"I must relieve you of all your weapons, Geralt." Ser Gerold said, extending a hand as the two stood before a set of bronze, wooden doors. Tall enough for a man mounted on horseback to cross through. On the other side, was the throne room, with several hundred people there. Even through the thick doors and stone walls, Geralt could hear the stir, the speculation, the anticipation. It was the same fervor that welcomed them half an hour past.
This time, Geralt did not find it quite so overwhelming. The fear he spotted when they mentioned the king was ever in his thoughts. Prickling away and souring his mood like a broken tooth. What kind of monarch was he to elicit such a fleeting yet powerful reaction at the mere thought of having to speak to him?
Perhaps if circumstances were different, Geralt would've acquiesced to the request without much more than an annoyed huff. Now, he gave the Kingsguard a very steely look. The knight narrowed his eyes in defiance of the gaze, even as Geralt noticed him gulp under something quite close to a vipers stare.
"None may approach his grace' presence with a weapon, even sheathed. Save for his Kingsguard. Hand them over, Geralt."
Geralt did not move, even as Ser Gerold reached closer. The guards at the doors shuffled imperceptibly, their eyes darting between the two men. With a deliberate pace, Geralt went about removing his armaments, starting with the bandolier. Once it was handed to the Lord Commander, he removed some of the throwing knives concealed about his person. Save for one hidden in his boot. The last weapons to come off were the Moon Dust bombs. Those he handed to one of the men stationed outside the gates.
"Don't throw or drop these if you value your lives," He warned the soldier, letting a severity enter his voice. Then he pointed to the sack containing the Katakan's head. "And do not touch that if you wish to sleep well for the next moon."
Once he was reasonably sure they understood the importance of following his instructions, Geralt nodded at Ser Gerold. The guards closest to the doors grabbed hold and pushed them aside, allowing the two to enter.
The throne room of the Red Keep was less a room and more a cavern. Geralt's earlier estimation of its size did nothing to quell the amazement of seeing it from the inside. Its height all the way from the vaulted ceiling adorned with arches and thick stone columns was, at least, two or three stories. The eastern and western walls allowed the afternoon sunlight to enter through high, narrow windows. Yet what truly caught his attention before anything else was the collection of dragon skulls.
The Witcher never laid eyes upon its like anywhere in the Northern Kingdoms. They were ever-present, placed between the narrow windows like an ominous group of gargoyle protectors. The range of them was varied indeed. Some couldn't have been bigger than an ordinary hound. Others were far and away bigger than Saskia or Borch. One, in particular, the largest and most looming of them all, might've been the grandest living animal Geralt would never see. By its head alone, it was massive, capable of devouring a fully grown fiend with one snap of its jaws. Simply imagining such a creature soaring through the heavens must have inspired dread and wonder like nothing else.
Yet there was another reason Geralt paid so much more attention to the skulls above everything else, at first. His medallion, hidden inside his clothing, began vibrating almost the instant he entered the hall. It's vibrations particularly intensified as the Witcher passed by the grander dragon skulls. The creatures were magical in nature, just as theirs were. Even though some were centuries dead, the power pulsated strongly from them. If the worst came to pass, Geralt knew he could draw upon it to give himself a fighting chance.
As Geralt began to walk towards the center of the throne room, the desire to lash out with the power and run for his life magnified. The closer he came to this particular spot, the more apparent a most specific scent became. As a tracker of beasts and sometimes men, trusting his nose over any other sense had saved the lives of many a Witcher. Geralt very much included. He had acquired a most varied collection of smells, to make one's heart soar and to make one's stomach crumble. In the latter category, the polar opposite of lilac and gooseberries was the odor of burnt, human flesh. Precisely what Geralt identified past the halfway mark. There was no room for doubt or reinterpretation.
The grateful princess of frail health and the accepting, chivalrous knight, brought him to another Novigrad.
Geralt kept his expression neutral, paying no attention for some time to anything but quelling the fury and disgust welling up inside. He had scarcely been present at court for more than a minute and already wished to retreat into the woods. He already wanted to strike anyone he could, even himself. For it was his idea to accept the invitation, thinking the favor of a monarch and the knowledge he could glean from his library a worthwhile tradeoff to suffering courtroom politics. It was no wonder Geralt's rotten luck was so effective as of late, he was doing a marvelous job of aiding it along.
He successfully steeled himself on the final approach to the throne. At the steps, a group of nobles and other government officials sat in far less intimidating but no doubt more comfortable seats. Several other members of the Kingsguard flanked them and the throne on either side. Princess Ellia stood on her feet, offering a smile Geralt did not return, standing next to a young man. He wore a black and red doublet, accentuating his white, long hair, deep purple eyes, and classically handsome face. No doubt this was the prince, scrutinizing the Witcher with great interest.
The remainder of the group standing closest to the king was comprised of six individuals. Three seated on the left, three on the right. The first of them was an older man, well over fifty, with pale rheumy eyes. His hair was greying, a thick beard reached almost to his stomach. He wore a thick, elaborate chain of silver, tin, bronze, and many other metals was around his neck. Geralt's eyes fleetingly meeting his own seemed to elicit surprise from the man, as though he did not believe what he'd heard until now.
The next man's fear was far more palpable, though he tried his best to not show it. His head was bald, save for brown remnants on the sides, though he was not obese, he was not a man of physicality either. The green doublet with lines of silver running through it only made it more pronounced. He audibly gulped under Geralt's gaze, licking dried lips.
The third one held himself with fare more fortitude. The pale skin, white hair, and purple eyes were present, though unlike the prince, he wore a beard and short-cropped hair. He was not so much intimidated by Geralt as he was curious by the way he inspected the Witcher's features. Judging by the sparsity of such features, the noble might've thought he'd just run into a relative of some kind.
The next two were far more unpleasant, for varying reasons. The first among them wore a strange necklace of linked hands, the rest of the clothes combining a weave of striking red and gold colors. Gold was the color of his hair, emphasized by bushy side-whiskers running down the side of his face. It was the face of a hard man, not even thirty yet already full of lines around the mouth and eyes, emphasizing the severity of his green-eyed, piercing gaze. Geralt disliked him almost immediately because of it, it was precisely the same look he'd seen in another, thoroughly unpleasant man of high birth before.
The second to last of them unnerved Geralt. He was a more aged man, the oldest he'd seen in Westeros thus far. His face was nearly hairless, from what Geralt could see of the all-consuming, black, and brown cloak he wore. The smell of ash and fire was heavy on him, scorch marks doted his robes. This was no doubt the one facilitating the burning of people. His eyes were a deep blue and stared unblinkingly, in a wonderous and mad fascination. It was the same way many wizards and sorceress' looked at the Witcher, right before asking if they could cut him open for dissection.
Lastly was a plump, fat man furthest to the right with rich-looking, silk robes quite distinctly different from the Westerosi. Upon further examination, Geralt noticed the powder on his face and the perfume scents of lavender and rosewater coming off of him. This one's reaction was the mildest of all, borderline disinterested. A few years ago, Geralt would've written him off as such, yet he was a wiser man now. Something about this one set him on edge.
Past them, looming in all of its grotesque grandeur, was the Iron Throne. Ser Gerold made no mention of its appearance, Geralt felt no need to ask: a throne was a throne. In hindsight, even if the Lord Commander described it to him in detail, the Witcher would've thought he was exaggerating. Yet there it was, an asymmetrical malformity of the highest order. Even from a cursory glance, Geral could count several hundred melted blades in it. Many of them looked sharp enough to kill a man. It was less a seat for a monarch and more of a repurposed Draug corpse.
What kind of man would ever choose to oversee his realm from such a place? It took but one look at Aerys Targaryen to answer this question: an unquestionably insane man. No self-respecting person of sound mind would allow themselves to deteriorate to the sate the ruler of Westeros was in. The stench coming off of him in almost tangible waves was worse than King's Landings. It must've been weeks or months since he last bathed. His matted hair seemed entangled around the crown in painful knots, the waist-length beard was more yellow than white. His fingernails were closer to talons befitting a vampire, no man, possibly a foot long. He was gaunt and frail-looking, a reasonably strong gust of wind would surely knock him off his feet. If one were to look upon him, save for his eyes, they might see a frail, pitiable creature. Afraid of his own shadow and no doubt a thousand more real and imaginary threats.
His eyes dispelled this notion entirely. There was a mad fire burning in them, a paranoid, perpetual simmering ready to explode and devour any hapless fool to raise his ire. Geralt thought he'd seen madness with Radovid. Now? He'd take the presence of the fallen Redanian monarch over this... Thing looming above him. Ser Gerold kneeled first, bowing deeply.
"Your Grace, I bring before you the man who's presence you've requested, without whom the princess and I would not be here. Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia!"
"Your majesty," Geralt said, mirroring Ser Gerold's bow as closely as possible. "It is an honor to stand before you and the fine lords and ladies of Westeros."
The assembled crowd of bootlickers and social climbers whispered amongst themselves. Some commented on Geralt's voice and accent, others with how he addressed the king. Aerys himself said nothing for a moment until a hoarse, rattled voice from above commanded Geralt to rise. The Witcher did so, arms kept to the sides, hands fully open and eyes meeting the kings.
"It seems my Lord Commander and good-daughter have not taken leave of their senses after all. Eyes and skin worthy of a son of Valyria yet the eyes of a snake. No doubt, such a fearsome visage greatly aided you in the destruction of the brotherhood, no? The rescuing of my Lord Commander and of a princess? Truly! A story fit for the tales, is not my lords and ladies?!"
A number of them replied immediately, voicing their cheers and thanks and admiration for Geralt. The Witcher was not convinced this was the end, for many others kept their mouths pointedly shut.
"Why one might even say the tale is too good to be true," Aerys' voice chilled, suspicion and paranoia pouring into it. "A mysterious stranger who just so happens to arrive at the perfect moment to rescue, to aid two of such high birth, and to earn an audience with the king of Westeros himself! Yes, indeed, Master Witcher, it is a tale too perfect to be real... You, who speak unlike any I've heard before, proclaiming yourself from a place none at my court have ever heard and called yourself a title which means nothing at all. My curiosity of these things is great indeed, what have you to say to satisfy it?"
A witty remark about how suspiciously close his curiosity sounded like mad paranoia was at the tip of Geralt's tongue. That would absolutely not do. Instead, the Witcher thought back to Radovid, and where he'd gone wrong there. By the king's own words, it was Geralt's insolence which prompted an almost death sentence had Roache not intervened. In fact, a great many other kings, queens and monarchs voiced similar displeasure about him. Even Foltest, who was far more forgiving of it and seemed to enjoy a candid conversation for a change. The answer then was simple, Geralt would have to stoop quite low indeed and resort to outright ass-kissing.
"I would say that you are a wise ruler indeed to ask such questions, your highness," Geralt said, trying to make his voice as flattering as possible. Already, Aerys' lip quirked upward. "For if a man of Westeros found himself in my position, at the court of Emperor Emhyr, and spoke of seven kingdoms, a throne of blades and dragon kings, he too would face many questions."
"And what would this Emhyr do?"
"If he was feeling generous, toss the man out of his court and spend many a night using him as the subject of court jests. Without proof, of course, your majesty."
"Proof which you possess?" Aerys said, smiling nastily and leaning forward. "Ser Gerold mentioned you hunted a beast on my lands, is this your proof?"
"It is, for it is a creature unlike any you've seen before. I daresay the only thing which could shock you more than its existence is if another dragon appeared through those doors."
"Quite a bold claim... Very well, I shall indulge you a while longer. If only for the way you address me. Have this beast brought here, quickly!"
A servant of some kind rushed to the opposite end of the throne room, commanding the guards stationed outside to bring forth the sack. Two men entered, holding onto it from two ends, their armors ratling incessantly as they struggled to bring Katakan over. With a loud thud, they placed it right of Geralt, bowing and departing following a dismissive wave of Aerys' taloned hand.
"I should warn you, sire, it is a most unpleasant thing to look upon."
"Enough delaying, master Witcher," He barked out, gesturing for him to get a move on. "If you've something to show us, do it! We're no frail waifs to tremble before some beast!"
Bowing his head, Geralt knelt, ignoring how several of the Kingsguard around tensed up. Grabbing hold of one of the top horns, the Witcher waited a moment, gathered his strength, and hoisted it out the sack with one arm. The reaction was about what he expected it to be. Ser Gerold instinctively backed away, most of the people seated at the base of the throne either rose or pushed back into their chairs. Aerys retreated so far he almost seemed to shrink amidst the dozens of swords around him.
"This," Geralt said, his voice loud and strained from the effort of holding the trophy. "Is a Katakan, one of several species of vampires. If you are reminded of bats, then you've already a notion of what this creature can do. It is a being of the night with razor-sharp hearing. At full height, it is taller than a horse, with claws capable of shredding through iron and steel. It is also impossibly quick, capable of slaying a man faster than a bolt can hit a target. And yes, like many species of bats, vampires drink blood. Human blood."
Slowly, deliberately, he turned around in place, letting everyone get a good look at it. Many backed away as though it could still hurt them. Many women and several men even fainted. Ser Gerold and his Kingsguard were ready to unsheathe their blades and attack at any moment. Princess Ellia went closer to the prince's side, growing pale again. The prince himself stared, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Earlier, your highness, you said the title Witcher means nothing? In Westeros, this is true. Yet, in my lands, it means to be a monster slayer. To hunt down creatures such as these who threaten the lives of innocents. Them, and many, many more. I hope you never have the displeasure of crossing paths with anyone of them. Or at least a live one."
"Grand Maester Pycelle," The blonde man who remained seated and directed his steely gaze at the Katakan said. "Inspect the authenticity of this... Vampire."
The old man with the metal chain blinked then seemed to realize he was being addressed to. "O-Of course, my lord Hand."
"Don't worry, it can't hurt you." Geralt assured the man, noticing his apprehension. The Grand Maester seemed to take some comfort from this, hastening his step.
"You said this beast comes from your lands?" The Lord Hand said while Pycelle prodded about the head, checking its eyes, nose, mouth, and hair.
"Yes, from the east, far, far to the east. So far, anything west of our mainland is thought to have nothing but endless sea."
"And you crossed such vast distances to slay this creature? Half the world away, according to your own estimate?"
"I would like to think," Geralt said, meeting the steely gaze with one of his own. His self-control was slipping ever so slightly, perhaps because the Hands resemblance to one particular prick he never wanted to see again grew with each passing moment. "That any man, be they Witcher or not, would pursue this Katakan as I have. One does not so easily forget the sight of inconsolable mothers, wrathful fathers brought low by guilt. Nor does one so easily forgive or forget the cold touch of dead children while inspecting what it is that killed them in the middle of the night. Though I am aware not every man has the means or strength of character to afford themselves such scruples."
Geralt's voice grew less and less respectful with each passing word, a fact that did not go unnoticed by the Hand. The man glared, as though the power of it could make Geralt burst from the inside out. The Witcher unflinchingly returned it. His capacity to bootlick was already spent.
"Grand Maester," The Hand said in a low growl, eyes still meeting Geralt's. "Is there any truth to what he says?"
"Hrm? O-Oh, yes, my lords and ladies!" The Grand Maester said loudly and clearly. "Though I've only performed a cursory examination, I can confirm this is no mummers farce. This... Katakan was it? This beast was in-fact a living creature! Its skin, its hair, its saliva, there is naught false to any of it!"
The crowd, who still could, exploded in a mass of noisy deliberation. The chatter grew more and more intense by the moment. A single raised palm by the Hand quieted them down immediately.
"Continue, Grand Maester."
"This is a most important discovery, my lord. Nothing in any of our tomes and books speaks of such a creature! The value of this head alone from an academic viewpoint is immeasurable. Master Geralt?"
"Yes, Grand Maester?"
"With his graces permission, of course, I would invite you to aid in revealing the secrets of this Katakan. You've already shown us your knowledge on this matter, and if there are others like it, well, we cannot afford to remain ignorant! Who better to aid us than an expert?"
"I agree with the Grand Maester," A second commotion from the crowd almost erupted when the plump, bald man spoke in a loud and effeminate voice. "Though I am the Master of Whispers, he who is to know all the matters of the realm and beyond, I had no knowledge of this creature or the lands Master Geralt speaks of. And though the Witcher has done us a great service today, let us not forget his words: many more of this ilk exist. One man cannot defend all of the Seven Kingdoms, but he can help us defend ourselves, defend the people, through his wisdom and experience. That is why I believe we must allow a place for guest at court."
What happened next caught everyone's attention, even Geralt and the Hand postponed their glaring contest and looked at the top of the throne. Where Aerys, recovering sometime after his initial shock, began to laugh. What began as a light grumble in his throat transmogrified into an obviously deranged cackle, reverberating through the stone walls and marble floor. Geralt couldn't understand it, was he pleased or furious? With the insane, it was impossible to tell.
"Well done, Master Geralt, well done!" Aerys laughed, clapping his hands even as tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes. "Truly, you are a most interesting man indeed! Not only have you saved a princess, a lord commander and slain men and beasts who threatened my realm, but you've managed to stare down the mighty lion of Lannister and make Varys and Pycelle agree on something!"
He cackled even more loudly, this time joined by a large swath of the attending nobility. Much of it sounded forced and grating to Geralt's ears. He ignored them, bowing as well as he could given the thing weighing him down.
"I am pleased to have entertained you, your majesty."
"Oh, you have, you have, and you shall do so again tonight," Aerys said, the fires shining in his purple eyes. "I wish to know more of you and your exploits, Master Geralt! I'm certain a man of your experience has more than his share of stories to tell."
"It will be my honor, your royal highness," Geralt bowed again, already picking and choosing what to steer clear off and what to change.
"Indeed, but you will need a bathe and proper clothing for the event. Tywin," Aerys' eyes descended on the blonde Hand. "Can I entrust you with ensuring the Witcher's comfort in the Red Keep? After all, he is a most distinguished guest and I've already noticed how well the two of you are getting along."
"It will be my pleasure your grace," Tywin Lannister said, bowing and sounding very authentic as he lied. No doubt Aerys noticed their silent struggle, probably paying more attention to it than anything else. Despite his seeming high rank amongst the nobility, the Lannister and king shared little love for one another. Now, Geralt had become one more pawn in whatever sorted little game between them.
He really should have just punched someone out and made a run for it.