"I see you've finally taken notice of Kings Landing's welcoming gift to one and all."
"Whatever gave you that impression, Ser Gerold? The watering of my eyes, the constant wrinkling of my nose, the ever-present curl of my lips? Perhaps my new horse-like, head-shaking tic?"
The Kingsguard riding at the forefront of the party to Geralt's right took no offense to the Witcher's tone. Instead, he adopted a cheeky smile.
"Aye."
The city in-question finally became plain to see as they reached the final stretch of the Kingswood. Though he'd already guessed its considerable size from a distance earlier, only now did Geralt realize it was the largest city he'd ever seen. Oxenfurt, Novigrad, Vizima, Vengeberg, and many others he could list off were nothing in comparison. Accounting for the smaller, cobbled together miniature towns present that Geralt could see from this side, Kings Landing very likely stretched several square miles. The population must've been in the hundreds of thousands. It was highly likely there were more people in this capital city than in many leagues of the Northern Kingdoms. So many people packed together, it was little wonder the stench was foul and wide-spreading.
"Care for a piece of advice?"
"Certainly."
"Think of flowers. Yes, you heard me right. Nothing defeats the smell of Kings Landing as reminiscing about more pleasant scents. In the Reach, the only thing held in higher esteem than chivalry is the nurturing of the land. Melons, peaches, apples, grapes, the finest of wines, and yes, flower gardens grow as far as the eye can see. You'll find no more fertile a place in all of the Seven Kingdoms."
"Sounds like a place I've been to back home."
"There is no place like the Reach," Ser Gerold said, exhibiting a measure of the puffed-up pride Geralt had come to know from knights. Even this, however, held more than a trace of the Kingsguard's good humor. If this Reach was as similar to Touissant as Geralt thought it to be, then it made sense why a stranger such as him received such courtesy. One's Martial skill was a proven way for even the lowest of commoners to rise in society, Geralt had made his debut almost wiping out a notorious group of thieves and cutthroats. Indeed, the survivors of the battle showed rare gratitude, untainted by scorn and prejudice for Witchers.
It probably helped they had no notion as to what a Witcher was. They'd never seen or heard of one before. Geralt kept his explanation simple, to the point: he was a monster hunter. One such beast was responsible for bringing him this far from home. The vampire whose head hung from the side of the saddle, wrapped in a sack Geralt took from the Brotherhood. The people of Westeros showed interest in seeing the creature, but back in the safety of court. The Princess' initial desire for the outdoors evaporated following the battle, a sentiment shared by all accompanying her.
Before the left, however, Geralt was able to endear himself even more to the Westerosi. Using salves and ointments given to him and Ciri by Nenneke during a recent visit to Ellander, he played the role of battlefield healer. Ser Gerold's hand, pierced by an arrow, was already back in use while a young Gold Cloak named Alyn bled no more from his brow cut. Though he did voice disappointment when Geralt said he'd have no scar to impress women.
"If it's not too much of a bother, I'd rather talk the rest of the way to, what did you call it? The Red Keep?"
"Aye, you'd be hard-pressed to miss it," Ser Gerold pointed to one of the three massive hills within King's Landing. With the midday sun overhead, its pale red stone seemed to glow prominently against its surroundings.
"Therein lies the court of King Aerys Targaryen the second, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Ruler of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms."
"An impressive collection of titles, I assume the Seven Kingdoms stretch across the whole continent?"
"An astute assumption, master Witcher. From the deserts of Dorne to the south to the Wall of the north, rules House Targaryen. So it has been for nearly the past three hundred years. Gods willing, it shall continue for many centuries thereafter."
"This city is only three hundred years old?" Geralt said, surprised by the fact. "I had thought it was much older, given its size and importance."
"The Seven Kingdoms have existed for thousands of years. The task of uniting them was only begun and with great success, by the first king of Westeros. Aegon Targaryen, the founder of the dynasty. Together with his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, and their three dragons, they united much of Westeros."
Geralt noticed and pointedly avoided questioning the sister-wives portion of the story. "Westeros is home to dragons?"
"Once," Ser Gerold said, his enthusiasm faltering. "Over a century has passed since the death of the last dragon. The world has not seen one since."
"No doubt a sad fact for many a boy to hear throughout the realm."
"Like you wouldn't believe," The Kingsguard said with a rueful smile this time. "After all, who would not want to merely lay eyes upon such a creature? I am not ashamed to admit that the boy within me would swoon at such a sight."
"Do dragons hold religious significance here?" Geralt said, choosing to gain a greater understanding of their views on the creatures. "In a land far from even Rivia, they are revered as gods."
"The Faith of the Seven rules here," Ser Gerold pointed next to the second hill of King's Landing. This one was situated closer to its center in contrast to the Red Keep. Again, Geralt noticed seven towers that sparkled against the sunlight. Possibly made of some crystal substance. The towers surrounded a massive, marble dome. "The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maid, the Smith, the Crone, and finally, the Stranger. The greatest place of worship for them is atop Visenya's hill there. The Great Sept of Baelor."
"Seven gods pertaining to forms of justice, craft, healing, nurturing, death, and so forth. Simple enough to grasp and quite similar in some respects to the faiths of my own lands."
"There are other Gods as well, though their presence in Kings Landing is far lesser. In the northern lands of Westeros reign the old gods. They number more than the Seven, though their names are few. I know little else of them, save they are beings of forests, streams, and stone. There is also the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, though I know and care little to know of him."
"I'd wager the Iron Islands people aren't popular here?"
"The Ironborn," Ser Gerold corrected. "And no, far from it. Though I served with and even met a few decent ones in battle, the rest are but reavers and cutthroats. Eternally bitter for the end of their glory days yet too foolish to understand they are passed."
"And what lies on the third hill, Ser Gerold?"
"That is the Dragon Pit, naught but a blackened ruin," He pointed to the farthest hill, revealing a split open domed building resembling the maw of a great beast. "Once it served as home to the dragons, until their decline and final death. No one goes there now. No one has for well over a century..."
Just as Ser Gerold trailed off, they reached the outskirts of King's Landing. For half a mile alone, their part rode past inns, stalls, taverns, storehouses, small markets, and of course, brothels. What stood out most to Geralt was how utterly unremarkable the sight was. It was the kind of place one could encounter outside any larger city in the Northern Kingdoms. Almost distractingly so. A guard upon the gates noticed the royal banners adorning the carriage and swiftly opened them, allowing passage.
Inside, Geralt bore witness the sea of people within the walls. Like a never-ending horde, tightly packed together, almost shuffling from place to place instead of walking. There were peasants, merchants, soldiers, women of ill repute, women of better repute, holy men, and a thousand other occupants present within any large settlement. Even traversing through or passed them on horseback must be a nightmare. Geralt could not imagine it being anything other than an agonizing process.
Unless one in the presence of nobility. As though a spell was cast upon the entire populace, all halted. Then, all split in two, allowing the group passage inside the city. Geralt observed them, they returned the gesture. From the fainted whispers, some quieter than others, he heard the gossip-mongering begin in earnest.
"The Lord Commander is wounded!"
"Is that the prince?"
"Why's he wearin' two swords?"
"They were attacked!"
"Seven fuckin' ells! That's Simon Toyne!"
A similar concoction of wonderment, curiosity, fear, and speculation followed them all throughout the city. No small part of it concerning Geralt himself. Several more confused him with the crown prince, others stared in wonder as to who he was. A handful reacted with a wariness of his clear otherworldliness which he'd long since accepted. They passed through districts of the city primarily connected to the nearby harbor. Fishmongers of all sorts praised their wears in any number of fanciful ways. Men off galleys sang and reveled in being shit faced drunk. The local whores waved many a time to the party.
Soon enough, their journey came to an end. The Red Keep was no longer a far off curiosity but a very close, looming structure. It's massive curtain walls were even more impressive than those of King's Landing itself, reaching dozens of feet into the sky. Nests for archers were ever-present, thick stone parapets protected the outer wall ramparts. No heads were placed upon them, a curious thing.
Again, sentries positioned atop the walls signaled the return of the Princess and Lord Commander, accompanied by a horn. The main entrance, a pair of bronze doors split open, allowing passage into the Red Keep proper. This was but one section of it, as inner walls further served to separate it into multiple portions. The yard within this section was vast enough to allow hundreds, possibly even thousands of men inside. Several buildings were scattered about, chambers to house the servants, men and government officials. Geralt could not begin to guess which was which, except the one to the immediate right of the bronze gates. Reaching well over two hundred feet in height, there was no doubt as to where the throne room of Westeros was situated.
Dozens more Gold Cloaks, servants and even two more members of the Kingsguard, who'd been practicing, converged on the group. They'd barely crossed inside when the whole place seemed abuzz with activity.
Ser Gerold dismounted first, reaching for the door of the carriage and assisting Princess Ellia outside. Her complexion had improved from the rest she'd taken, her tan skin a far healthier brown. With a grateful smile, she allowed the Lord Commander to guide her out. Though some cast a glance or two at Geralt, everyone's focus was expectedly elsewhere.
"Ellia! Ellia!" One of the Kingsguard, with short brown hair and tanned skin cut through the assembled mob as a man possessed. From a glance, Geralt was able to spot the familial resemblance. Princess and warrior shared the same eyes, nose, and even mouth shape. Too old to be her brother, an uncle, or cousin by Geralt's estimate.
Whatever they were, neither the Princess nor anyone else prevented the man from wrapping Ellia in a tight hug. Her smile widened as she returned it.
"What happened?" He asked, observing the dress torn at the feet along with the bandage on Ser Gerold's hand. "Who did this?"
"The Kingswood Brotherhood," The Lord Commander answered in a clear, decisive voice. A near collective gasp of disbelief came from the crowd, many already whispering amongst themselves. "Bold have they grown these past moons, bold enough to try and attack even the Princess of Westeros!"
"I knew this would come to pass," The man who embraced Ellia said with fury. The crowd voicing their agreement with equal fervor. Some of it genuine, some painfully artificial. "We should have cut those animals down to the last man long ago! Dammit... I should've been there by your side!"
"Uncle," The Princess's warm voice had an immediate effect on the man, wrapping her hands around his shaking fist. "I understand your anger but it is unnecessary. For I am alive, as is Ser Gerold. And the Kingswood Brotherhood shall bother no one else ever again."
"You managed to defeat them, Lord Commander?" The other Kingsguard spoke, a younger man with short, chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes. "The Brotherhood is no more?"
"The Brother is all but destroyed yes, though I lay no claim to the honor of doing so. That belongs to someone else who came to our aid when we most desperately needed it."
Ser Gerold turned his head and smiled. It was then the group noticed Geralt, hanging about behind them, running a hand across his horse's neck. Much of the same reaction from the ordinary citizens was present amongst the guards, servants, and nobles around. Wonder. Curiosity. Apprehension. Some fear. Respect.
"Ser Gerold speaks true," Princess Ellia said, speaking loudly for all those to hear. With a gesture, she commanded Geralt to approach. He did so. "For none of us would be here were it not for the selfless bravery of this man. A man from distant lands yet has earned his place in Westeros. I present to you, Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia."
The Witcher bowed his head in acknowledgment of the praise and to greet those present. Everyone was looking at him, though Geralt primarily kept his gaze onto the Kingsguard. It was easier that way.
"You defeated the Brotherhood?" The Princess's uncle said as though Geralt had moved the sun back to the east.
"Singlehandedly," The Princess confirmed, giving Geralt a smile as the excitement grew with even an greater intensity. "I witnessed much of it myself, no less than six members of the Brotherhood are dead thanks to Master Geralt."
"Even the Smiling Knight?" The younger Kingsguard said, stepping forward.
"Slain in single combat by Geralt as well. Though, cleaved in half would be a more accurate way of putting it."
The younger one's jaw almost dropped in a plain display of bad etiquette. Not that much of it was left. Each statement from the Lord Commander and Princess seemed to intensify the fervor of the assembled welcoming party. They must've been so loud the entire keep could hear them by now.
"Master Witcher," The Princess' uncle stepped forward, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, he bowed deeply. "On my honor as a knight and member of the Kingsguard, on behalf of myself, House Martell, and all of Dorne, I give you my most sincere thanks! We are all in your debt, say your wish, and we shall make it so!"
Geralt stared, unaccustomed to this much attention. Nothing since his knighting and time spent amongst Queen Meve's rebel army compared to this. Men clapped, cheered his name. He was a hero, not a freak or mutant. Still unsure of what to do, Geralt smiled and acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his head.
"There will be plenty of time for rewards and such later, first," Ser Gerold moved to one of the horses at the back of the group and with a single tug of his hand, tossed Simon Toyne onto the ground. "Get him in a cell, a dark, miserable one."
Several of the soldiers remembered their duty and did precisely this, dragging the brigand away until Geralt could no longer see him. Then, the young Kingsguard stepped forward. The wonder and surprise in his eyes vanished, he leaned close to his colleagues and the Princess.
"We must tell the king of this, immediately. No doubt rumors and hearsay already spread across the castle. We must put a stop to them without delay."
"Aye," Ser Gerold said, sounding grimmer than Geralt had ever heard him. They all were, including the group of people still hanging about. The excitement evaporated almost instantly. Replaced by apprehension, and fear. Fear so palpable it might have been a noose tied around all of their necks.
"I shall speak to him first, then you Ser Gerold."
"Aye, we shall do so, your grace," Then he looked at Geralt, his mouth a thin line. There was pity in his grey eyes. Pity and a silent apology. "As will you, Master Witcher."
Geralt, as before, nodded in acknowledgment without a word. Though every one of his instincts told him something very foul was afoot, he would not truly understand why that is. Not for another hour. Not until he came face to face with Aerys Targaryen the second, known to many but not to him as the Mad King.
A/N: Chapter 3 was supposed to contain Geralt meeting with Aerys and the Small Council but some college stuff along with the satisfactory length of the published version has made me decide to leave it for later. I promise it'll be worth the wait.