His audience with the king lasted but a short while longer following Aerys' decision to place Geralt under Tywin's care. His weapons and equipment were returned to him post-haste, while the Katakan's head was given to Grand Maester Pycelle. Geralt passed on pertinent information regarding it: silver tools to cut open and examine it more thoroughly and to keep any and all flames far, far away. The Grand Maester, brimming with enthusiasm judging by the ever-present shine in his gaze and smile, nodded, assuring the Witcher no examination would commence without his experienced eye to oversee it.
Tywin personally led Geralt from the throne room, and for this, at least, the Witcher was thankful. Aerys chose this moment to announce the end of the day's court session, many of the attending nobles, courtiers, and the like swarmed to the exit. A great many intended to strike a conversation with Geralt until Tywin's smallest glance repelled them. Very quickly, they placed a considerable distance between themselves and the Lord Hand. Tywin said nothing during their brisque two-man march down the serpentine steps of the great hall, across the vast courtyard where many an eye were upon them.
The two men crossed a drawbridge and chasmic, empty motte into another section of the castle. Here, the sounds of blacksmiths applying their craft became apparent, the pounding of steel against steel, the sizzling of burning metal turning water into vapor upon contact. Dogs barked and howled, some free amongst the guards while others were locked away in rows upon rows of kennels, the persistent cat population which Geralt increasingly took notice of, antagonized them incessantly. These felines too hissed and snapped at his approach.
Their destination, a short walking distance right of the drawbridge, was one of the seven drum towers which so prominently loomed over King's Landing. At its base, the tower was connected to a smaller version of the great hall they'd left. Guards were positioned at its entrance, though these were distinctly different from the Gold Cloaks. These men at arms worse red cloaks over mail shirts, boiled leather. Steel caps they wore, beautified with lion crests. The Lannister man greeted their lord, receiving naught in return and openly staring at Geralt.
A pair of wooden doors were parted for them, revealing the interior of the hall with its high-vaulted ceiling, bench space for two hundred, trestled tables, and Lannister tapestries hanging off the walls. More golden lions against a red backdrop.
"This is the Tower of the Hand," Tywin curtly spoke as they began their ascent up a spiral staircase. "My private audience chamber and personal quarters are at the topmost floor. Yours will be two floors down."
Geralt wished it were lower. On the highly unwanted chance his stay on Westeros veered towards the greater length, going up and down this damnable thing would be troublesome. There were several hundred steps, at least, to traverse. At least his knee no longer ached. A pair of guards snapped to attention, greeting Tywin as he stood before the chamber doors. He glanced over Geralt's body from boots to head, mouth curling at what he saw.
"Servant will arrive shortly to prepare your bath, as will tailors to ensure your clothes for the evening are satisfactory. Should you require anything else, you know where to find me, so long as the matter is of actual significance. Lastly," The Hand stepped forward, his voice dropping. "Forestall any notions of further indulging your insolence. Aerys may find it endearing, I do not. Are we clear, Master Witcher?"
What was clear to Geralt was the fact Tywin Lannister deserved a meticulous boot in his ass. Would the great lion of Lannister yelp like one in such an event? The slightest possibility of this made it an enticing thing to try. Yet given his apparent animosity with Aerys, the mad king would likely award Geralt with lands and titles for such an act. At least with a sane monarch, a rational line of thought made it clear which path would lead to a genuine reward. With maniacs, every choice resulted in some variation of eating shit. Putting this thought to the wayside, Geralt let out a silent exhale and bowed deeply. This way, the insincerity of what he spoke next would only be verbally noticeably.
"My apologies, Lord Hand. Commonfolk and those of lower station are whom I most frequently speak to. My court etiquette is decidedly... Unrefined."
"Your apology is noted," But your slight is neither forgotten nor forgiven was the unspoken follow-up. "Good day, Witcher."
"To you as well."
Handing over the key to the chamber, Tywin departed while Geralt entered his new abode. He spent not a moment taking it in, marching over to the large window decorated with stained glass depicting some field of flowers. As he feared, his approximate guess as to where it faced on the way up was proven correct. It overlooked the east. Geralt saw much of the courtyard below him, many dozens of feet below. The kennels, the smithy from which plumes of grey smoke rose, a stable, a pigsty, a barracks where Gold Cloaks came to and from, a slender four-storied building which overlooked the sea. None of the battlements were near enough. Nor would it matter much, the length of roped required to scale down the tower would be absurd.
"What I wouldn't do for a portal right about now," Geralt muttered, froze, shook his head, and laughed. He stood there a while longer, staring out at nothing at all, knuckles pressed against the stone. Aerys would not give him leave to depart, the Witcher savior was his new court attraction, a warning to the existence of beasts and monsters only he knew how to slay. Given their reaction and ignorance of what a vampire was, Geralt very much doubted they had even a tenth of the Witcher's work his own world still required. And yet, if Geralt did nothing, allowing the Katakan to flee here, it would have butchered dozens, possibly hundreds of children until at last falling. If they ever managed to kill it at all. Highly unlikely with all the available facts taken into consideration.
The only way to learn more was to share his own Witcher knowledge, give and take. After all, magic was present in this world, and just because it was mostly dormant now, did not mean it would stay dormant. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, a great many things taken for granted at present never existed in his world. Humans, for example, if the Elves were to be believed. At the very least, partaking in an informational exchange would give him something productive to do concerning his profession and help kill time until Ciri and Yennefer arrived.
By now, the people of Zrinski must have noticed his disappearance. If the time between their worlds was inverted, no doubt the poor sods were huddled together at night, awaiting the Katakan's next blow. No doubt days of such constant fear and tension would pass before any of them decided to inquire into Geralt's fate. The village being largely ignored would slow the spread of news, Yennefer's information network falling with her reputation would impede it further. Though his love never outright said so, Geralt was fully aware she'd been covertly financing him many times over the years. In more than one conversation, she not so silently grumbled about how he was risking his life for next to nothing.
At the time, monsters grew rarer before the costly second war with Nilfgaard and Catriona plague brought them back to the forefront. Villages and cities were willing to pay less for what was seen as a settlement attraction or pet in certain instances. Until slowly but surely, places in the ass-end of nowhere produced crowns allowing Geralt to not only stave off starvation but keep himself well equipped. Communities so dirt poor you'd sooner find a dragon than gold. Ironically, Geralt ended up spending much of the same funds to help her finance her research into restoring fertility until they met Borch.
The issue was, Yennefer's connections were no doubt still in shambles. After the coup on Thanedd, she was widely branded as a traitor, an agent of Nilfgaard. In the ensuing chaos, her reputation was lost, her back accounts closed, and even Vengeberg itself was brutally sacked, many of its inhabitants put to the sword. Now, with services rendered to the new ruler of the North, she returned there to rebuild her life, settling any leftover business. Geralt most strongly hoped she'd restored everything lost, not only to hurry along with his rescue but for her sake too. He would get his answer if the stay in Westeros stretched out.
If nothing else, making sure nothing happened to Roach would be enough to set his mind at ease, for now. Setting aside the fact he'd left quite a few useful pieces of equipment with the horse such as the lamp, the eye, elixirs, herbs, this Roach was one of the best. Obedient, always ready to come at a moment's notice, capable of galloping vast distances. Some fool selling it for money or killing it for horse meat would make Geralt quite bloody furious. A knock on his door ended his musings, the sounds from the other side forced him to take another, calming exhale. Tywin's servants and tailors had arrived.
The next few hours of the afternoon passed in a most annoying blur of activity Geralt dearly wished he could avoid. Tailors pestered him incessantly, taking then re-taking measurements while endlessly speculating of how to bring out the full effect of his eyes through various boot pairs. Servant girls, while pretty to look at, were ruthless in their efforts of scrubbing him clean. The only thing of worth to come from it was his clothing, truthfully. Unlike the limiting, agonizing doublets of home, the nobility here favored gambesons, even for formal attire. Geralt's light gray one was smooth, comfortable, and quite flexible, affording him much freedom of movement.
Tywin returned just as the sun vanished, his mere presence petrifying everyone. Wordlessly, he walked around Geralt, scrutinizing him until they had eye contact again.
"It will do, come," Geralt did so, following the Hand while casting a final glance at the trunk where his weapons, equipment, and armor had been placed. Leaving it there left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could do nothing about it. Once they reached the bottom of the tower and exited it through the small hall, a cool evening breeze blew, fluttering the myriad of torches lit around the courtyard.
Silently and brusquely, they walked eastward to the battlements where a large, iron gate opened ahead of them. For a few minutes, they traversed down serpentine steps and winding staircases until they entered another courtyard. That was when Geralt laid eyes upon the residence of the king, a massive square fortress within an already impressive castle. Four towers were at each point, it's immediate surroundings naught by a dry moat lined with formidable iron spikes. Save for the drawbridge, Geralt could see no other path in or out of there.
At the entrance to the fortress, they were greeted by one of the Kingsguard, the princess's uncle.
"My lord Hand, Master Witcher, I bid you both good evening," He bowed, giving them a smile. The Witcher returned it and the bow, Tywin only did the latter.
"Good evening, Ser Lewyn," Tywin said with what appeared genuine respect. "I trust we are not late?"
"... His Grace has already begun, the decision to begin dinner earlier was-"
"Made without anyone deigning to inform me. Yes, very amusing. Come, Master Geralt, it seems we're the last to arrive."
"I shall escort you," Ser Lewyn said, walking behind Tywin to the right while Geralt was to the left. The interior of the fortress was, expectedly, red. It's hallways vaguely malevolent with the thick shadows permeating where the candlelight did not illuminate. "Master Witcher, may I trouble you with a request?"
"Depends on what it is."
"Something you'll enjoy, I'm certain," The tanned man flashed a smile. "In the mornings, we of the Kingsguard train when duty does not otherwise occupy our time. After everything Ser Gerold has told me, I am most curious to see your skills with my own eyes."
"And to put them to the test, no doubt," Geralt smiled back, and the knight expectedly chuckled. "I thank you for the offer, Ser Lewyn. Rest assured, I never miss a chance to keep my skills sharp."
Two more members of the Kingsguard opened the doors for them into a banquet hall bright enough to make Geralt squint. This one was even smaller than the throne room or at Tywin's tower, capable of seating perhaps one hundred guests. Wall sconces were ever-present, explaining the torchlights intense shine. More Kingsguard and servants were either stationed or walked around the single, filled table. All of the people who were present during Geralt's audience were there again, in addition to two others. Both of them shared the looks of the prince, the king, and the purple-eyed lord so interested in Geralt earlier.
One was undoubtedly the queen, not quite forty yet aged beyond her years, her pale face lined with many a wrinkle of grief and worry. The white, otherwise flowing hair was tied into a bum, making the lines more prominent. When she looked at Geralt, she froze. The other was a robust, happy-looking child, with short white hair, sitting next to the queen and humming a tone, in a world of his own. The princes younger brother, no doubt along with his cousin, perhaps nephew as well...
Aerys, looking equally as gaunt and ragged then as in the throne room, came alive at the sight of their entrance. If anyone found it strange he'd reserved a whole quarter of a table fit for fifty, putting considerable distance between himself and the others, they made no sign of it.
"Tywin!" Aerys' rattled voice reverberated against the stone walls. Though there was anger in it, there was obvious derision as well. "Your breach in etiquette would be worthy of scolding by itself, yet, you had to make my guest of honor late as well? Master Witcher, please accept my most sincere apology. A servant can reflect so poorly on the master..."
"Thank you, your majesty," Geralt bowed, ignoring the bitter taste of ass-kissing. "I take no offense."
"You are right, of course, your Grace. It shall not happen again."
Geralt could swear on one of his swords the lord of Lannister made a nigh imperceptible roll of his eyes as he bowed. Aerys gave no sign of noticing it or caring, his blazing purple gaze focused entirely on the Witcher. Taking up a golden cup of wine, the king made one of his servants, a taster, try it first. Once the man did not drop dead on the spot after nearly a minute of awkward silence, Aerys took a sip of his own and laughed, raising the cup high.
"Come, come, my friends!" He gestured to those already seated. "A toast, to our new friend from lands far away, who shall no doubt entertain us well for this evening! Let us all drink, to the Witcher of Rivia!"
Geralt smiled and bowed again at the display as all present followed Aerys' lead. The scent of wine was more welcoming than almost anything or anyone else present in the room. Though he did not intend to get anything close to drunk, he had no intention of making through this farce stone-cold sobber either.