to be thin, thin enough that the boy could hold it one-handed. Though the dwarf's hand couldn't quite close around the hilt, he'd grown enough that he didn't need the other to hold it steady. Shocked, he stammered, "It's… it's mine?"

"Aye, Tyrion, it's yours." Geralt nodded. Lips curling upwards, he cocked his head to the side. "You remember what I taught you, don't you? Where to cut a man to make yourself taller than him, should the need arise?"

"The heel." He replied immediately, nodding as his eyes shined with the memory. A large smile plastered itself across his face. But just as quickly as it had risen, it fell into a far deeper frown. With utmost care, he placed it back in the wooden box. This time, Geralt was not surprised when the boy sprang into his arms, face buried against his chest, soft sobs shaking his body. "I'll miss you, Geralt."

And for the briefest moments, he felt the strings of his heart pulled again. Right cunts, the gods are, trading me Chitch for Tyrion. But he chuckled instead, and wrapped his arms around the little boy, their thickness nearly covering him whole. With a calloused hand, he gently rubbed the curls on his head. "I'll miss you too, Tyrion."

Pausing for a moment, he shook his little body in his grasp. Speaking a little louder, he added, "But I'll see you soon, too. Now, say it back."

When Tyrion didn't reply, Geralt moved the hand rubbing his head to just under the pits of the little boy's arms. When his fingers started digging threateningly, Geralt repeated louder, "Now say it back."

Through sniffles, he felt his muffled words vibrate into his chest. His fingers dug deeper and started twitching. "I can't hear you."

"I'll see you soon." Tyrion replied quietly, squirming in his iron grasp. "Stop it, Geralt."

He grinned devilishly, "You'll what?"

When Geralt started tickling harder, what little whimpers remained quickly transformed into giggles. Relentless, the boy finally caved into laughter, shouting, "I'LL SEE YOU SOON, I'LL SEE YOU SOON. LET ME GO!"

"That's right you will." Geralt smiled, finally setting him free. As he stood back up, he was relieved to see Tyrion sporting a smile again. Though traces of gloom remained, he looked better than when he had opened the door. More softly, he said, "And until then, whenever you use that dagger of yours, you'll have something to remember me by."

Tyrion smiled and nodded giddily at that. When it dropped again, Geralt nearly sighed in frustration. Only instead of sadness, determination stilled his features. Running inside his room, he didn't return until he came back with a large book in his hands, bigger than his torso. With impressive strength for his size, he held it up as high as he could. Struggling, he barely just managed, "Here!"

With a single hand, he picked it up, immediately recognizing it. He couldn't help his hesitation, "It's a good gesture, Tyrion, but this was your brother's gift to you."

"Jaime will understand. Besides, I've read it so many times, I know all of them by heart." Tyrion replied stubbornly, attempting to give a commanding look to Geralt. "And now I want you to have it. That way you can have something to remember me by."

"I couldn't forget you if I tried, Tyrion." Geralt chuckled, fingers tracing the fine leather cover, kept as neat and clean as the day it had been gifted. Wonders Made by Man, by Lomas Longstrider. Relenting, he held it tightly in his hand, making sure the child saw his unyielding grip. "But thank you for the gift, Tyrion. It'll certainly make the ride north that much more entertaining."

"It's amazing, you'll love it!" Geralt nodded, and when Tyrion went for a hug again, the embrace was twice as quick and far less bitter. As he waved and walked away, he heard the boy call out, "If you're able, go up the Wall and see the edge of the world for me!"

Funny, my father once threatened me with just that. But he nodded and waved. As he descended downwards, the sadness within him lifted. He won't be joining us, and that's for the best, lest any lord dare provoke his father's ire. And besides, an entire month with Tygett and Gerion to spoil him won't be forgotten. He was out all too quickly, back on his black destrier alongside Jaime, Daven, Addam and Lyle, behind Tywin and Kevan. The ladies rode in a carriage, no doubt to Cersei's frustration, but Geralt knew far too well she'd never risk what she'd gained for her own mount to Harrenhal.

Frustration might be giving her too much credit, though. She still hasn't looked the same since that night. He'd carried her to her room just as the mysterious, foreboding knight had disappeared into the very mist he had spawned from. The next day, when she'd been missing from her usual lessons, he'd found her back at the Hall of Heroes, and both had shared a knowing look. And yet, there were no more unearthly mist, no more grim phantoms, no more signs of strange, otherworldly manifestations pulled from the depths of his dreams. And the one look between the two was enough to know the event would never be spoken of, yet its memory weighed upon them heavily enough that she did not attend a single other training session. After, she'd avoided him like the plague. Best to give it time.

Not like she can share that night with anyone else. Not Jaime, not Cerenna nor Myrielle, and sure as hell not Tywin. Any man and woman in their right mind would call that a vivid dream at best. At worst, a sign of madness, all too much like half the Targaryen monarchs. Geralt thought on the blue roses he'd received that morning. Sighing deeply, he frowned. And however much better she may have gotten, I wouldn't trust her with Chitch's life. Or anyone else in that mountain. Myrielle, perhaps, once we share a bed and roof, but no one else. And that's if she can even see her. If Tywin ever found a spirit that could heal better than any Maester's potion… He shuddered at the thought. Few things would be as worth breaking an alliance and starting a war for.

The journey north started with Lannisport, a time to enjoy the South for what he could. With a retinue of dozens of vassal lords, a score of knights per vassal lord, and a hundred or so soldiers for every one of them, without counting a thousand for Tywin and Kevan each, the coastal city would supply them for the journey. Though the packs should be lighter. Far fewer fires are needed now that winter's over and done. With Tywin's permission, he asked to take the time ride and visit Reginald's Fort. With a simple nod, he was off. Having already learned the way through several visits and a dozen tourneys he'd attended since his arrival, the last of which he'd participated in, he was before the keep's study. A steady knock led to hurried steps, the man of golden hair and beaming eyes lighting as they met him. By now, Geralt was comfortably the taller of the two.

"Ah, Geralt! Please, come in." Stafford waved him over, gesturing to the tall, oak chair with velvet cushions in front of his desk. Geralt nodded, taking his seat in front of the man. The lord of Lannisport was quick to set his quill aside, folding his hands together and beaming at him. "How are you? I trust packing was not so tedious."

"No more than usual." He said. It's time I returned home, too. "I'm as ready as I can be, my lord."

"Geralt, please." When he tried to speak, Stafford raised his hand calmly. "You've been my good-brother's ward for years. In that time, you've lived alongside my children, fought and bled with my son in battle, and kept my daughters safe. And that's without mentioning the riveting tall tale some soldiers tell regarding the raiders that came, wherein a brazen young lord with a direwolf's sigil allegedly rescued Daven. And soon, you'll be much more than a friend of the family. Certainly more than our ward."

"My lord–"

"Stafford," he interrupted amiably, "call me Stafford."

"Very well, Stafford." Having been so used to speaking to the elder Lannisters with nothing short of the highest respect, the lord's name fit strangely into Geralt's mouth. "Packing wasn't hard, and with winter finally over, the journey to Harrenhal ought to be smooth."

"And beautiful as well! I forget you've not crossed the country in springtime, it truly is a wonder to behold. The Gold Road is beautiful now that winter's finally gone." Stafford's eyes shined with nostalgia. After a few seconds, he shook his head, grounding his thoughts as he continued. "But that's enough of my rambling. You came to see me for a reason, no doubt."

"You presume correctly, my lord." Stafford tsked him as he said that, to which he could only scratch the back of his head sheepishly. Though Geralt was only mildly nervous, he was ashamed and angry at himself for even feeling that twinge of unease. I've killed men in battle. Twice. And I was younger still when I fell a snow-bear. He's all but agreed to the proposal already. Out with the words, damn you. "I'm sure you've been in talks with your good-brother, for that matter, in regard to Myrielle."

"Oh? But of course! And I couldn't be happier." Laughter followed his words, the merriness in his tone only growing. With a raised brow, he asked, "Is there anything in particular you wished to discuss?"

"Nothing to discuss, as it were, but you are the lord of Lannisport, and Myrielle is your daughter, not Lord Tywin's. I know it's all been agreed to for some time now, but I wanted to ask you myself." As Geralt spoke, Stafford's expression softened, folding his hands and resting his chin on them as he leaned forwards. Right, then. Looking the older man in the eyes, he kept his voice calm, but steely. "Lord Stafford, I would ask for your daughter's hand in marriage, and through our union, bind House Lannister and House Stark in blood. Regardless of what my father and what your good-brother say, I'll not follow their orders without your direct consent. Yours and your daughter's."

Stafford raised a brow, nodding after a moment, pensive. As he lifted his head, Geralt noted the smile had never left his face. "Quite the bold move, my lord, to oppose both your father and my good-brother so audaciously."

His amicable tone spelled his answer long before his words did. Seal it. Geralt smiled. "If I'm to call you Stafford, ser, then you're to call me Geralt."

"Ha! Very well then, Geralt." Stafford spoke, chuckles breaking his attempt at passing off for a stern father. Fingers tapping his desk in a slow rhythm, he rubbed his chin with his other hand. "Well, I suspect Myri gave you a heartfelt answer already, and the last thing I could bring myself to do is break her heart. So long as you swear to never break it either, then you have my blessing."

Geralt stopped himself, swallowing the 'my lord' that threatened to escape his lips. He'd known the answer for a good while now, and still his heart thundered in his chest. He bowed his head in relief and gratitude. "You have my word."

"Marvelous!" He clapped his hands together loudly. "A beautiful wedding it shall be. I'll have you know that though I'm perfectly amenable for Myri to be married under both the Seven and your own Old Gods, I'll not negotiate that the ceremony be had anywhere other than here, in the Westerlands. I believe there's a Weirwood in Casterly Rock, we could do half the rites there and the other half in the sept. If I'm to bid farewell to the woman my daughter has grown into, I would have it done in our old home. On this, I'm afraid, you'll find that I'll be stubborn and unreasonable."

"There's nothing unreasonable about your request, Stafford." Geralt replied. Fair is fair, and he was noble enough to suggest it be done by my gods as well. "It's the least I could do."

"Then I am a lucky man to have such an agreeable good-son!" Stafford stood up, briskly walking to one of his elegant cabinets, procuring two elegant goblets and a fine bottle. Where Tywin has valued tomes, letters and books in his office, Stafford keeps cups and wine, Geralt noted, understanding more and more why the man had seldom had a say in military matters. Still… easier to have the latter as a good-father over the former. He opened the bottle eagerly, pouring a discreet amount into each. Quickly handing him one as he held the other, he raised his goblet. "To your house and mine, my boy, this union is long overdue."

"To lions and direwolves, ser." He wasn't particularly enthused about anyone other than his own father calling him 'my boy', but he knew it was far better to be welcomed with arms a little too open than with cold hospitality. Gently, he clashed his cup against the lord's, the pair finishing the spiced, honeyed wine in a pair of swigs. Geralt chuckled. "May we make good bedfellows."

"That we shall, I know it." Stafford said confidently, putting his goblet on his desk and gripping Geralt by the shoulders, proud beam on his face. He patted him on the back and then returned to his chair. "Now then, off you go. I know my cousin Lord Tywin isn't one for dallying around, and though warmer, the journey to Harrenhal will still be slow. The roads ought to be muddy, and the horses will take their time, more so with how large the host is. He should be finished gathering supplies for the trip shortly. Go. We'll meet again under gold, silver, grey, and crimson colors."

"We shall." Geralt agreed. When he offered the lord his hand to shake, Stafford pulled him into a hug. After patting him on the back, Lannisport's lord let him go, opening the door for him. Fearing he'd been too cold and formal, Geralt smirked as he left, bowing a final time to him as he droned, "My lord."

Stafford huffed and rolled his eyes, laughter easily coming to him as he waved him away. Geralt chuckled in turn, walking with a lightness in his step he could scarcely recall ever feeling. Done. I have done my part, for House Stark and the seven kingdoms. I have done my part for your dream, father. He felt a swell of pride within him, and a thought crept into his mind. My life is mine now. So long as I don't shirk my duties, I am my own man. Another corrected it. My own man… and my wife's. The idea was still new to him. Though not too fond of the idea of sharing what he desired of his own future, Geralt knew he'd found a goldmine through Myrielle. She knows how mad I am and still desires me despite it, it's as fortunate as marriages go.

The journey through the Gold Road was fruitful. Though occasional spring rains muddied the ground at times, the lack of snow and the budding grass made the ride far more welcoming. Along the way, Geralt even saw a rare blue rose now and again. To his rage, they were all too quickly plucked out by young ladies wanting to take in their scent, or gallant young lords meaning to use them as tools to woo them themselves. Just as quickly, they were discarded, and Geralt couldn't help the boiling in his blood to see them scattered about on the grassy plains. Stay your hand. You start breaking noses over flowers and everyone will start asking questions.

Their horses trudged through mud and grass, and though they were many more than Geralt had ridden with when he first traveled south, spring quickened their pace. It was only after a fortnight that they were back in the Riverlands, camping a league away from Riverrun itself. Tywin had no mind to stop and visit the castle, a fact for which Geralt was grateful for, though left many soldiers disgruntled under the rain. If nothing else, however, he did send a coffer to the castle in exchange for food and grain. While their trip had been efficient and lacking in entertainment, not one man found his meals lacking. It was during the night, watching the castle walls within the distance, that Geralt saw Jaime in their shared tent. His scowl made his feelings on the place perfectly clear.

"I have to say, I haven't quite missed these lands all that much." Jaime muttered, looking out the tent through the downpour with a disgruntled face. "Though I suppose now's a better time to visit than at the start of winter."

Geralt raised a brow, "You've been to Riverrun before, Lannister?"

"A year or so before you came south to Casterly Rock. Nothing worth noting, really." His eyes squinted, focusing on the details of the memories his mind conjured. "Catelyn was rather comely, her sister Lysa a tad less so, and Edmure only stood out for his red hair. Then again, he was only a boy running around the castle then. I think father planned to have me betrothed to one of them, but I doubt Lord Hoster warmed up to the idea much. All the better, the Riverlands never appealed to me. Having it rain day in and day out means you're never sure if you're stepping in mud or wet horseshit. Ser Brynden was easily the best part of that trip."

At that, Geralt laughed. Couldn't agree more. "Got him to tell you about his part in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, didn't you?"

Jaime turned back to him, "You met him as well?"

Geralt replied, "On my way south to your home."

"The most entertaining part of your journey, then." Jaime laughed, shaking his head. "Can't imagine the Twins would ever match it, though Lord Walder certainly must have tried."

"And stand in the way of one of your father's alliances? He's bold, but not stupid enough to seek an early grave. Then again, with his age, a grave would suit him just fine. But if anyone ought to visit his halls, it should be you, Lannister." Geralt chuckled, walking up to the man's side and nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "Spend one night there, and you'll wake swimming in Frey cunts. Old Walder's would be the wettest at the thought of catching himself another lion."

"Can't think of anything worse to drown in. I'll leave them for you, Stark." Jaime replied with a roll of his eyes, giving Geralt a brisk pat on the shoulder before going back in and sitting down on his bedroll again. "And if he did somehow manage it, he'd be like to drown as well. Losing his only sister to that lot might be the only insult my father's ever forgiven, but losing his heir as well? I think he might finally travel to that miserable place and give him the same blessing he gave to the Reynes and the Tarbecks all those years back."

Geralt grinned, taking his own place a few feet from the golden heir. "I'm sure there's a tale in there somewhere about the price of greed and ambition."

"Surely there is." Jaime agreed, nodding and looking to the sides. "But I, for one, have no intentions of being a character of that story."

"Best not say that too loudly then, Lannister." The young swordsman drawled, gesturing to the cloth ceiling above. "The gods have a pendant for fucking us with the very fates we try to avoid."

Jaime let out a single, loud laugh. "That, Stark, might just be the wisest thing you've said in the time I've known you."

As they sat in the tent, Geralt took out his newer gift from one of his packs, looking at its cover once more before quickly sifting through the pages. It wasn't until he reached the great frozen bulwark that he huffed to himself. Seven-hundred-feet-tall, aye, but he paints it twice as tall. Makes sense, it's one of the first wonders Longstrider visited, and he only started writing this by his fourth. He'd been one-and-ten when his lord father had taken the five to visit the Wall, reminding them of both their roots and their duties. It was a sobering trip, more so knowing how little warmth they had compared to the Great Keep's plentiful fireplaces and hot springs. He was pulled from his memories when he heard Jaime's surprised voice, "How'd that come to be in your hands, Stark?"

For a moment, he nearly gave him an empty-minded retort, but he stopped himself. Looking him in the eyes, Geralt's instincts held true. It nearly holds as much value for him as it does Tyrion. With gentle care, he closed the book, showing Jaime the cover openly. "Gave Tyrion his nameday gift early, and he refused to take it unless I accepted this in turn, even after I told him it was your gift."

Jaime nodded, surprise slowly giving way to a small smile. Curiosity curled his brows, but there was a softness in his voice when he asked, "And what was your gift to him?"

"Dagger. Steel strong enough to be durable, thin enough for him to carry on his own. Golden hilt, lion's head pommel. Your smiths do a damn fine job with those." Geralt replied, prompting Jaime to look at him wide-eyed. He answered the unvoiced question. "Last I recall, 'in a coat of gold or in a coat of red, a lion still has claws'. If that's true, then it ought to hold just as true for lions both large and small. It was past time Tyrion had his own."

Jaime nodded, grin broadening, bearing pearly white teeth as he laughed. He said nothing, letting it fall slowly. There was a shade of melancholy in his face now, a sad hue in his eyes Geralt seldom recalled seeing, even less so with the gratefulness mixed into it. Meeting his eyes, Jamie gave a short, genuine nod. "Geralt, I… thank you. For Tyrion. For looking out for him, for speaking with him, for listening to him. Even back then, when I was a relentless shit to you, I… thank you."

Geralt nodded at him, equal parts respect and amusement in his own expression. Not wanting to deal with another somber Lannister, he opened the book again, reading its pages again as he callously said, "If you were so eager to suck my cock, Jaime, you should've spoken up before they betrothed me to your cousin. That ship's already sailed."

There was a flash of irritation in the young man's eyes before his grin betrayed him, laughing far louder this time. "I take it all back. Fuck you, Stark."

"What? Here, now?" Geralt replied, not once meeting his gaze. "I'll prick you whenever you like, but you'll have to get your father's permission first. It wouldn't bode well for my marriage if I were to betray my betrothed with her very own cousin, no matter how pretty she may be."

"A pity." Jaime retorted, amused drawl back in his voice. "He'd certainly prohibit me from buggering you with my sword, regardless of how much you yearn for it."

As it had started, their words ended with laughter as well. As they continued through river and mire, jokes at the lord of the Twins' expense kept the five even warmer than their nightly fires. In good company, day and night cycled faster than Geralt could have hoped for, and before the turn of the month, the great, swarthy towers could be seen from afar. The legacy of the dragons. Mightiest castle ever built, and all that's left to man it are ghosts and cursed men. All the strength in the world did not matter against the masters of the skies and flames. But even in ruins, Harrenhal was a wonder to behold. Had it been in its prime, Geralt wagered, Lomas Longstrider would have written of its like as he'd done for the Wall and the Titan of Braavos.

Even now, as he stood among the tallest of his warden's house, Geralt felt minute just by vicinity of the monstrous keep. Even burnt, it was still larger than most forts he'd ever seen, and dragonfire had blackened its skin, giving way to a hateful phantom of a castle. He'd be the last man to ever admit unease, less so in the name of rumors, but memories of the Hall of Heroes made his stomach churn. …If there's any bitter phantasms to be found, it'd be here. Thousands of them, burning and furious. It was a bitter irony, he realized then, how naked he felt without the Stone Tear. The Behelit. And yet, having it off his hands had made his nights smoother, if nothing else.

"Black Harren's folly." Jaime murmured, as the five rode behind the lords. They turned to him, and he shook his head. "Someone should've told the fool stones do burn, or else Valyria may have survived the Doom."

"All for the better, I wager." Addam replied, eyes returning to the great black beast in the distance growing in size, step by step. "A bitter man and a cruel king. Had he surrendered, perhaps the Iron Islanders would have been emboldened and acted more viciously still. For the Conqueror, he was the perfect sacrificial goat to ensure the Targaryens' reign and most lords' fealty, either by gratitude or fear. This is as much their legacy as the black bones they've hung upon the walls within the Red Keep."

"Vicious, foolish, and cowardly, the Hoares were." Daven grunted, shaking his head. "A piss-poor pairing for a lineage of kings."

Geralt chuckled, "A pity no one thought to teach his Grace as much. He has neither Harren's castle nor Maegor's Balerion to shield him from his cruel idiocy."

Though Jaime chuckled, the other three looked aghast. Only Lyle replied in a hushed whispered, "Lower your voice, Stark! We know not who here holds unwavering loyalty to the Crown. It's best we keep such words to ourselves, at least until we're clear of this cursed place."

"A fortune we're not within Harrenhal yet, then, Crakehall." Jaime replied easily, close to Geralt's side. "And believe me, no man loyal to his Grace in his right mind would ever dare join my father's retinue, lest he find himself short of a tongue, a hand, and a cock. If anything, now's the best time to piss Aerys's name on the mud, before we're forced to make nice and keep our lips pleasant and sealed."

Just as he pacified the great boar of a man, Jaime looked directly at Geralt with a tone no less conciliatory. "Inside those halls, though, I'd follow Crakehall's advice, Stark. I hear the Small Council's favorite eunuch has ears far and wide throughout Westeros, and half of Essos, too. Considering every lord worth his lot will be there along with plenty of their vassals, I wager he'll have as many ears as he has eyes. Best we don't feed the Spider any rumors."

"Fair," Geralt nodded, "the royal family won't be my focus much, anyways."

"Aye, I bet they aren't." Daven grinned, moving his mare closer to Geralt's destrier so he could heartily slap him on the back. "Happy to be back with your pack, aren't you?"

Geralt let out a single bark of a laugh. "Happy to be away from you mad lot and back with my own wild own."

The five joined in his laughter, more easily finding conversation the further it strayed from dead kings and dragons. All too soon, as the morning sun rose to the noon, they were before the monolithic walls of the colossal fortress. The main gate was something to behold, and Geralt counted no less than a dozen murder holes as they rode through. The wall it was carved into was even greater so, so tall that its scorpion looked no bigger than their namesake from where they walked. Five towers were great, the smallest perhaps half the size of the Great Keep's tallest. More unnervingly, all were bent and twisted to some degree, where dragonfire had no doubt melted rock into its cursed new shape.

But for all the haunting magnificence of the ghostly titan, the hustling and bustling within gave way to a far livelier presence. As they rode through monolithic halls and massive gardens and gigantic training grounds, more and more banners flapped in the wing. A thousand colors flapping in the wind, taking every manner of shape and size. If Geralt had learned the Lannister vassals by heart in his time in the West, he could only recognize a handful for each of the other kingdoms.

The Freys stood out quickly to the five, and no small amount of jests were spoken at their expense. Thanks to their presence, however, the silver ospreys of House Mallister, the flock of ravens and dead Weirwood of House Blackwood, and red stallions of House Bracken shone that much more brightly. For the Reach, he recognized the banners of the Redwynes, Florents, Tarlys, and Oakhearts beneath the Tyrells' golden flower, in no smal part thanks to Benjen's frequent letters. The turtles of House Estermont were the only ones Geralt could recognize from the Stormlands, from the scarce words spoken of departed lord Steffon Baratheon and his wife Cassana Estermont.

His death chilled our lord brother's heart and strained our bonds with Aerys even further still after Joanna's death, he remembered Gerion once telling him between drinks. You've not heard it from me, but I've heard tell that in youth, those three might have been no different than you, my nephews and young Crakehall. War only tested that bond and strengthened it further. Before he became the pedantic cunt he is today, Aerys did consider Tywin as the best Hand he could ever appoint, not just for his mind, but their kinship. Madness unraveled it all. Keep that in mind if for some godsforsaken reason you find yourself desiring your sister in a way no brother ever should.

Then let's hope the gods are more forgiving of cousins wedding one another, Geralt thought wearily, both father and Lord Tywin are guilty of that. Next to the Martells, only the Daynes stood out, the five a little sullen the Sword of the Morning would not take part in the event. The Greyjoys were surprisingly there as well, no doubt by Lord Quellon's insistence. House Velaryon was the only one Geralt could recall from the Crownlands, Tywin notably giving them the least focus of any of the Houses. And no wonder. If anything, it's a surprise he hasn't done more to undermine if not outright wound that lot.

The accents grew more familiar as they rode on. From the Vale, Eddard had spoken best of House Royce, holding Bronze Yohn Royce in near as high regard as Lord Jon Arryn. The Corbrays, Waynwoods and Hunters were also deemed with honor and esteem, but only half the familiarity he wrote of about the former two. As fitting a place as any for Ned to have been placed in wardship of. He must have been happier there than a wolf in a sheep's den. But realizing that the camps grew scarce as the colors and banners most familiar to him finally began to appear, he couldn't help but hurry his destrier up, quick to ride a little behind Tywin and to his side.

"My lords," he regarded with a bow, prompting the Great Lion and Kevan at his other side to both look at him. If Tywin was unreadable, Kevan all too clearly let know he knew exactly what Geralt meant to ask for, if only from a slight softening of his previously severe expression. "With your leave, I would ride ahead of the company. It's been years since I've last seen my family."

It only took half a second for Tywin to reply stoically, if nonchalantly, "You may."

"You've more than earned it." Added Kevan, a shadow of a smile threatening to curl his lips. "Would you have Jaime, Daven, Addam and Lyle join you? There will be much time later for them to return to their own."

Geralt raised a brow, turning to his brother. Though minimal, Tywin's nod did not go unnoticed. He smiled and bowed gratefully, prompting him to turn halfway back, "Jaime, Daven, Addam, Lyle, accompany Geralt to his camp."

The four, surprised, sat straighter on their mounts, nodding briefly before Tywin rode further ahead, leading his retinue to the free grounds besides the northern lot. As they rode away, the four gave Geralt their own curious grins, riding to his sides, allowing him to take the lead. Voice dripping with sarcasm, Jaime bowed excessively, "At your leave, oh wise Lord of Stark."

But for so many hundreds of back-and-forths between the pair, Geralt didn't have the patience to pay mind and reply in turn. With a sharp 'HA', he set his horse on a gallop, the other four following, if falling behind him. Through mermen and flayed men, bears and giants, lizard-lions and winter suns, mailed fists and ironwoods, his horse rode through all, many rushing out of the way as he dashed madly through them all. Only when he saw the grey direwolves running on snows did he stop his destrier, hopping from it as he more tentatively walked forwards.

At the edge of the camp, just a few hundred feet away from where the Lannisters were settling down, Geralt took on a slow walk, looking around and taking it all in. He couldn't help the wide grin on his face. I'm home. His smile dropped when he was nearly knocked to the ground. He barely kept his balance as someone pounced on him, arms wrapped tightly around torso. He nearly threw her off, only to find a long, shining mane of black hair flowing. She raised her head with the brightest beam he could remember. "Geralt!"

It dawned on Geralt that while he'd been growing in Casterly Rock, he'd spared little thought to the fact that his siblings would have been doing much the same. And the Lyanna in his arms was no longer the scrawny youth he'd fought and trained during his time in Winterfell. The fat had long since left her face, leading prominent cheekbones to give her a truly ladylike appearance. The paleness of her skin matched well with her raven hair, thick brows curling over piercing grey-blue eyes, the color of the northern skies. Her lips were plumper, rosier, and her teeth were perfectly aligned, shining white.

As he put his arms around her, he confirmed that his father had kept his word. Though her body was womanly, as age befit her, it was her arms that he felt, and the muscles beneath the thick of her dress. Her own height had grown, as tall as the average man, a hair shorter than Jaime and Addam when in heeled boots. But although her voice had grown deeper with maturity, her laughter remained much the same. A reminder of home.

Geralt laughed and picked her up and spun her around, leading to her giggling until the pair finally had their fill. She bit her lip as she grinned up at him, and Geralt couldn't help but laugh some more. I was taller than her before I'd left, and now that she's grown, I'm even taller still. She shook her head for a moment, giddy with excitement as she put two fingers in her mouth and let out an ear-piercing whistle. After briefly rubbing his ear, Geralt said, "Still rowdy as ever, Lya."

"And you're half a bloody giant, Ger!" She replied. It was disorienting to hear her speak briefly, hearing her previously high-pitched voice come out mature and womanly. But of the many surprises he'd had in the last several years, it was definitely among the more pleasant ones. She cocked her head to the side, squinting her eyes. "I think you might even be taller than Bran."

"Oh, fuck off, Lyanna, don't say that." Geralt turned quickly, finding his eldest brother walking towards them, proud, cheeky grin plastered on his face. Both their eyes widened, Geralt surprised to be eye-to-eye with him. Even looking down, if only ever-so-slightly. After a moment stunned, Brandon guffawed, shaking his head and pulling him to a bone-crunching hug. "And who gave you permission to outgrow me, you damn runt?!"

"We both knew it was coming, you big oaf." Geralt grinned, slapping him heartily on the back as they two took a step from each other to get a good look. Though he hadn't changed half as much as Lyanna, his hair was long enough to be in a proper northern braid now, with a proper beard to boot. If Brandon hadn't taken so much after their mother in face, his style would have made him look like their father. "Look on the bright side. Now I'm tall and strong enough to save you from your own stupidity."

"My stupidity?" He growled with faux anger, not even able to bring down his smile. "You'll die to your own long before you need to save me."

"Or, better yet, no one dies, and we keep father's hair from greying for a few more years." The three turned to the voice. It took Geralt a few moments, surprised by the height, the tall cheekbones, the hair that now sat comfortably on his shoulders. Most of all, the voice caught him off guard. Proud of the effect he'd had, the Pup smiled. "Hello, Geralt."

Now it was Geralt who rushed up to him, picking him up with an embrace, leading Benjen to laugh. He squeezed and squeezed until he'd had his fill, putting him down with a broad beam on his face. Benjen looked half relieved by the end of it, breathing deep after the overwhelming nature of Geralt's hug was finally done. "You look just about ready to catch up with us. Those flowery lords have been feeding you well, then?"

"More than well." He chuckles, patting his stomach. "It's taken frequent training and more than a few fasts just to make sure I don't end up portly. At first, I thought Mace may have been a bit of a glutton, but now I admire that he's not rolling down every hill he walks upon. However much I love the North, the Reach makes for plentiful delicacies and sweets. A good break from it all."

"And no small number of roses seeking a young direwolf's passion." Bran chuckled, clasping his hand on the youngest's shoulder. He turned to Geralt before gesturing to Benjen. "You thought I was trouble? Half of the Reach maids were gushing over our very own Benjen every chance they had to speak to him."

"And you didn't think to tell me that, Bran?" Lyanna scolded, walking up to them and rubbing Benjen's head, ruffling his hair. "You better not have given us a litter of bastards while you were playing Southron knight, you hear me, Pup?"

"I'm well enough as is, She-Wolf." He chuckled, shoving her away with a smile. "We haven't settled on a betrothed yet, but Lady Olenna's said the match is as good as set. I'll have my wife soon enough, just as you'll have your husband 'fore the year's end."

Brandon and Benjen laugh when Lyanna gave him an annoyed punch in the shoulder, but Geralt's own laugh ended more quickly, smile straining. Come now, Lyanna. Don't tell me you're still so bitter about Robert. Another voice cut in, deeper than he'd remembered, but just similar enough to quickly recognize the speaker. "All the better. We'll each have our families to look after, I can't think of a better time for us to enjoy each other than now."

Geralt looked behind him, finding a young man with his arms crossed and a small, knowing smile on his face. Growing older had made him look more like Brandon, but his frame was still more lithe, his face was clean-shaven, and his eyes were colored calm, wise grey-blue. Only there wasn't an inch of him that was brooding nor somber, if anything a serene mask on the palpable joy just barely hidden within. He walked forwards with gentle chuckles showing his teeth. "We've missed you, Geralt."

Another brother, another hug, but there was a special tightness in Eddard's arms around his body. When they broke apart, his smile was full, and he looked up at Geralt with a clear pride in his eyes. Though it was disorienting to be several inches taller than who used to be his older brother, the feeling of Eddard looking at him with pride in his eyes was enough to make Geralt swell with his own. His tone was calmer now, matching his brother's. "And I you, Ned, and I you."

He took a few steps back, taking a moment to look at them all together. Taller, older, more mature, each grown into their own. Two direwolves raised in the north, one fostered in the Vale, one in the Reach, one in the West. But we're still a pack. We're still us. In that moment, all the worries Geralt had felt building up along the way vanished into thin air, happily basking in the waves of nostalgia his mind conjured. It was Brandon who broke it first, raising a brow and gesturing behind him with crossed arms. "So, didn't bother to learn good matters, Geralt? Or were you planning to introduce us to the lords and ladies behind you?"

Geralt furrowed his brows, perplexed. Ladies? When he looked to where Brandon was gesturing, he was surprised to find the five had caught up to him. More surprising than that, he found Myrielle, Cerenna and Cersei to have joined them. All were sporting a different mix of happy, cheeky and knowing smiles, including the last. …Good, that's good. With any luck, she's let it go. A part of him wondered which of the five had looked for them, but none of it mattered. Turning to his siblings behind him, he gestured them to follow, which they readily did. Coming up to Jaime and Cersei, centermost of their own large group, he turned back to his brothers and sister.

"I present to you Lady Myrielle, Ser Daven and Lady Cerenna of House Lannister, children of Ser Stafford, Lord of Lannisport, Ser Jaime and Lady Cersei of House Lannister, children of Lord Tywin, Lord of Casterly Rock, Ser Addam of House Marbrand, and Ser Lyle of House Crakehall. They've been my companions and my mostly gracious hosts." Most of the eight snickered at that as he addressed them now, relaxed smile on his face. "And I present to you my brothers Brandon, Eddard and Benjen of House Stark."

Geralt grinned at his sister, "And my other brother, Lyanna."

A swift, if soft, punch to his arm was followed by laughter from all, to an exasperated grin from Lyanna. "You're such a cunt, Geralt."

"Charmed." Jaime laughed looking at Lyanna with a cock of his head. "Was he like this in your home, too? If so, you have my sincerest condolences. We've had to put up with him for so many years, I can't fathom the hell of being raised with him must have been."

"HA!" Brandon laughed loudest, coming up to him, a couple of inches taller than the young Lannister, holding his arm out and clasping his firmly when it was met. Going for each of the men, he met Geralt's eyes with a wolfish grin as he asked, "Left our house in that bad of a standing, did you? Time to pack your things, Geralt, it's the Wall for you."

"A pity, your House might just lose one of the fiercest fighters it'll have in ages!" Daven replied quickly, coming to Geralt's defense as he walked to his side, clapping him on the back. "I tell you, took me years to get 'direwolf' rather than 'wolf' through my thick head. Meaning no disrespect to your house, wolves are fierce enough already. But after seeing your brother with a sword in hand? Never again. Can't tell you how lucky we got to have him as our ward."

"Careful, Daven." Cerenna drawled with a roll of her eyes. "Sing his praises any louder, and they might mistake you for his betrothed."

Once more, they laughed loudly. Myrielle boldly stepped between her brother and Geralt, the latter feeling the hairs on the back of his head prick when she boldly snaked her arm around his. "Lord Geralt's been the first to speak of himself as the bold, brazen, and unruly one of his House. With how well he's done by us and done for House Stark to leave its name standing so high, I can only imagine how great you all are. I'm pleased to finally meet you all."

It's a wonder, Geralt thought, how half the times she speaks, I hear Genna's voice. Far from a bad thing, though. If anyone's come close to standing equally to Tywin, it's her. Sighing, calm smile taking over, he held her hand in his firmly, an act that made Myrielle beam sweetly at him. It was of no surprise to him that the eldest of the Starks looked at him with a proud, teasing grin. That Benjen's matched Brandon's certainly was. Gained some thorns from that court of roses, did you, Pup? Lyanna's was no different, only Eddard offering a proud, if knowing, smile. Confidently, Cersei walked forwards past Geralt's free side, standing directly before the four and giving a proper curtsy.

"And too proud, sweet cousin. He needn't hear you sing his praises, or else he might start getting ideas of starting his own kingdom within the morrow." She gave them all a charming smile, an act alone that was enough to have Brandon's breath hitch and Benjen fail to hide the beginnings of a blush. Geralt rolled his eyes. Aye, she's definitely well now. "I've been meaning to meet you all of course, but especially you, my lady, with just how highly your brother speaks of you."

Lyanna returned the curtsy surprisingly properly, her own smile matching the lioness's. "If you mean to lie to me, my lady, you'll have to do better than that."

"Much as I'd like to humble Lord Geralt, I'm afraid I speak the truth on those matters." Cersei held out a hand amicably, an infectious smile lighting her green eyes. "And I most certainly wanted to meet the family he comes from, with just how greatly he speaks of you all."

"A match then, for his words of his own wardens and companions, however few they were." She remarked with a telling grin shot at Geralt, which he answered promptly with a huff and a shake of the head. While the others began interacting more, speaking freely, her grin dropped when she took Cersei's hand firmly in hers. Her sharp eyes caught when the lioness flinched. Her brows furrowed, holding on to it as she looked at the lady's gloved hand, different to her grey set only by their crimson color. Her eyes lit with recognition, and her beam was infinitely broader as her voice dropped to the lowest of whispers. "You've gotten him to train you too, have you?"

Cersei looked bewildered by that, prompting Lyanna's smile to reach her ears. She let go of her own, gesturing to it and rubbing her palm through the leather while she dropped her voice an octave lower. "Had to badger him for years when we were children to help me get my hands on a blade. How long did it take you?"

Cersei's eyes widened further, looking up at Geralt before mirroring Lyanna with a far more subtle smirk. "Only a few tries. A shame I didn't think of it sooner."

"Gods, Geralt, you truly have grown." Lyanna laughed, moving quickly to Cersei's side and pulling her aside with her arm locked around hers. With an excited grin, the She-Wolf kept her voice low. "You have no idea how long I've been meaning to speak to a lady with some actual steel to her. You must tell me all about it, I've spent far too much time talking to a bunch of hens clucking about their households, husbands and the harlots they're jealous of over some bloody lemon cakes."

To Geralt's surprise, Cersei's reaction was in laughter as light and rich as Lyanna's, accepting and readily walking with her, as eager as her to have a likeminded companion. Though he was thrilled to see both groups getting along, a voice within him groaned, and now I have two watch out for those two together. But again, he took a moment to tune them all out, appreciating the sight before him. Brandon, Daven and Lyle were eagerly swapping training and battle tales, while Eddard, Benjen and Addam spoke amicably of lordly matters, with Jaime alternating between both groups. Myrielle and Cerenna alternated between the latter three and joining in on Cersei's and Lyanna's own excited talks, and Geralt held silent through it all. Family and friends, all in one place. If nothing else, I owe Lord Whent plenty for this occasion, I never thought I'd enjoy them all together. A final voice intruded on the group, and they separated quickly, standing promptly at the arrival.

"Apologies for intruding, my lords and ladies, but I would like to steal Lord Geralt away for a moment." His siblings stood tall, while his southron companions walked behind them, the men bowing properly while the ladies all curtsied. Geralt's heart nearly stopped, watching his father walk forwards with a calm smile. Easily the most recognizable of his family, the only changes he could see was how his beard had full grey streaks, though his hair was only peppered. That, and he had shrunken. He's the last person I thought I'd ever look down to. His eyes were as steely as ever, but hearty chuckles betrayed their hardness. "Hello, my boy."

The embrace that followed had been the tightest. He'd meant to be restrained with his own gesture, but when his father squeezed him hard enough to bust his ribs, he returned it twofold. Rickard's laughter came out in hearty barks, pulling apart to put his hand on Geralt's face, clasping his cheek as he looked him from head to toes. Shaking his head, he said, "Forgotten your northern roots yet, son? I could have sworn I heard a southron accent in your voice as you spoke to your friends just now."

"Following your orders, remember? As I recall, it was either that or the Wall?" Geralt chuckled in turn, prompting the Grey Wolf to roll his eyes. He raised a brow, cheekily asking, "Brought Winterfell to ruin yet, father? With a winter this long, it's a miracle you seem as strong and full as you are, unless you started eating others' reserves."

"No, but my own shameless son might just be the ruin of me to speak so boldly to his lord father." Rickard countered with a smile, pinching Geralt's ear tightly with all the malice of an especially vicious pup. Patting him on the cheek, he let go of him to stand in front of the group, Geralt's siblings standing straight while his friends showed all the due respect to the lord through bows and curtseys. The warden of the North, in turn, gave a deep nod, adopting a more formal air while keeping a familiar smile. "My lords and ladies of House Lannister, you have my deepest gratitude to have taken my son under your roof. That goes for you as well, lords of Marbrand and Crakehall. Geralt speaks highly of you all, rare enough to hear of one, let alone all of you. A most pleasant surprise, in the middle of such a dreadful winter, no less."

"Pleasure was ours, my lord." Daven was the first to speak, bowing deeply as he spoke stiffly, nervously. You've been around your uncles too long, Lannister. You needn't walk on glass around my blood. He gripped his hands tightly behind his back. "Good soldier to fight alongside with, better lord to share words with, and of the best of friends to count on. My lord friends and cousins will no doubt agree."

"My cousin's words are an understatement, Lord Stark." Jaime adds, stepping to his side, equally formal, if not with an easier stride. "If you'll forgive the crassness, Lord Geralt's saved the skin of our arses in battle, and he's been among the few to be seated with and even bring a few good suggestions to my father's council. He's certainly responsible for my own betterment, part of my own mission was not to be outdone in my own home, something he rarely ever made easy."

"Gentlemanly and noble in every way a lord should be as well." Even Geralt raised a brow when Cersei spoke, but held back a sigh of relief. Aye, if she hasn't forgotten the ghosts, she's done well to keep them out of mind. Ever so graciously, she gestured to the shortest of the ladies. "I am relieved to say my cousin has found a man worthy of her hand, though I fear she may have to fight a court of jealous ladies when they realize her betrothed's worth."

"My cousin Cersei is much too generous with her words, my lord." Myrielle replied quickly, coming to the front of the group, facing Rickard directly and curtsying once more. With a sweet smile, she added, "Your son has been honorable and pleasant from his arrival all the way to his departure. I ought to congratulate you, my lord Stark. As a father, I can only imagine the pride raising a man like Geralt has nurtured."

"To hear such words of my son from all of you means he is either every bit the man you say he is, or he paid you all handsomely to speak so grandly of him." Rickard laughed heartily again, though every one of the Lannisters' gestures, he returned readily. There was a warmth in his eyes, however, as he looked at Myrielle. "Though your own words ring especially true, my lady. And seeing now that your sweetness and candor eclipse those of which my son wrote to me of, I am glad to see this union through."

"Sealing the Westerlands and the North in blood and matrimony. Lord Geralt has proved himself worthy of such an act." The hairs on the back of Geralt's neck pricked as he heard the all too familiar voice. Instinctively, he turned to the Great Lion, standing with a few western soldiers at his sides, giving a brief bow, both his siblings and friends no doubt doing the same. Only Rickard did no such thing, and for a shadow of a moment, Geralt was sure he saw steel in his father's eyes. It was gone as soon as he saw it, and by the time his father turned, his jovial smile remained firmly in place. Tywin, in turn, was the first to respectfully bow his head. "Lord Rickard."

"Lord Tywin!" Rickard laughed again, boldly walking up to the man and taking his hand in his own, a motion that led the southerners to gasp. Shaking his hand amply, he said, "It's been too long, and I've been meaning to speak to you in person! Something all the letters in the word could not convey, and I've been meaning to hear all about my son's stay in your home. Privately, if you will. Shameless, I know, but won't you indulge me on this, my lord?"

"We are free to speak here or in any of Harrenhal's dining halls." Tywin replied, voice calm yet commanding. "As soon as my men settle–"

"I apologize for my lack of matters and abruptness, my lord, but I'm afraid I must insist." He replied with a tooth-baring grin, but his voice lowered and octave, and Geralt could have sworn he saw his hand's grip tighten slightly around Tywin's. "We're due a drink and a talk, you and I. Warden to warden, father to father. I'm sure you understand."

Even having spent so many years away, old memories resurfaced in Geralt's mind, and he could hear the ice in his father's voice deep beneath the pleasantries. Tywin's eyes squinting ever so slightly let him know that the coldness was not lost on him either. Nonchalantly, he drawled, "As you will."

"Good. I know just the place." Though Tywin never made a face, Rickard raised his hand amicably. "Worry not, my lord, it'll be well away from prying eyes and ears, the other lords needn't listen into our talk. Nor shall it be long, either, I have no intention of keeping you from your men."

There was only the tiniest glimpse of Tywin's bother, but it had been tempered by a look in his eyes, one Geralt could only liken to his aura when confronted with the matters of the Essosi raiders and the Kingswood Brotherhood. "Lead the way."

Rickard only gave them half a look back, offering his own brood a wink, while the pair marched, Tywin's soldiers following them. Walking, they made it past Kevan, who upon looking to the group, made a gesture towards the two young knights not of lions and direwolves. Addam and Lyle gave quick half-bows to the group, promising to return later, and immediately followed, bidding the group goodbye. As soon as all were out of earshot, Jaime spoke up, "…Did my eyes deceive me, Stark, or did your lord father just pressure mine into a meeting?"

"Seems that way, Lannister." Geralt nodded absentmindedly, mulling over it all. For a moment, he considered following, but he would sooner spend his time with his siblings, sighing, "They have plenty enough to talk about. There's never been a blood-bound alliance between your House and mine."

"Perhaps." Cersei replied, lips pursed. "But always of his own accord."

"Father has a way with both lords and commonfolk." Brandon added, crossing his arms. "I'm sure your own lord father is every bit what the legends say and more, but our own is no shorthanded fool to be cowed by others."

"I wonder what they mean to speak about." Cerenna's brows furrowed, watching them over the distance as they disappeared into one of the many great halls of Harrenhal. "If it were merely about alliances and unions, I'm sure they'd have discussed all by letters by now."

Some huffed, some nodded, and some remained looking tentatively at where they went. Aye, but I doubt that we'll find any means of listening this time around. We don't have Tyrion to discover any unlikely passageways and hidden halls. But to his surprise, it was Benjen who spoke up next. "…I think I know where they're going. House Tyrell arrived here first, gave me time to explore the ruins. Unless they know of every single raft and walkway, we could go unnoticed."

That had them all turning to the youngest, who though far more confident now, seemed queasy under the weight of so many pairs of eyes. At Eddard's own disproving look, he shrunk further. "Benjen, you know better than that."

"Does he?" Lyanna asked tentatively, prompting him to give her a mild glare as well. Growing defensive, she looked around at the lot, crossing her arms. "Come now, don't tell me none of you have ever been curious about seeing our fathers speak?"

"Curiosity? Plenty, my lady." Daven offered, nervously scratching the back of his neck. "Getting caught? Far less so. And I doubt your father is any less sharp than my lord uncle."

"Then we'll see to it that we don't get caught." Cersei declared, taking a ready stride towards Benjen. Her eyes grew steely, but her smile was inviting, and Benjen, cornered, tried not to cave. "You're sure you know of a way?"

"…So long as it is unmanned and so long as they are heading to where I believe they're heading, then maybe." A flush crept up his neck under the intensity of the lioness's gaze. For a moment, his eyes looked lost, mouth slightly agape, and Geralt nearly snapped his fingers in his face to snap him out, but instinct stopped him. Wait, don't tell me. Brandon nearly grabbed him, but Geralt gripped his shoulder, holding him back. He waited a few more moments, and suddenly, Benjen blinked back. Shaking his head, he looked at the group, "The walkway's clear, I'm sure of it. If we wanted for a chance, now's the time."

"Are we sure?" Myrielle questioned, giving the group an apprehensive look. "Last thing we want is to give our lords reason to be wroth with us."

"My father hardly ever had anything besides pride, disappointment, and wroth to him. And even if we do get caught, he could do with a bit of disobedience now and again. Besides, what better way to show how well and allied we are than making mischief and fucking up together?" Jaime declared, mind set as he gave Geralt a look, an unspoken question beneath. Seems the madness runs in us all. He gave a firm nod, and at that, Jaime turned his attention to Benjen as well. "Then the rest is in your hands, my lord. Lead the way."

Benjen swallowed, but nodded as his own stance grew steely. "Then follow close, be quick, be silent, and don't stray behind. Our chance is brief enough as is."

When they took off, they made sure to be relaxed, if quick, in their stride. Among the camp, they drew no more attention than any other group of young lords and ladies winding about. But as they entered the cavernous halls, they stuck to shadows and walls, all following close behind the youngest of the lot. The ladies were the most nervous, their heeled boots making the tiniest clacking sounds as they half-sprinted with the lords. Stark and Lannister alike, they made it to a smaller courtyard, finding a small retinue of Northern and Western soldiers manning one of the doors leading to the opposite side, deeper within the castle.

Almost about to curse, the group was silenced when Benjen turned to them, finger on his lips, before gesturing them to follow closely. Just before the walkway of the great, square courtyard, they snuck behind the short barriers walling it, the tallest of them near forced to crawl on hands and knees. If the lords were within the gates across from them, Benjen led them left, across a set of stairs leading them upwards. Confused, they followed, only to find that the ruinous, swarthy, twisted stone steps gave way to an almost imperceptible hole in the wall.

Fingers snaking into the hole, he pushed strongly, yet slowly, as he grunted. To their surprise, the stones started moving, giving way to a crooked hallway, barely a person tall and half as wide. He gestured to them to follow, and one by one, they did. Jaime and Geralt went last, sharing a nostalgic look before following. It was dark, the occasional hole in the stone, be it by olden design or broken, melted brick, giving way for small, diagonal beams of daylight showing the path. Cramped and small, he heard Lyanna whisper, "Benjen, are you trying to get us killed? This looks like it's just about to collapse!"

"Keep stomping around and it will." Benjen shot back. He gestured forwards. "We're almost there."

They were rewarded when they heard both Rickard and Tywin, their voices prompting the ten to fall into absolute silence, sounding nothing above a mouse's steps. The young leader turned back, pointing forwards then downwards. All followed, coming to a rather sparse room, likely what was meant to be a hallway in its own, but forgotten and abandoned. Where there should have been gates and windows, there were small mountains of stone and brick burnt black, the room closed off by ancient Targaryen fire, save for the hidden entrance Benjen had found. Through cracks and holes below, they were able to see the two lords, sitting on old, wooden chairs, on a table ten people long and one lord wide, sitting on its edge. Their own hidden room was dark enough that they worried not about getting caught, the ten kneeling at different places as they found their own viewing spots. Geralt himself found a hole just above the table, where he could get a clear look at the two at the cost of squinting his eyes.

"One cup of wine, my lord. The rest is water." Rickard assured, filling both cups with a chuckle, his voice carrying easily and echoing into the chamber the ten looked down from. "There's much to discuss without drinks dulling our minds, but I'm sure you'll agree your House and mine are due for a celebration. What say you?"

'No' would be as good as any place to start for him. Tywin gave the cup a look. "Very well."

"Splendid! Here." Rickard laughed affably as he passed the Great Lion his drink. He raised his own with an easy smile. "To Myrielle Lannister and Geralt Stark. Long may their union hold."

"Long may it hold." Tywin nodded, taking a single mouthful of his cup with Rickard and setting it down. Ever so slightly, he shifted in his seat. "You wished to discuss a sensitive matter."

"I did." Rickard nodded, putting his own cup to the side and leaning forwards on the table. "You see, my lord, it's a rather momentous occasion, and I thought it opportune to have a conversation with you. We're all allies as neighboring kingdoms beneath the Iron Throne, to be sure, but there's an added caveat when the matter transcends through blood ties. I thought you and I could share a few words on the matter, to make sure the air is cleared. On this, I'm sure you'll agree."

Tywin was quick to answer coolly, "I do."

"Then if I were to ask for your honest answers to any question I may have, you would give them?" Though Rickard's face never once dropped its smile, the light in his eyes transformed fully. The warmth was gone, and though the courtesy remained, ice was all that remained. Tywin was quick to notice it, leading the lord of Winterfell to raise his hands. "In exchange, I would give my word that all subjects broached in this conversation will be spoken civilly throughout our talk. And of course, that our ties would remain afterwards."

"…I would." There had been a significant pause for Tywin to answer, and Geralt had known the lord long enough to see that that the near imperceptible squint in his eyes was a sign of his unease. Even as he held his head high, there was a shadow of apprehension in his voice. "Would this have to do with the vague rumors spoken in my country a few years ago regarding your son?"

"Very sharp, my lord." Rickard's compliment served more to affirm Tywin's suspicions than it did to praise him. The room dropped in temperature, and Geralt and the others couldn't help but hold their breath. …Father, I've fought for your dream these past years. Let it go. I have. But to his misfortune, his father was none the wiser to his thoughts, and instead pressed harder. "But you've given me your word, and we both know that what transpired the year of Geralt's arrival in your house were far more than mere rumors."

"…They were." A gasp from Cerenna was silently hushed by the group, but Geralt could hardly blame her. Tywin's a great many things, and a coward is not one of them. But he knows the risk of telling the truth. But the Warden of the West made a peculiar face, interest shining through the discomfort. When he saw his father's lack of a reaction, he immediately guessed why. "But you already knew that."

"I know my son, my lord, even if he wrote nothing of the event to me, nor even a single word alluding to it." Rickard replied readily, almost unimpressed. At least Tywin knows he didn't learn of it all through me. The Grey Wolf waved his hand, the only man in the hall without any tension. "Still, I had to make sure. Not just to confirm solid suspicions, but to ensure that you're as honest as you can be when you give your word."

"You have known for years, then. You never asked me in that time." Tywin pried, still remarkably perplexed. His brows furrowed, leaning a little closer to Rickard. "Nor have you acted on this information."

"As I said, my lord, I know my son." This time, there was both anger and pride in Rickard's voice. Taking his cup, he took a few more hearty gulps before setting it down again. "Of all my children, Geralt is by far the most willful one. It's impossible to give him a command if he has not already agreed to it himself, this I'm sure you've experienced to some degree during his years with you. He's mature, to be sure, and he's all but shown his ability to negotiate and sacrifice when his wardship began with you, but in his own way."

"He's single-minded when he chooses to be, and he's shown the wisdom to choose those moments appropriately." Tywin agreed, taking a sip from his own cup, leaving all those in the broken room to gawk at Geralt. The hell are you looking at me for? I've always been this way. But even the most brazen of the Starks was left wide-eyed when the Great Lion continued. "It has made him a good student and an exceptional soldier. He has proven himself capable of lordship, more so than most men twice his age can say."

"That's a kind way of putting he's ubiquitously bullheaded." Rickard laughed earnestly, for a moment withdrawing the frostiness of his aura. Another swig, and it had returned even colder than before. "But yes, he certainly will be. That's why I knew not to confront you on his capture, nor even the torture that said capture entailed, however much it made my blood boil. And believe me, my lord, many, many stormy nights passed before I stopped seeing red."

A pause followed, and Tywin was more than intelligent enough not to break it. There was a measure of worry in Geralt as he heard the channeled fury in his father's voice, perfectly controlled by his will. He was embarrassed to acknowledge the swell of pride rising within him. He would have gone to war for me. He'd always known how deep his father's love ran for his children, but it warmed him all the same to hear it out loud.

Looking toward the others, he found them far more scared than him. His siblings looked at him in shock and pain, to which he rolled his eyes and waved them off. The Lannisters were more enthralled by the head of their family being on the receiving end of a verbal lashing, and the threat lingering behind it. It was then that Rickard chose to end the prolonged silence. Again, his voice had changed, and the creases in his face eased.

"But… I heard no ill will towards you from him, nor any mention of the Essosi in the Westerlands. Had he had any reason, any true reason to consider you an unworthy warden or even an enemy, he would have made sure that I would have known. If the raven had been interfered with or shot with an arrow, I know he's willful enough to ride back to the North on his own. He would have jumped from the top of Casterly Rock and swam up the Sunset Sea all the way back home, if it came to it. But instead, he wrote of his kinship with your son and your nephews." Tywin remained silent. If my commitment was ever in doubt, father's more than cleared it. Rickard continued, "So, despite the 'rumors' of his capture at the hands of Essosi mages, and the even wilder 'rumors' of how he cut his way out of those mines, I trusted him with the choice of continuing his time with you."

"You knew of his capture, and you knew of his escape." Tywin said, noticeably assessing each word spoken by his father. Near imperceptibly, he shook his head. "What convinced you that this was not a tall tale spurred by drunken soldiers?"

"My son once claimed to have fought a snow bear in our very own Godswood." Rickard replied, throwing the Lannisters near Geralt, even Daven, and even Tywin off balance. At the lord's open skepticism, Rickard grinned. "Strange, I know, but for all his eccentricities, lying has never been one of his traits. Still, I believed he may have mistaken the world of dreams for the waking one. Or perhaps mistook one large, pale, mishappen dog for one. After all, how could a snow bear possibly get past Winterfell's walls, much less be killed by one boy?

"And yet, soldiers found the corpse of that very beast later that day when I sent them there. I ordered further inspections to the entire perimeter, hoping to find the unlikely gateway the snow bear had found. As it happened, there was a hole where the wall was the closest to the Godswood. They said the stone was burnt, perhaps the product of some ungodly lightning that opened the way for the beast." Rickard laughed exhaustedly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as his eyes lit up with memories of the event. "And the corpse, they found, was riddled with wounds. Some bites here and there, but mostly cuts and slashes. Stricken by a blade, not by beast. Geralt had not, in fact, dreamt up the encounter."

He took a final drink of his wine and set the empty cup on the table. He looked directly into Tywin's eyes. "He was three-and-ten."

"…Which is why news of his capture and subsequent victory did not surprise you." Tywin concluded, to which Rickard gave a stern nod. When he paused again, he took the opportunity to properly drink from his own cup, finishing it and setting it down beside Rickard's. His eyes squinted again. "And the reason as to why you sent him to be a ward in Casterly Rock."

"Wrong, my lord. Becoming your ward was his idea, not mine." For a glimpse of a moment, the group saw Tywin's eyes light up with shock. Rickard chuckled. "I know, I know, my surprise mirrored yours. And my disproval as well, but the boy did not know how to take no for an answer, and however much I might have hesitated at the idea, I knew he was capable of it. That he was captured under your watch and chose to continue his stay with you regardless cannot have been for trivial reasons."

Rickard stopped for a moment to pick up the jar of water, filling both their cups and taking a sipping from his own again. With an air of finality, he said, "I put my trust in him, and time has proven me right."

"It would appear so." Tywin nodded calmly, expertly maintaining his composure. Ever so slightly, he squinted his eyes. "But you meant to ask something else. This has been a prelude to what you truly wished to talk about."

"Very true, my lord." Rickard agreed amiably. A half-smile graced his features, and if it weren't for the severity of his tone, it would have even looked inviting. "Now that you know that I know, I wanted to ask why you haven't acted on what you know."

Tywin took a pause at that, looking Rickard up and down again as his head ever so slightly tilted to the side. "You want to know why I haven't interfered in your children's betrothals."

"You've been the most successful Hand of the King the seven realms have seen this century, my lord." Somehow, the compliment sounded more insinuating than an outright accusation would have. "I doubt you did not know what I had planned."

Tywin was quick to counter, "While I was Hand, your focus was always on the Gift."

"Unreasonable, unmanageable, and unprofessional plans to strengthen and populate the Gift, for an irrational fear of 'impending' wildling invaders." Rickard huffed, taking another swig from his cup. "While you were Hand, I expected you to overlook me. It's during the years after your resignation that I expected action from you."

"You made yourself out to look inexperienced on purpose." Once more, a light flickered across the gold of Tywin's eyes, and his brows furrowed. "To prevent any suspicions from arising."

"Or else look like a lord trying to bind more than half the kingdoms by blood, excluding the royal family." Rickard took another hearty gulp of water, and his smile briefly dropped. "Considering the scars we suffered from the Ninepenny Kings, one paranoid enough may have looked at it as the foundation for a rebellion."

"…Very clever, my lord." The group gawked when they heard the lord's voice. It's rare enough to see him consider someone even remotely noteworthy. I can't remember ever hearing him compliment anyone that wasn't his family, and even those moments were rare themselves. Even more astonishing, they could see the shadow of a smile on the Great Lion's face. "To his Grace, you presented your least feasible plans. To the great lords, you spoke of alliances and marriage."

"Until it was certain, yes. Now Tully, Arryn, Baratheon and Tyrell have all agreed to betrothals, without counting yourself." And despite how he listed his accomplishments, there wasn't a shred of pride or boastfulness in his voice. Now it was he that squinted his eyes. "But you were not a part of my plans, not until Geralt convinced me, anyways. Between the point where those allegiances were solidified and where yours became the final Great House in the fold, you must have caught wind of what I was attempting. Why then, did you not act on it?"

"Between those two points, I had resigned my position as Hand of the King." Said Tywin, playing Rickard's game more carefully now. "What cause would I have for acting on that knowledge?"

"Tywin." It was the first time Rickard referred to the Great Lion by his name alone, an event missed by no one. Neither was the steel in his tone. "We agreed to honest words, you and I."

The accusation left the lord silent, which Rickard took as an opportunity to continue. "The most powerful lord in Westeros is father to one of the most beautiful unwed maidens in the Seven Kingdoms. Between her looks, her intellect, and her family name, she's certainly one of the most desirable ones. It seems curious to me her hand has not yet been claimed in marriage."

"As you said, she's the most beautiful maiden in the Seven Kingdoms and my daughter." Geralt could only imagine that Tywin's pride masked whatever his father meant to imply. "That betrothal will not be rushed."

"Certainly not. Especially when rumors of the Crown Prince's wife speak of her declining health, and that each birth leaves her weaker than the last." A cold wind blew through the broken halls as Rickard spoke, and Geralt felt his heart beating in his ears. Not a sound dared spring from the others. "That she even came to Harrenhal is considered miraculous by some. Those with even bolder tongues whisper she's all but using the last vestiges of her strength on this journey. If they're right, then that would make Rhaegar Targaryen the most desirable widow in the Seven Kingdoms."

For the briefest of moments, the group held their breaths. He turned to see them mouths agape, Jaime especially apprehensive. He did his best to ignore Cersei's excited and frightened glare, directed at Geralt. Even Tywin seemed frozen by Rickard's words, his eyes ever so slightly widened, not once taking them off of Rickard's own calm expression. All fell quiet. I knew father was sharp, but never to this extent. It's a miracle and a half he never found out about Chitch. After a long, tense silence, Tywin only said, "…A bold assumption."

"Aye, a bold assumption." Rickard agreed, nonplussed by the lord's damning silence. His own eyes turned into ice, and he leaned forwards a little more. "Question is, is it wrong?"

The next silence lasted half as long, which still remained several moments too long. Geralt nearly laughed. Seven bloody hells, father's much more masterful at cyvasse than he lets on. Trapping Lord Tywin between going back on his own word and the truth? He might be the only man in Westeros to have accomplished that feat. But Tywin had since relaxed his stance and drank again from his own cup, answering simply. "Depends on the coming days."

"I thought so." Rickard nodded, hardly surprised by his answer. He took a moment to pour the Great Lion more water as he added, "Then you see the heart of the issue."

"That his Grace may catch wind of your plans and deem you a threat." Tywin replied, to which Rickard only smiled. He raised a brow. "You wish to know where I stand."

"I was relieved to know that your good-brother's daughter is to whom Geralt is betrothed. That would make her your late wife Lady Joanna's direct niece." Rickard emphasized 'Joanna' clearly enough, a move that left the group breathless again. Only Tywin did not react, face remaining stone-like. Or if he did, he's done well to not show it. The Lord of Winterfell took it as a sign to continue. "I don't expect you to ever turn on your own daughter, my lord, I certainly would not. What I need to know is just how much you value Ser Stafford's children, and where they should fall if his Grace deems them part of a traitorous wolf's pack."

The pause was shorter still this time, but even then, Tywin took the time to carefully speak his next words. "No lord, septon, nor king will ever command me to strike down my own without due cause, if that is the basis of your worries."

"And if he should deem you traitor for such faithless defiance?" Rickard pressed, cocking his head to the side. He rested his arms on the table, leaning closer still to the golden lord. "Or worse yet, deem your daughter unworthy of his son?"

"You've said it yourself, my lord. Houses Tully, Arryn, Baratheon and Tyrell stand with yours, and now House Lannister as well. He could not afford to make that declaration." Tywin's reply was swift and confident this time, now fully recovered from Rickard's blindsiding questions. Similarly, he tilted his head to the side as his eyes gained a dangerous shine. "And in any case, the source of those grievances would be King Aerys, not House Targaryen. His council would be much more amenable to accept what you and I have planned."

There was a moment where it was the Northman who looked puzzled, then raising a brow in surprise, mouth ever so slightly agape. At the unspoken question, Tywin gave a direct nod, prompting a single, hollow laugh from Rickard. They let that silence continue a little longer before the Warden of the North's mood shifted, pose much more relaxed as he finished his water. "…Then you have my gratitude, my lord. That is a tremendous burden off my shoulders that you've just lifted."

Tywin replied cordially. "Of course."

"I know we've agreed on one glass of wine and water to be the rest, and now we've finished both." Rickard smiled, grabbing another bottle and showing it to the Great Lion. "But if you'll indulge an impertinent, foolish, old Northman, I'd close this conversation with a final cup to toast with. Ale, if you'll have it."

"Then we shall have it." Tywin nodded, moving his cup closer so the lord could serve him. When both were filled, he raised his cup first. "To your house and mine, my lord."

Rickard nodded deep, ending with, "And to the end of a long, dreadful winter."

The two fell into an affable silence, and Geralt felt a tug on his sleeve. Looking up to find Myrielle just before him, he saw all others beginning to carefully stand. As the lords continued in more affable conversation, the ten slowly filed out, making their way back out through the crooked hallway. A rat nearly gave them away, Daven slapping his hand over Cerenna's mouth before she could give them away. A look in its eyes offput Geralt, and he looked back at Benjen, again at the head of the group. Of course you found it, just not through your eyes. In man's skin or in beast's, legends tell skinchangers recognize one another. He didn't know if he felt relieved that Benjen was like him, or if he worried for him that others would find out.

They were back out quickly enough, though they remained hidden up the stairwell, watching from holes in the stone. Only when the lords left, soldiers in tow, did the ten finally make it back down. There was a silence that infected the group, where previously merry and mischievous conversation had flowed. Geralt frowned. Listening in on father has rarely ever been as productive as spying on Tywin. The others' faces showed the exact same sentiment, Jaime more than once looking at Cersei with worry, and something else he couldn't quite figure out. It was Daven who'd been bold enough to speak up first, though even his voice came out low, "…So, best we forget that we're pissing on Aerys's boots together, right?"

"Seems that way, Ser." Brandon nodded, mouth a tightly sealed line. "Besides, we're… we're all on the same side. Greyjoys don't have much love for the Targaryens. Not so much for us, either, but they'd be in no hurry to side with the royals. Between us all, we have what? Six Great Houses? All that remain are the king's men, Dorne and the Iron Islands. We'll just keep our heads low, and by the time your lord and ours make their moves, there won't be much left the king's council can do. Lord Tywin's right, King Aerys can't afford that war."

"Then we're better off pretending to play the blissful lot." Myrielle said, a bit nervously, but her voice remained steady. "We don't want to give away their plans, or else risk far more."

"Then we ought to start now." Lyanna nodded, frowning deeply. "The dragons have arrived."

The ten stopped, back out in the courtyard. Farther away, on the other end of the camp, red dragons on black fields flew in the wind. Red crabs and equally bloody sea lions were not far behind, as well as rams' heads and seahorses and sheep and swordfishes. The Crownlands arrived last. A measure of testing their power, perhaps, that they came last so all others would await their presence to start the tourney. Geralt shook his head. A foolish move. It gave enough time for the direwolf and the lion to convene. But despite the distance, somehow, a distant man that had walked to the center of where all kingdoms had camped bellowed hard enough for his voice to carry all the way to them.

"ALL KNEEL BEFORE HIS GRACE, AERYS TARGARYEN, SECOND OF HIS NAME, KING OF THE ANDALS, THE RHOYNAR, AND THE FIRST MEN, LORD OF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS, PROTECTOR OF THE REALM."

In a moment, they all fell to their knees, holding their heads down. That mad bastard. He came here?! Though the others did not dare to even say a word, Geralt tilted his head just enough to keep it low, but to try to get a look at the man stepping down from the carriage. Man is too generous of a word for him. As he walked out, holding his head high while all knelt, between his scraggly, long hair, sickly pale skin, grotesquely long nails and the dark circles around his eyes, from so far away, he looked no different than the phantasms that had plagued the Hall of Heroes. He was barely a silhouette, too many hundreds of feet away for Geralt to make out any features that weren't as defining as those he was notorious for. Still, he was disgusted to look at him. Rare is the day a man lives up to his rumors.

But the king gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and all rose again. In blinding white, the Kingsguard flocked to his side, seven marble statues surrounding a shambling corpse of a king. Helmeted, he could not recognize neither Barristan nor Arthur, and they were too far away to make out who carried Dawn. The only one that stood out was the one leading the king, at the center of the knights. It seems Ser Gerold healed from his wounds. But fortunately, the fleshy revenant and his retinue made way for some of the other grounds on the massive corpse of a castle, and the ten let out a collective sigh of relief.

The day, thereafter, went by faster, if not with hints of awkwardness plaguing the group. Rickard's and Tywin's plans stuck with them, and all they could do was try and make light of their pretend ignorance. Cersei and Lyanna stuck especially close, and Geralt was amused to hear some brash young lord complaining about his missing swords. Brandon gladly sparred with Daven and a reunited Addam and Lyle, while Benjen, Eddard, Myrielle and Cerenna spoke to each other of their homes and customs. Jaime made himself scarce, to Geralt's frustration, but eventually all were called to their tents. For once, Geralt was not under Lannister banners when he ate his dinner, but back with his family. Despite the hectic chaos of the day, and the knowledge that followed, that night had been one of greatest he'd enjoyed in the past years.

Soon enough, they all made way for their bedrolls and rooms, only Geralt was plagued by sleeplessness once more. Taking advantage of the castle's newfound emptiness, he found himself walking back toward where they had first followed his father and Lord Tywin. The emptiness and the dark of a cloudy night gave it a haunted look, unsettling, yet peaceful. Somewhere here rest the ghosts of Harren the Black and his sons. Hope I don't run into those here, too. But as he walked through the yard, the whole of Harrenhal sleeping, the clouds parted ways. The moon was whole, and in its splendor, colored the world in a silvery hue. It was there that he saw him, on the other end of the place, looking out into the vastness of the ruins. The winds pulled at his snowy hair, while piercing eyes looked out beyond the horizon. He must have made a noise, because all too quickly, those eyes turned to him. They bore on his own, bore into his soul, and he felt his body constrict. Geralt's breath hitched. "Griffith."

Author's Notes: I wish I could say the next chapter is coming soon. I'll try to write it as soon as possible, but I'm still busy (next year shouldn't be as rough, at least). Just know that this story isn't dead. I have more that I want to say, and maybe I'll edit these Author's Notes at some point, but it's late and I want to put this out already. Hope you enjoyed, comment on it if you did, or if you didn't, I'm all ears for (valid) criticism.

The Almighty Afroduck,

All Hail