"How are you enjoying your meal, Master Witcher?"

"This is some of the best venison I've had the honor of eating, your grace," Geralt said truthfully, savoring the elk's earthly taste, the pungent, earthy flavor enhanced by the smooth firmness of the meat itself. The red wine accompanied it perfectly, rich with an aroma Geralt couldn't begin to specify yet enjoyed almost as much as the sweet taste it left behind in his mouth. "And this wine, even the people of Toussaint, would call it a worthy rival to their own."

"Aye, it hails from the Arbor, you'll not find one better in all of Westeros or Essos," Aerys snorted. "No matter how much the Dornish would like to refute this."

The way he all but spat the word Dornish out wasn't missed by the Witcher. Despite being several members of this kingdom present in the room and tied to his family through marriage, they too displeased the paranoid king. Though Geralt could not see Ser Leywn stationed behind him, princess Elia's jaw momentarily clenched as she reached for a cup of wine. The solemn prince sitting next to her offered no comfort, seemingly in a world of his own just as his excitable brother eternally fidgeting in his seat to the queen's never-ending, silent dismay.

This was far from the most offensive thing to come from the mad king's lips. During the start of the feast, while they partook in the warm, appetizing soup, Geralt began an abridged account of his world. He spoke of Temeria, long the strongest of the Northern Realms. The confederation of realms comprised of Rivia and Lyria. Of Cintra and its great lioness. While he spoke of Aedirn, Geralt brought up Dol Blathana, the duchy ruled by elves, a species the Westerosi had no knowledge of.

With a particular interest shown by princess Elia and Grand Maester Pycelle, he spoke of their long pointed ears, canine-less teeth, their tall and lean bodies, and long-lasting youth. He explained how advanced they were, building cities humans still failed to match in splendor and weapons capable of carving through even the finest of human crafts. Their songs and language the envy of many a race across the continent. Many of the things, including capital cities, were taken from and built upon by the elves first and foremost. Geralt's description of their ability to live on for centuries in their physical prime was one of many facts about the story met with bewilderment and doubt, particularly by the Hand and Master of Coin, Qarlton Chelsted.

"If these elves you speak of are such a force to be reckoned with, why then do men rule, not they?" Tywin asked the fair question. The elves did indeed seem far and away the most powerful race, from what Geralt had told them by this point.

The Witcher's answer was as simple as it was true. "Breeding and pride, lord Hand. The elves, who number among the Elder Races, do remain young, strong even as generations of men wither and die. They also lose their ability to reproduce quite early on in their lives and are slow to bear children even when they are able. Pride cost them when men first came to their lands. The elves thought them a passing thing, something they could ignore, something beneath their effort to deal with. Far, far too late they came to realize how foolish this was. Many of their youngest chose to meet mankind in battle, and in so doing, their species lost its future."

This answer seemed to sadden those most interested in the elves, and please those who doubted their existence. Those who doubted them only while Geralt gave the impression mankind was somehow inferior to anyone else. That they could possibly not be the masters of their own fate. Then, the Witcher spoke of the dwarves, another of the Elder Races, how they only reached the chest of a grown human yet were often sturdier, hardier people than men, dangerous warriors, and savvy businessmen.

Geralt soon came to regret his decision to speak of them. Aerys burst into a fight of loud, grating spasmodic laughter. His taloned fist-pounding rhythmically against the table, each blow making the queen shudder in fear. Glancing at Tywin, Geralt spotted genuine anger in those pale green eyes flecked with gold.

"Do you hear that, Tywin?!" Aerys shouted, bursting into another laughing fit. "A whole people of little imps! Your Tyrion's prospects of marriage aren't so bleak after all!"

The laughter went on and agonizingly on. Accompanied by more jests at the expense of Tywin's son afflicted with dwarfism, each one more tactless than the last. The lord Hand simmered in silence, his self-control impressive enough to earn some genuine respect from the Witcher, along with his pity. Though he disliked the man, had he known of his son's condition, Geralt would have kept his mouth shut on anything regarding dwarves. Aerys' laughter was only stilled when he broke into a coughing fit, his mirth evaporating in the throes of fear. Moving to the conversation on, Geralt chose to focus on the northern wars, finishing short accounts of the first, second, and much of the last until the main dish was at last served. Some semblance of normalcy returned to the feast.

"But enough of wine, let us continue where you left off... The fall of your Northern Kingdoms was it...?"

"Just so, your majesty. The Northern Kingdoms were in their last months referred to as Radovid's Kingdoms or Radovid's Realms. After the swift fall of the other monarchs, to conquest or assassination, Radovid was the only one left to challenge Nilfgaardian's third and largest invasionary force. Their armies clashed a great many times, yet neither one could prevail, they found themselves in a considerable stalemate, particularly about the free city of Novigrad. One of the richest, and most prosperous city's of the north, holding enough coin to finance a whole other army and with the largest fleet of ships. Anyone who took it won the war."

"No doubt this Emperor of Nilfgaard faced a great hardship from his banner-men," Grand Maester Pycelle said, smiling like a child perpetually awarded treats. "His previous two wars were, by your own words, quite costly and not as successful as he wished. Lords and kings have fallen low from but a single defeat."

"His ventures did indeed leave a bad taste in the mouths of not just the nobility, but the merchant's guilds as well whose influence is considerable. The former saw many of their own numbers fall during the last wars, never-mind the fact the Emperor put aside many a prominent daughter from the old families. Robing them of seeing an Empress of their blood rise to the Imperial throne. Trade routes across the continent were naturally in chaos, and the entrepreneurs found fewer and fewer reasons to finance more failed wars. Certainly, it is not hyperbole when I say Emperor Emhyr wouldn't have lived to see the end of the year had Radovid not died first."

"Foolishness," Tywin said, eating the spectacular venison with all the enthusiasm of a corpse. "This Emhyr you speak of should have secured his own power first before attempting another war. To battle against one enemy when many more lie among your own ranks is naught by courting disaster."

"For once, Tywin, we are in agreement," Aerys said, handing another cup to his taster while the lord Hand bowed his head in acknowledgment. "Speak, Geralt! I am most curious to hear the fate of this Radovid, how did he meet the Stranger?"

"The most agreed-upon version of events places the Temerian's at fault for his death. Allegedly, they brokered a deal with Nilfgaard: kill Radovid, and you may enjoy independence as a restored, vassal kingdom. The fact such a state came to be following the war's end is a brazen admission to their involvement for many, myself included. With Radovid gone, his remaining supporters fled to avoid Nilfgaardian reprisal or surrendered in the hopes of getting mercy. Very few of them did, far as I heard. So ended the third Northern War, Nilfgaard reigning supreme across most of the known lands. However, some say their victory was a foregone conclusion in the long term."

"How so?" Pycelle inquired.

"I'm not overly interested in economics, and I'll try not to bore any who share the sentiment by spending too much time on it. To put it simply: the Northern Kingdoms were financially crippled throughout the wars. They'd become increasingly dependent on Nilfgaardian manufacturing and goods to continue functioning."

"A death blow through gold and trade," The bald man Master of Coin smiled knowingly. "Yes, a frightening notion certainly: defeating one's enemy by forcing them into complete dependence of you for anything from food to weaponry. All you'd need to do is halt the sale and transport of provisions to destroy a kingdom or force it into vassalage. It is easy to resist an enemy army, less so when its the grumbling of your own starving belly."

"Father," The young boy spoke up, poking a piece of meat over and over with his fork. "This is boring, I want to hear about the monster, can he tell us about the monster? Please?"

The queen opened her mouth to say something to the boy when Aerys silenced her with a single look. Then, he smiled, probably the most human one Geralt had seen from him thus far.

"Ask, and you shall receive my son, you heard him, master Witcher, the vampire! Regale us with how you hunted the beast down! No doubt, you've crossed paths with many other creatures in your long trek across the world!"

"I too am curious, master Geralt," The Master of Whispers said, cup inches from his lips. "As someone from Essos, I am most eager to hear of your journey through some of my homelands as well. Why simply gaining information on Yi-Ti alone would be worthy of the history books."

Judging by the looks sent his way by many of those attending the feast, it was a unanimous sentiment. Geralt parched his throat with a fresh cup, deciding this would be his last for the evening lest his wits grow dull. He'd considered what to say when they inevitably broached the subject, lie and concoct some fanciful tale of swashbuckling adventure across seas he could not name, lands he had no idea about, even where they stood on the map of this world? No, that would not do. Geralt knew such a narrative would likely fail under even the most basic of scrutiny, nevermind with the likes of Varys or Tywin about. The only other choice was clear, and it was very risky if Westeros' familiarity with magic was as low as he suspected it to be. Still, he'd thought up of some ways to prove its existence and potency from where he comes from.

If the worst came to pass, he'd at least have some cutlery to use as weapons for a start.

And so, Geralt steeled himself, promising his audience a tale less and more spectacular than they might expect. He spoke of Zrinski and its barren mine, of how little of a settlement it was and far off the main path. An irrelevant place as one could imagine, perfect for Witcher's work. He explained how rogues had taken to digging in the prior mentioned mine, hoping to find some leftover deposits to fill their pockets. Instead, they'd only found death when they dug too deep, uncovering ancient elven ruins and awakening the Katakan who'd made them his domain. Once they were killed and feasted upon, the children of Zrinski were next.

The nobility surrounding him were, for the most part, enthralled or interested as he spoke on. The younger princes eye shined bright as Geralt explained his descent down the mineshaft, Pycelle leaned forward as some time was devoted to explaining the contents of the ruins. Aerys seemed to revel in the way his guest spoke of the bloody battle at the bottom of the world. Then the Witcher reached the part where things could very quickly take a turn for the worst: the portal. With utmost honesty spoke of what a portal was, how places in his homelands were connected to others, allowing fast travel across vast distances. How he and Katakan leaped through it, winding up at the bottom of the ocean just outside Kings Landing where the vampire met its end.

Once he finished, Geralt was not in the least surprised to find a slew of dubious, doubtful looks on the nobility of Westeros. Save for three people, the young prince who thought it all very exciting, the spymaster with a thoughtful look on his face and the solemn prince, staring at Geralt as though he only now believed the man was actually there.

"Your grace," Tywin Lannister broke the silence. "If it was not already clear beforehand, it is so now: this man is a charlatan. Come to sleep in beds and partake in meals of those far above his station, he should be removed from the court if not punished for the lies he's sown this evening."

The thought of being banished was an appealing one, with a more sane ruler, Geralt would've thought it likely. With Aerys, it was more probable he'd be burned alive. The Grand Maester's doubt was clear, a look of shame in his eyes as he too thought he'd been played for a fool. By the look on the king's face, he was most definitely considering punishment first and foremost.

"Master Witcher," The older prince said with a melodious voice, one more suited to a bard than a king. "Have you any proof of these claims?"

"Proof of the portal? No, as I said, it was destroyed, which some of you will no doubt find convenient of me to say," Geralt spoke, quite insolently directing the words at Tywin. If he convinced them, the lion of Lannister could do nothing. If he failed? Geralt would at least have the satisfaction of telling him off. "Proof that magic exists? I've two in this very room, and more if that's not enough. I will gladly present them all to you, with the king's permission."

"I would suggest we give the Witcher a chance," The spymaster said matter of factly, repeating his success of utterly flabbergasting everyone again. At this rate, Geralt might start liking the spy. "If he speaks the truth, we shall understand the full scope of our ignorance and know what Master Geralt tells us henceforth is genuine. If he has none, then we will have spared ourselves many more wasted hours listening to, as Lord Tywin says, a charlatan."

"I.. Do not know if everything Geralt says is true," the princess spoke, gulping, afraid. "Yet he has saved my life and Ser Gerold's and has asked for nothing in return. What does it truly cost us to give him a chance to prove his claims of... magic?"

"... The three of you united in a cause..." Aerys said, lip quirking upward as a hoarse chuckle came out of him. "You've missed your true calling, Geralt, you should've been a conciliator. Fine, fine, show us this proof. If nothing else, you will entertain me well... Before the fire does."

"Thank you, your majesty," He bowed his head, silently promising to make him choke on a torch if the opportunity presented itself. "My first piece of evidence is this medallion."

Lifting out from under his gambeson, Geralt held it on his open palm, giving all of the government officials of Westeros a good look at it. "This is no simple piece of ornamentation, a Witcher's medallion is one of his most vital tools. Any time it's in the presence of a magical source, it vibrates. The intensity of its shaking is directly related to how close the creature or object in question are. For example, the medallion violently shook as I entered the throne room, even centuries dead, the skeletons of your dragons remain strong with the power. If you require another, closer example, I can point one out in this very room."

Keeping his medallion within sight of all the nobles, Geralt looked back to the entrance of the room, pointing his open palm in its direction. More specifically, on one of the Kingsguard stationed there. Gently, his medallion began to visibly shake.

"That man there has something with a magical presence."

"Dayne!" Aerys shouted, commanding him over with a wave of his hand. "Come closer, I would see more of this..."

The knight clad in white did so, each resounding step of his feet getting a reaction from the medallion. By the time he stood but a few feet away from Geralt, the ornament was quite visibly shaking in every possible direction.

"It's not you," Geralt said, moving his hand up and down the knight until the most visceral shake of the medallion happened close to the man's sword. "There it is. Your majesty, Ser Dayne, may I examine your blade?"

Aerys looked torn between curiosity and fear, the muscles of his jaw were clenched, and he gripped the handles of his chair tightly. "Ser Barristan, stay close to our guest, lest he tries anything..."

The Kingsguard in-question approached, tall and slender from what Geralt could see, with sad, pale blue-eyes. From what little the Witcher could see of his hair, it was blonde, yet his beard revealed streaks of gray and silver. Wordlessly, he positioned himself a few feet away to Geralt's right, one hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword. Slowly, the Witcher rose, turning his back to Ser Barristan. The knight before him was younger, possibly not even thirty with black hair, fair-skinned, possessing violet eyes and a few inches taller than Geralt himself.

With a slow, fluid motion, he unsheathed the greatsword, laying it on the palms of his hands, presenting it for all to see. Despite the blade being approximately five feet in length, the man showed no physical exertion in removing or holding it up. A credit to his strength and experience with it, and most certainly what the blade itself was made from. The faint, shimmering glow of it was ever-present, revealing the roots of its meteorite origins.

"Pale as me on a rainy day," Geralt said, admiring the fine craftsmanship of it. "Let me guess, this was forged from fallen star metal?"

"You've a good eye for swords, Master Witcher," The man said, with the kind of chivalrous voice any knight should have. "Dawn was forged from the metal of a fallen star, according to legends, the blade has been in the Dayne family for ten thousand years."

Geralt whistled softly. "An impressive career for any sword, it must be the envy of every warrior in the Seven Kingdoms. It is also a most potent source of power..."

Once the proximity between blade and medallion was mere inches apart, the ornament shook so violently it leaped out of Geralt's hand. With a swift catch, he caught it before it could land Varys' head. Slowly, he opened his fist and let them see its vibration next to Dawn closely.

"An amusing trick," Tywin drawled. "But have you anything else?"

"The swords I left behind in the Tower of the Hand. Much like Dawn here, they are reinforced with magical properties. Certain features like being able to carve regular steel in two with next to no resistance."

"I can vouch for this," Princess Elia said, more courage in her voice this time. "I saw the battle against the Smiling Knight, no ordinary blade could have cleaved a man near in-half through his sword and armor with a single blow."

"If his majesty will allow it, I would demonstrate more of the blade. I obviously don't intend to cut anyone in half, but I will gladly show the power in my swords by testing them against Dawn. And no, I don't mean fight him," Geralt forestalled any objections, already anticipating their reaction. "In truth, all Ser Dayne has to do is strike against my blade with all his force, the result will speak for itself."

"Dawn is one of the sharpest blades in the Seven Kingdoms," Ser Dayne said, disbelief clear in his voice. "Unless you've Valyrian steel, you'll suffer the same fate as the Smiling Knight."

"I don't know what Valyria is or what its swords can do, but I assure you, I will not fall to your Dawn. Nor will my sword be so much as nicked. And if I am a fraud," Geralt openly glared at the Hand. "Then you'll have my head before the hour of the wolf."

"You are either mad or bold, Master Witcher," Aerys chuckled, his as smile predatory as his gaze. "Very well, I shall allow you a final demonstration."

Within the next few minutes, a shuffling of the room occurred. The queen, who's name Geralt learned was Rhaella took the younger prince Viserys out of the room. The boy protested, he wanted to see the fight, his pleas were ignored and echoed well into the hallways away from the ballroom. The servants moved the table aside, Aerys remained sitting, the other dinner attendees were lined up at a wall to his left. Geralt stood in the middle of the ballroom, flanked by all of the present Kingsguard save Ser Jonothor, who was dispatched to retrieve the Witcher's swords. Once he returned, he presented them hilt first.

"My thanks, ser Jonothor," Geralt unscathed the silver sword of the Cat School, taking a moment to observe the faint blue runes already glowing along its length. Bending his knees, Geralt took hold of it with both hands and placed the sword diagonally, inches from his face in a defensive stance. The other Kingsguard unsheathed their blades, anticipating danger and betrayal. Geralt ignored them, save for one.

"Whenever you're ready, Ser Dayne."

The knight looked back to Aerys, receiving less of a confirming nod and more of an impatient wave to get on with it. When he looked back to Geralt, finding no fear in the Witcher's eyes, the man bowed his head, either an apology or recognition of the brave display. Then, with a speed and strength of arms that were no doubt the envy of many warriors as well, meteor and silver blades collided.

The clang of metal against metal was deafening, the Kingsguard and assembled nobility stared as not only was Geralt left standing, his head was still intact, and his stance unbroken. The glow of his runes was plain for all to see, but it wasn't enough.

"Again," The Witcher said, and the knight stared, blinking as though he were mad. Ser Dayne only struck again once a terse command from Aerys told him to. The warrior's second blow was even more powerful and swift than the last. The end result was the same, save for the intensifying glow of Dawn.

"Again!"

On the third blow, Geralt's gambit played itself out. When two weapons, honed and strengthened by magic, made powerful contact, a discharge of pure power could erupt from them. The Witcher had no intention of leaving things to mere chance. Thus he focused on the energy of the runes, stoking it ever so slightly. The detonation was powerful enough to knock Ser Dayne and all the surrounding Kingsguard off their feet, the blue and purple energy blowing out numerous candles, engulfing much of the ballroom in pure darkness.

Princess Elia struggled to maintain balance even as her dress threaten to billow over her knees. Her husbands white hair was blown back in all directions, he resembled a noonwraith. Pycelle's eyes bulged, he and lord Varys struggled to stand, using one another for support. The Master of Coin stumbled back, bumping into Tywin who was taken so aback, he almost performed a pirouette before his back struck the nearest wall. Aerys' fear was plain to see, his body shrinking into the seat even as his crown flew off his head.

Only the Witcher stayed unfazed. He'd already positioned himself in a stance to maximize the odds of staying on his feet. With the room considerably darkened, his viper eyes and glowing rune sword made quite the impression, no doubt. Before he addressed the nobles, Geralt walked over to the fallen knights, aiding them to their feet, asking if they were hurt or bleeding. Some were too stunned to speak, others manage to give thanks.

Then, he turned his attention to the nobles, trying desperately to recover their voices, their dignity, or their air of invincibility. Yet all of them stood silent as Geralt approached the king, blade-in-hand. He stopped fifteen feet away from the gaping Aerys, looked him in the eye, and then knelt. Holding his sword in both hands, the Witcher allowing them to see it clearly in the remaining candlelight.

"As promised, not a nick on it."