"I suppose you think yourself quite clever for that... Demonstration?" Tywin asked, his scowl the deepest Geralt had seen it thus far. They had returned to the Tower of the Hand posthaste once everything calmed down, and Aerys dismissed them.
The proof of power received the stunned amazement and fear he'd expected it to. For minutes, none of the nobles or knights knew what to say, their very understanding of the world around them irrevocably altered. Even the skeptical lord Tywin, furious though he was, couldn't deny this. For a whole minute, naught could be heard but the footfalls of iron boots, the ratling of chainmail, and the faint, labored breaths of those present. Varys was the first to speak.
"... I do believe Master Geralt has more than proven his tale, Your Grace."
Aerys said nothing, shrunken in his seat, hands trembling on his armchairs and lips parted in dumbfounded silence. They attempted to break him from the almost trance-like state he'd fallen into verbally, to no effect. It was only when his firstborn son touched Aerys' hand that something snapped him out of it. The madman recoiled from the momentary feel as though a snake bit him, cursing prince Rhaegar for his audacity, his impudence for breaking a king's admiration of a spectacular event. Pretty insults to mask the fact he was intimidated, but only up to a point. Soon enough, the rage simmered down, and a mad approximation of good humor overtook the gaunt monarch.
"Well done, Master Witcher, well done! Oh, if my grandfather were alive to see this! Magic, strong again, his joy would have been immeasurable!"
The tirade of grating praise continued for a while, with Aerys soon proclaiming Geralt's immeasurable importance. How the Mater Witcher was an indefinite guest at court whose expertise on the mystical arts must be consulted daily to further their knowledge. It was a small miracle he didn't bestow the official title of Court Witcher or Lord or some combination betwixt the two. Not for a moment did he doubt their desire for his blades, and they could have them, from his corpse. There was not a chance in any hell here, there, or anywhere Geralt would allow the Lytta Neyd mess to repeat itself.
Soon enough, even Aerys grew tired and bid everyone present farewell. Hopefully, all of the day's excitement and his frail body would keep the lunatic bedridden for a while. Geralt did not wish to spend every following evening in his presence. The guests soon dispersed, prince, princess, and most of the Kinsguard and Varys vanishing into the inner fortress' hallways while the rest left it behind. On the way out, Ser Lewyn approached Geralt and surprised him by saying they must do battle tomorrow at any cost. Grand Maester Pycelle similarly insisted on a meeting in the afternoon to begin the exchange of information. It was nice to know he hadn't made himself a pariah already.
Tywin said nothing until they were halfway up the Tower of the Hand, and he commanded, not requested, Geralt's immediate presence in his solar. And there they sat, monster hunter and second most powerful man on the continent on comfortable, finely crafted, cushioned chairs and a table full of countless, neatly organized documents between them. Those and a cask of wine Tywin hogged to himself.
"I think I'm very fortunate to be alive," Geralt said with the barest hint of bite to his voice. "Particularly given the circumstances of my arrival, or do you still doubt my word?"
"I am no fool, Master Witcher, I saw quite clearly what your weapon did. I am also aware of the repercussions of your actions far better than you. Tell me, did your medallion notice Aerys' favored pastime of late?"
"My nose, actually, one doesn't so easily forget the stench of burnt human flesh. Though, I am curious, Lord Tywin, why should my medallion have noticed something?"
"Aerys does not simply burn people alive," The Hand curled his lip, taking a sip of wine. "He uses wildfire for his purposes, or the substance as the Alchemist Guilds would have us call it. Madness and folly more like..."
"Wildfire...?" Geralt raised an eyebrow, an ill-feeling forming in the pit of his stomach.
"It is a volatile, green liquid, allegedly the end result of some sorcery known only to the Alchemists. What is known is the fact it burns almost unlike any other flame, capable of destroying cloth, leather, iron, and steel. It even burns atop water, and it can last a very long time, I can assure you of that..."
"... It's their replacement for dragons, isn't it...?" Geralt concluded, the ill-feeling resembling a pitchfork running him through again. "... Shit..."
"Vulgar yet accurate. Like many of the Targaryen dynasty, Aerys attempted to bring back the dragons, using leftover eggs to resurrect the beasts and secure dominion over the Seven Kingdoms. None succeeded, thankfully, yet the Alchemists Guild, instead of being put to the sword, wormed their way into the king's favor thanks to the wildfire they used in the process'. A rare flight of fancy of his to take root."
"And now Aerys' no doubt regaling anyone still awake enough to listen about how this is a sign of change, how the Master Witcher will most definitely do something fantastic, like resurrecting an extinct species,..." Geralt shook his head, grabbing the cask, nearest available cup and drinking its contents in one go. "When I can't do it, he'll sick every armored fool within shouting range at me... Shit..."
How could he have missed this substance? Did the anger and fear grip and the necessity to control both in the viper's nest make him blind? Did the dragon bone collection and the sensation of power coursing from them to distract him? Or perhaps, the substances other difference from the fire was lack of a distinct scent? There were odorless chemicals, some of them might be used in this wildfire's creation.
The worst part of it all was the fact Geralt knew no other way it could have transpired. His ignorance of this world prompted him into using the truth to avoid the flames, now his ignorance of Aerys' madness meant honesty would bring him to the same endpoint. All he'd done was delay the inevitable, the futility alone was infuriating and disheartening. Perhaps the danger would prompt Ciri to realize he had vanished, however, even this was no guarantee she'd arrive in time to rescue him. It was just as likely she would dream of his death hours after the fact when nothing could be done.
Gripping the arms of the chair tightly, the muscles around Geralt's jaw clenched. The only choice became obvious. "I have to get out of here as soon as possible."
"An unwise decision," Tywin gravelly replied. "Flee, and Aerys will ensure every man, woman, and child from the Wall to the Arbor pursues you. Even in Essos, you will find no lack of assassins and mercenaries to give chase."
"Better that than staying here, at least out there, I've some distance to put between myself and my hunter. Furthermore, I'm no stranger to having some monarch hound me at every turn."
Yet even as he said this, Geralt did not believe it. The reason he was able to survive so long during his search for Ciri deep in Niflgaardian territory and the frontlines of the war came down to his companions. Regis, Cahir, Milva, Angoulême, and Dandelion. They'd fought together, helped each other survive through despair and anger, shared laughs and wisdom, no man could ask for a better hanza. Now, he would be alone, in lands he did not know, where his powers were diminished.
"That does not surprise me, from the way you described the events of the second war with Nilfgaard, it was plain to see you were no friend of theirs. However, I do not believe you will have to flee, not for the time being."
The noblemen sounded so sure Geralt could not help but pause. Tywin Lannister did not strike him as one to make proclamations such as these without thought put in first. The way he spoke of the king pointed to a long familiarity between the two, perhaps even a friendship? He was also the Hand of the King, one of the most powerful men in this part of their world, as a source of information, Geralt could do worse.
"Alright," He sighed, leaning into the chair. "I'll bite, what do you mean, Lord Lannister?"
"Aerys kills those he fears and those he believes he can execute without suffering the consequences. At a glance, you would fit both examples, should you displease him. You are a foreigner, with no lands, titles, bannermen, or any political significance with which to shield yourself. For these reasons and numerous others, your life is easy to end. On these same grounds, you are one he cannot easily threaten. You've no house to lose or family to take hostage, and you've already shown you are dangerous and bold enough to perform feats in Aerys' presence none would dare. If Aerys remained unconvinced and commanded the Kingsguard to strike you down, you would have cut them all down to the last man without hesitation."
Without hesitation? Some of them. Without regret? None of them.
"Yet, these same qualities are what ensured Varys his place in Kings Landing, on the small council no less. Aerys desired a Master of Whispers who was unshackled by blood, vows, or any obligations in Westeros to save his duty to serve the king. No doubt he's already scheming to secure a similar place for you as we speak."
Geralt's gratitude was boundless already.
"For all his madness, Aerys is not entirely without some sense, whether it stems from himself or Varys whispering in his ear is irrelevant. He understands enough to know when someone he fears is too useful to be removed, such as myself. Oh, he may mock me and wish for me to leave the court, but Aerys knows the day I am no longer the Hand of the King is the day the twilight of his reign begins.
"Even if you cannot bring about a second Black Dread, your knowledge of magic is without equal. Were I to indulge in such matters, I would wager a great deal of coin and win such a gamble by saying none in Westeros, Essos, and very likely beyond can grant us the knowledge you've acquired as a Witcher. Use it to your advantage, Aerys will hear of what you share with Pycelle, stoke his fear of the unknown, of the beasts only a professional monster slayer such as yourself can defend him from and his compulsion to keep you alive and well will last long. The head you brought is a good first step in such a plan, tell me, how much did he shrink at the sight of it?"
"So much you could swear the throne was devouring him alive."
The Hand of the King didn't smile, but there was an amused glint in his eye.
"And you're certain Varys is helping nudge things along in such a direction?"
"None can know or understand what web the Spider weaves, that would defeat the point of a spymaster. Yet his interest in you and what you represent is without question, twice he has come to your aid. I do not trust the man or enjoy his presence at court. Nevertheless, his mind is sharp, and only an imbecile would fail to grasp the importance of what you've brought to our attention."
"And what many of you could stand to gain from it," Geralt pointed out, wondering just how far their ambitions reached. Did they merely stop at Geralt's knowledge? Not likely, his swords? Some would find those enough, his loyalty? That was a privilege reserved to few, and none of them earned it through coin or other offers of power.
"Every man stands to gain something from someone," Tywin said, folding his hands onto the table. "Even if you, Master Witcher, perform your services through contracts. Pay and your home will suffer no monsters, refuse, and I bid you farewell."
"Are you offering me a contract?"
"Wise counsel, you've not heard the words of House Lannister?" Geralt shook his head. "Hear Me Roar, though it is often our other, unofficial one which many attribute to us: a Lannister always pays his debts."
"And one should always pay his debts to a Lannister," He said, finding a simple but effective truth there. Assurance of great reward for loyal service and a promise of death for those who fail or refuse it. "Do I count among those for your advice?
"You are a guest from foreign lands, unfamiliar with the ways things are conducted here. Consider this conversation a gift, with no further obligations attached."
"You have my sincere thanks, Lord Lannister, a great many things have become clear to me. Now, with your permission, I would like to rest," Geralt sighed, his easy beginning to feel heavy. "This day has been most... Interesting."
The short walk down the winding stairs and two stories separating Tywin's chambers from his own helped Geralt stave off sleep. Vesemir would call him a city boy for thinking this, but in times like these, a good bed was worth more than contract money. Not that he expected to sleep well that night, or any night in this damnable place. For all the strife between them, Tywin was right, Geralt would be unwise to leave right then and there. He chose instead to follow the Hand of the King's advice, up to a point.
He would trade information for information, learn as much as he could about Westeros, Essos, and any other place in this world. He would bolster his number of allies and friends, find some way to earn coin, learn the ins and outs of the Red Keep for his escape, and then when Aerys and the rest of them least expect him to flee somewhere very, very far away. It would mean stomaching more dinners with the madman, more games and plots between those circling around him like vultures, and perhaps even witnessing another human burning... But he was a Witcher, and stomaching monsters was a skill he'd refined quite well over the past century.
Upon reaching the doors to his chamber, Geralt wished the stationed guards good night and entered. Before the door even closed, his instincts warned him something was amiss. More specifically, his sense of smell, with several long sniffs, Geralt's grip around his sheathed, steel sword tightened as he realized someone had been in his room. Someone besides the servants responsible for bathing and clothing him. It came from the large chest where his equipment had been placed. Upon noticing there was no trap or other surprise like one waiting for him inside, Geralt opened the trunk and quickly went about examining his things.
Whoever went through them was an expert, carefully taking note of where he'd left everything and how before snooping. Not a thing was missing or misplaced, were it not for his Witcher senses, Geralt was certain he'd never notice anything amiss. Yet the scent was there, along with a series of small, faint handprints all over his belongings. They either belonged to a dwarf or a child. Leaving the chest behind, he sniffed out where the scene was coming from. Not the door or window, but from the western wall right next to the garderobe.
He scrutinized it from top to bottom, until around the height of his knee, he found another handprint on a stone. Geralt pushed it, and sure enough, a portion of the wall slid to the side, revealing a secret passageway. It was small, far too small for a man of his size to even fit in. It seemed to run up the length of the entire Tower of the Hand, judging by the rung ladder present and how he could not even see its bottom. Geralt kept quiet, focusing on his hearing to determine if the snooper was still around if they'd possibly spied on him and Tywin. About half an hour later, he stopped, no one could remain quiet for so long, certainly not a child in a passageway.
The thought of anyone going through his things pricked at him. However, it may have also been a blessing in disguise. Geralt already suspected the Red Keep had secret pathways around, the nobility had to possess some means of escape if an enemy force threatened to overtake the defenders. La Valette castle, infinitely smaller than this one, came to mind. Now the proof was there, and though he could not use this one to escape, who said there wasn't another somewhere out there, waiting for him to find it?
Closing the secret passageway back up, Geralt undressed, casting most of his clothing over a nearby chair. He pulled the bedsheets away, placing both of his sheathed swords onto the right side, leaving the left for himself. Then, he removed a single throwing dagger and lied down. The Witcher soon went to rest, meditating with one hand around the pommel of his steel blade and the other, clutching the knife under his pillow.
His last thoughts were of lilac, gooseberries, and Ciri's laughter.