Geralt's meditation ended moments ere the rooster crowed for the dawn's first light. Nevertheless, he did not stir, moan, or even deign to open his eyes. He simply laid in the luxurious bed for two, remaining still as a corpse, both hands still occupying one blade each. His right one coiled around the pommel of his steel blade under the sheets next to him. The other held the silver throwing dagger below his pillow. After the events of the last evening, the Witcher had many reasons to remain alert.
The night passed without issue. No more spies and snoopers climbed the hidden rung ladder to inspect or steal his belongings. No assassins scaled the length of the tower or its winding staircases to cut Geralt's throat. No contingent of Gold Cloaks, Red Cloaks, and Kingsguard attempted to batter down his door and put him in chains. The only sounds he could hear were the infrequent beats of his own, slowed down heart, seagulls squawking, and one of the soldiers stationed outside his doors yawn so loudly with his deep voice it resembled a bear roar.
Casting the sheets aside, Geralt welcomed the cooling, early morning air on his chest and back. Through the next few minutes, he performed a series of exercises in the middle of his chambers, readying his muscles for the real practice to come. Servants came, carrying water and cloths to clean his face and a bowl to piss in if he required it. To their credit, they did quite a commendable job of not looking too stunned or horrified by his collection of scars. One of Foltest's service during the months spent at Vizima's court shrieked at the sight of them, running through the hallways and shouting that a gravier had invaded the castle.
Once they left, Geralt went about putting his armor and equipment back on. He left nothing behind on the very high chance someone wanted to take their snooping about to outright thievery. By the time he was finished, the sun shined a bright, beautiful orange, most of the night clouds vanishing, leaving a view of the Red Keep and the nearby sea worth spending a minute or two admiring. He bid the guards good morning, and they enthusiastically returned it. No doubt, Tywin gave instructions about the deference their Master Witcher guest was due. Or perhaps his reputation from saving Ser Gerold and Elia Martell already preceded him.
Outside, the castle was well underway to waking up. Guards and sentries who'd suffered through their night shifts were replaced by fresh, ready men. The kennel masters and their aides went about serving food to the local guard dogs. Blacksmiths continued their trade while young apprentices scurried about, preparing themselves to learn or carrying equipment where it needed to be. Geralt traversed through this courtyard, receiving greetings from those close and hushed whispers of awe and speculation from all the rest. He wondered how many of them were spies. The soldiers protecting serpentine steps let him through immediately, citing that Ser Leywn had given them such orders.
"Good morning to you, Geralt! Come and sit!" The knight in-question waved him over, sitting at a table to the right of the white, slender tower Geralt noticed the knight before, the headquarters of the Kingsguard, no doubt. The member of House Martell was not alone, another of Aerys' elite bodyguards sat next to him, his armor near identical save for a helmet emblazoned with a black bat. His hair was pushed back, letting his prominent brow and fierce gaze achieve maximum effect. Such a look must have disheartened many of his opponents.
"To you as well, Ser Lewyn," Geralt said, sitting down opposite the two men. "And you, Ser...?"
"Ser Oswell of House Whent," He said, bowing his head and offering a smile. "And the man who's shoulder is still sore from your blade."
"My apologies for that, the circumstances were-"
"Say no more, I'm a warrior, Master Witcher, sometimes a man must do what has to. Elsewise he might as well throw himself upon an enemy's sword."
"Preferably not the kind you wield," Ser Lewyn smiled as he drank a cup of wine. "I thought my niece was merely coloring the truth when she said you carved the Smiling Knight in half, now I think its a wonder you simply ended there."
"Let's just say I was going easy on him," Geralt said drily. "If you don't mind me saying, you're taking my demonstration from last night surprisingly well."
"I've been crossing swords with Arthur Dayne since he was but a squire," Ser Lewyn said. "Strange blades are no stranger to my eyes. Besides, it's not every day you get a chance to fight something like it."
"And I grew up in the ruins of Harrenhal, Master Witcher. Means nothing to you, I'm sure, but you'll be hard-pressed to find a more accursed place in all of Westeros. I saw and heard many a strange thing in its vast halls before I could even ride a horse."
"Such as?" Geralt asked, intrigued by what constituted as accursed in these lands where even a small power discharge was considered a great feat.
"I cannot say," Ser Whent smiled nastily. "Mayhaps a sword to my throat may aid me in remembering."
Geralt, understanding what the knight was plotting, answered with a similar grin.
"Remember, Oswell, the Witcher, and I are the first to go."
The thought of fighting them both at once crossed Geralt's mind, but he decided otherwise. Such a suggestion might cause unnecessary friction with the only people he may strike a genuine rapport with save, perhaps the princess. Furthermore, this Harrenhal place piqued his interest, he wished to hear a firsthand account of what transpired there, something a book from Pycelle wouldn't do. Taking them on one on one was the safer way of getting it.
And so the two of them departed, entering a ring designated for sparring practice by a circle of wooden barricades thirty feet wide. Facing south, was Ser Lewyn, his white armor practically glowing in the early morning sun, he very image of a knight and no doubt the focus of many swooning ladies despite his age. Geralt, by comparison, no doubt, appeared closer to a mercenary with his leather jacket lined with silver chainmail around the arms, shoulders, and stomach areas, spiked gloves, and worn leather boots. Not that the others present at the courtyard seemed to mind from the hushed whispers passed between them.
"Is that the Witcher?"
"Who d'you think'll win?"
"Get on with it, I need t'go to the privy!"
"The first man whose back touches the ground losses, agreed?"
"Agreed," Geralt replied, unsheathing his steel sword. Ser Leywn did the same, using no shield whatsoever. Following mutual nods to begin, they did not attack one another right away, opting to slowly walk in a circle, Geralt to the right, Lewyn to the left. The Witcher held his blade in one hand, pointed for a thrusting move, his back and knees hunched ever so slightly. The Kingsguard kept his back straight with hands wrapped around the pommel of his sword.
It flashed less than a moment before he swung, aiming at Geralt's chest. The Witcher blocked, deflecting the blow to the side, but Ser Lewyn used the motion to his advantage, repositioning himself for an overhead strike. Geralt leaped back then sidestepped when Lewywn diverted a blade ready to hit the ground into a swing to the knees. Geralt's counterattack struck him in the side of the helmet, scrapping it just enough for the noise to rattle the knight without so much as cutting a hair on his head. Lewyn broke off, knowing he'd lost the initiative which the Witcher would not give back so readily.
Applying the principles of the Fiery Dancer, he responded with a dervish of quick blows accompanied by twists of his wrists to maximize a continuous momentum. Each strike resulted in one more in an increasing series of small cuts similar to what he'd already done. Another piece of his helm fell off, one of his gauntlet straps came undone, the corner of a shoulder pad hung and clanked loosely against the rest of his armor. Leywn could not attack as Geralt pushed him back further and further, nor could he defend, because Fiery Dancer's motions, ensured Geralt always hit, while his enemy desperately tried to so much as meet the sword.
Ser Lewyn was not done, however, instead of retreating in the face of a strike designed to carve a diagonal slash across his armor, the warrior from Dorne instead held his ground. Geralt immediately recognized the danger of this and used a side-leap to put some distance between them, and more importantly, not cut into Lewyn's flesh.
"A risky thing to pull, especially for a sparring match."
"As strange as it may sound," The Kingsguard side, panting and smiling. "I trusted you not to hurt me, you've more than shown more the precision of your blows!
The Dornishmen lunged, beginning a series of seemingly unconnected staccato movements. A menagerie of low and high swings, emphasizing speed and power to overwhelm the opposition. It was all Lewyn could try, overpower Geralt before he found himself overwhelmed again. The Witcher rarely blocked, opting to deflect the sword blows and dodge, waiting for the proper moment to strike. It came when Leywn thrust. Borrowing a move from Eskel, Geralt tensed and waited then swung in a reverse grip, striking the Dornishmen's blade. It happened so quickly, and in such an unorthodox manner, the Kingsguard could do nothing but stumble in a vain attempt to keep his balance before his back hit the ground.
The reaction from those observing the battle was loud indeed, possibly loud enough to wake up and irritate Aerys. Many were thrilled, some were dismayed, others already began proposing bets to one another for the fight to come. Geralt walked over to the Kingsguard and offered a hand, Ser Lewyn, coughing but smiling, accepted it gladly.
"Well fought, Ser Lewyn."
"Same to you," He chuckled, waving the complement aside. " Seven Hells, I've not seen someone move like you since I last fought with my nephew. Though he favors spears over swords."
"I've no doubt the Red Viper and Master Geralt would provide us with a battle worthy of songs," Ser Whent said, entering the arena. He was half a head taller than the Witcher, and unlike the Dornishmen, accompanied his blade with a pure, white shield. "But now, I think it is my turn."
"By all means, Ser Oswell," Leywn said, giving his fellow Kingsguard a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I eagerly wish to know which one of us will end up losing quicker."
Just as before, Geralt stood at the north while Ser Whent stood south, the broad-shouldered knight was a fierce sight indeed. Not as large as the Smiling Knight, yet his white armor adorned with the black bat on its helmet created a fearsome first impression. Geralt's issue lied in how to defeat him, were this a battle to the death, it would be a simple matter to dart around, cut him at the joints then behead the knight. Or a reasonably powerful Aard would break his guard and leave him vulnerable for a stab through the throat. Speed and intricate swordplay would not do for this battle, it was time to use the Temerian Devil.
Knees bent and sword held with both hands over his head, Geralt nodded his assent to begin and stood his ground as Ser Whents heavy footfalls closed to the distance. He did not move so much as an inch, eyes boring into the slit where the warrior of Harrenhal could see through. It was only when his blade reached the halfway point of its swing did Geralt answer. The force of his counterattack was of such strength, it very nearly knocked the sword out of Oswell's hand, forcing him to stagger back. Spinning in concert with the momentum, Geralt performed a diagonal pirouette and struck again, slicing a deep line across his opponent's shield, unleashing a grating sound of creaking metal and sparks.
Ser Whent was not deterred by this, reasserting his balance and striking again in a string of slow but powerful blows that would've been able to cut Geralt to pieces, if he allowed them to. Instead, he met each and every strike, using the inertia and momentum of the exchange to carry him into each successive blow. Ser Whent lasted a while, longer than most men would have, but his armor and fading stamina next to Geralt's speed, footwork, strength, and redistribution of kinetic force back at him could only end one way. With a final pirouette, Geralt put some distance between the two of them and leaped, high into the air, sword over his head. When it came down, the impact of the Witcher's fuller struck Ser Whent with enough force to send the man crashing down onto the ground.
The crowd's reaction was even louder this time, forming a veritable chorus of cheers and dismayed curses. Many men would drink well tonight, while others would face the ire of many a wrothful spouse. Ser Oswell stayed on the ground, his breathing labored. Geralt let out a single, inaudible huff then walked over to him. When the knight from Harrenhal reached out to move his faceplate, he noticed a sword pointed at his throat.
"How's your memory, Ser Whent?" Geralt smiled nastily.
The Kingsguard returned it. "Sharper than that sword of yours, I'd wager."
"A vampire addicted to blood and... Alcohol?"
"I didn't believe it myself, Grand Maester, yet the situation was thus. The Katakan had been preying on people in the city of Oxenfurt for several weeks. Most of them died, save for a young woman. The victims were unlike each other in every possible respect. Save for the fact they had a fondness for the bottle. Alcohol becomes more and more present in the bloodstream, the more one drinks it, so a vampire addicted to both substances would have no choice but to target drunkards.
"How did you succeed in defeating such a creature?"
"The only way I knew how: by getting shit-faced drunk myself. I must've roamed around the streets for a good long hour at night, singing until my throat was sore and earning the ire of many a decent sleeping citizen and patrolling guardsmen. Eventually, the Katakan did come for me, I'd be lying if I said it wasn't one of the more... Interesting fights in my career as a Witcher."
"Master Geralt," The Grand Maester smiled, a playful look in his eyes. "Are you jesting with me?"
"You overestimate my imagination, I couldn't come up with this if you paid me a chest full of gold."
The two men laughed, sitting across from one another at a large, oak desk covered with pots, jars, cups, parchments, books, flasks,... Inside the Grand Maester's quarters. All around the spacious chamber capable of fitting upwards of twenty people inside, many more tomes, chests full of ingredients Geralt could and could not recognize by smell alone littered the place. It was far from messy, however. Despite serving as one of the primary advisors to the king, offering knowledge of a wide assortment of subjects from medicine to history, the Grand Maester kept his quarters neatly organized.
One of the many side desks, currently covered with a thick blanket of cloth, served as the new home for the Katakan's head. Following the morning spent sparring or talking with the Kingsguard, Geralt received word that Pycelle was ready to meet with him. His tower was built along the same battlements as the White Sword Tower. The Witcher could hear the cawing of ravens from its upper levels throughout his entire stay. He was warmly welcomed, offered food, and drink before they began going about their business.
It reminded the Witcher of his tenure at Oxenfurt, though he was the professor this time. Throughout their talk, Geralt explained the capabilities of the Katakan's eyes, its night vision, how their saliva contained a small dose of poison to weaken their prey. At the Grand Maester's behest, he removed samples of the creature, one fang, a piece of its horn, offered the heart, all to send over to the headquarters of the Maester's, the Citadel to verify all of Geralt's claims. Eventually, conversation passed on to other forms of vampires.
The Plumard, the closest in appearance to ordinary bats. Yet as big as a small child and with a fondness for overwhelming their prey in swarms. The Garkains, pack beasts who hang on ceilings, leap across rooftops and are so ugly they're frequently mistaken for gargoyles. Ekimma's, close in appearance to Katakan's and who's bestial savagery almost always resulted in horrific mutilations. The higher vampires, such as the Bruxa's, Nosferat's, Alps,... Took more time to explain. How some could appear like men and women, others enjoyed invulnerability to the sun. Pycelle listened vigorously and dutifully, writing down everything spoken with a speed of a man half his years, his enthusiasm matching a students rather than an experienced masters. The Grand Maester's surprise that vampires drink blood more like an addiction than an actual necessity inevitably brought them to the Oxenfurt contract.
"The hour grows late," Pycelle said, looking out the nearby window toward the setting sun. "I fear we may have lost track of time. Still, I've not spent an afternoon this pleasant in many a year."
"Likewise, it's not every day I get a chance to share a Witcher's knowledge. Most of my friends and associates either know these facts already, or they grow bored when I try delving too deep."
"It is a difficult subject matter," Pycelle ran a hand through his greying beard, eyeing the concealed Katakan. "Facing but one of these monsters... Why it would be enough to drive most men to madness. Ah!" He shouted, slapping his desk. "How foolish of me! Please, wait a moment!"
The Grand Maester said, sifting through his desk until his hands found a particular tome. "I meant to show you this already, but in all the excitement..."
The book, written in a language Geralt couldn't read, contained a multitude of illustrations and maps. Some concerned Westeros, others Essos, some of the other drawings were of creatures Geralt recognized instantly. Griffons, krakens, unicorns, the one Pycelle stopped on was of an overlarge, fanged bat with folded wings and a bloated, red belly.
"There is a land to the far south-east of Westeros known as Sothoryos. We know precious little of it, save for tales describing a land of great forests, stretching out as far as the eye can see. Where men are bestial, countless deadly diseases run rampant, and beasts not seen elsewhere thrive. Eyeless cave dwellers, great moths with a taste for man-flesh,..."
"And vampire bats, it sounds like the kind of place I'd earn a lot of coin. If these tales ring true."
"My skepticism of such stories was always great, you understand, naught, but the drunken tales of sailors wrongfully chronicled in a vain attempt to acquire knowledge. Yet when I laid eyes upon the Katakan... The similarities," Pycelle shivered. "They could not be discounted so readily. Even less after what you've shared with me. I know Sothoryos is a land unknown to you, but in your expert opinion, could the vampires of those strange places, and your own homelands be one and the same?"
Geralt did not immediately answer, expecting this particular question to come up sooner rather than later. Even in his explanation of portals the night before, he said he'd come from a distant land, not another world outright. Not necessarily untrue, more of a play on words rather than an out-and-out lie.
"Truthfully? Your guess is as good as mine. Vampires, along with many other creatures, are not indigenous to my homelands, in fact, humans aren't either. They and many other beings I've yet to tell you about arrived during a particular event, one that irrevocably changed everything. We call it the Conjunction of Spheres."
"An event of magic, yes?"
"One that has not been seen again for well over a millennia," Not counting the near-Conjunction when Ciri destroyed the White Frost. "Countless beings, from across just as many strange, unknown lands, appeared in ours, some benign and harmless, others impossibly dangerous to the very ecosystem of a place not made for them. It's also at this point when magic, or the power, became more pronounced, allowing for the forging of special weapons imbued with it."
And a great many other things Geralt wouldn't share, not so long as Aerys ruled over Westeros.
"Through the portals you mentioned?" Pycelle asked then shook his head in dismay when Geralt nodded. "Gods be good, from what you've described, a single vampire would have caused irrevocable destruction across the Seven Kingdoms. The mere thought of hundreds or thousands of them alone arriving, amidst many others, I'm sure... Gods be good... It is little wonder your profession came to be, Master Geralt."
"The situation has calmed down, considerably but yes... In those days, it was chaos, pure and simple. So many of the creatures stranded from the Conjunction were unused to living on those lands. Their natural habitats, prey, and predators were all gone. Some managed to survive, either by finding a close equivalent to all three, others by integrating themselves into society. Many others... Were not so fortunate."
"When did this Conjunction of Spheres occur, if I may ask?"
"The precise date isn't known, generally speaking, it is agreed upon to have occurred fifteen hundred years ago."
Pycelle stroked his beard again, a thoughtful look on his face."...Could it have been four centuries ago?"
Geralt wanted to outright say so, Regis' age at the time of his death alone made this impossible. Nevermind multiple other events and lifespans of people and creatures. "I doubt it, why? Did something occur then."
"The Doom of Valyria," The Grand Maester said with a grave voice, as though the weight of ages was upon his words. "We've not the time to go over it in greater detail today, yet I can pass on several noteworthy works for you to read in your chambers."
"You have my thanks, Grand Maester, what can you tell of this Doom right now?"
"Valyria, or the Valyrian Freehold, was the greatest civilization the world had ever seen. It encompassed most of Essos, reaching as far as the Free Cities and the island of Dragonstone near King's Landing. It was a civilization of immeasurable power, mundane and arcane, built upon the backs of slaves, blood magic... and dragons. It is said these magics allowed them to bread the great fire breathing beasts, to bring the world to heel. Many attempted to challenge the Valyrian's dominance, none succeeded, the dragon riders power was simply too vast for any conventional strength of arms to defeat."
"And then something went wrong."
Pycelle gravely nodded. "It is said, that on the day of the Doom, every hill for five hundred miles exploded, unleashing fire, smoke, and ash unlike any seen before or since. Such was the force of these eruptions that even the dragons, capable of withstanding great fires, perished as men, women, and children did. Palaces and cities were destroyed by Earthquakes, lakes, and seas boiled, the Valyrian peninsula itself was shattered into many islands that remain to this day. In but a day, the Freehold was no more. Save for House Targaryen, which escaped the Doom and survives to this day."
Such as it was."Judging by your question on relating the Conjunction to the Doom, I'd venture to say the cause of this destruction has yet to be determined?"
"Most commonly, it is said to have been a natural occurrence, nothing more, nothing less. The septons would have us believe the Valyrians dug into the very seven hells themselves and brought the wrath of the gods upon themselves."
"A third group suggests blood magic played a role."
Pycelle nodded. "A fellow Maester of mine, one who will no doubt be most interested in meeting you, should he be here and not abroad, believes this to be so. That the very power which gave birth to the Freehold sealed its Doom, they could not control it any longer, or overplayed their hand and so brought cataclysm upon themselves."
"Not impossible," Geralt said, looking at his swords placed against his chair. "Even imbuing a simple rune inside a blade can horribly backfire if one lacks practice, knowledge, or skill. The kind of power they were using... It's a wonder they only destroyed themselves. Has anyone successfully explored the ruins? Or is the land still dangerous?"
"Several have attempted, with no success. King Tommen II of House Lannister, attempted to do so decades before Aegon the Conqueror's campaign. He was never seen or heard from again, the Valyrian blade of House Lannister disappearing with him."
"Ser Arthur mentioned those to me, another product of the Freehold's magic?"
"Valyrian steel is of unmatched quality. Though I am no warrior, a great many have attested to their longevity, durability, lightness, and unmatched cutting power. Such is its quality and its rarity today there are naught by approximately two-hundred such blades remaining in Westeros. Heirlooms of noble houses great and lesser."
From that moment on, Geralt swore to take extra precautions with his swords...
"Tell me, Master Witcher, what do you know of dragons?" Aerys sacked that evening, inviting Geralt, the rest of the noble family, and the small council to another dinner. Though, the attendance this time was lesser. Princess Elia was not present, probably on account of her health, neither was the Master of Coin who all but bolted out of the ballroom yesterday.
Save for the Kingsguard, the king and Geralt, the only others there were Tywin, Pycelle, Varys, and Prince Rhaegar. The Hand of the King sat directly opposite of Geralt, with the king's son to his immediate right. Varys sat to the right of him while Pycelle sat down to Geralt's left. As before, Aerys reserved a quarter of the table all to himself. There was a squadron of food and wine tasters around him.
Their beverage for the evening was a red, sweet, and fruity Summerwine. Accompanying the skin seared boar was bacon, ribs roasted with garlic and other herbs, pigeon pie and salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums to name but a few. Aerys let the first part of the dinner pass pleasantly enough, showing admirable restraint. Geralt half expected him to blurt out the question before they were back in the cleaned-up ballroom. On the opposite end of the table, Tywin didn't outwardly stir at the question, nor did he need to, Geralt knew he'd anticipated this as well.
"A great many things, your majesty," Geralt replied, wiping his chin with a cloth. "Very few paint a good picture, I'm afraid. The history of the species in my homelands is quite grave."
"They are extinct as well?" Aerys said, a dark look in his eyes.
"Not yet, but very close. Their numbers have been diminishing for hundreds of years, ever since the arrival of mankind to the lands, we know today as Nilfgaard or the former Northern Kingdoms. Ignorance and greed have driven them to the brink of annihilation. There is not another species quite as vilified as a dragon."
"Enough prattling around the issue!" Aerys snapped. "Speak clearly, now!"
"Castles are thought of as the ultimate defense, against nature, against animals and monsters, against other people. It doesn't matter what species you belong to, this is a universal truth between them all. Castles represent the height of civilization, of security from all the dangers lurking out there, in the untamed wilds. They can indeed resist many fearsome beasts I've hunted over the years."
"Yet they cannot resist a dragon," Lord Varys said, smiling faintly.
"Yet they cannot resist a dragon. For they are great beasts, capable of spewing fire and flying above even the tallest of battlements. A scourge to mankind like no other, worthy of the greatest contempt. If I had a golden coin for every ballad, story and tale portraying them as evil incarnate, I'd have enough money to buy a castle of my own.
"In my homelands, dragons are also known to have great treasure troves in their lairs. The finest amethysts, jewels, and other priceless diamonds. Enough wealth to turn a beggar into a king overnight. Dragons themselves are a great source of alchemic ingredients, rare ones which can only be acquired from their bones, teeth, scales, and even wings."
Geralt took another sip of wine, his throat growing sore from all the talking he'd done. "Lastly, dragons have many cousins, lesser beasts who can neither lay siege to a city single-handedly nor spew fire. To the peasantry and even much of the nobility, one overgrown lizard who can fly is the same as another. And so, often for the acts of their lesser kin, the dragons themselves paid a considerable price of blood for it."
"At the hands of humans and Witchers, no doubt," Varys asked, taking a small drink from his cup. "After all, a great many men would pay dearly for a dragon, as you've explained to us."
"A great many must have tried, yes, and they've all failed. Witchers don't kill dragons."
"Truly?" Prince Rhaegar said. "I would think a beast hunter would not discriminate."
"With many creatures? You would be absolutely correct, yet, exceptions exist and dragons number among them. For they are no simple nekker or drowner, the dragons of my lands are sentient creatures."
Everyone present at the table looked at him as if he'd grown a second head. Aerys and Prince Rhaegar in-particular were stunned, amusingly, this was the sanest the king had looked since the Witcher crossed paths with him.
"Master Geralt..." Pycelle said, slowly, uncertainly. "Do you mean to say...?"
"That dragons are capable of thoughts and feelings akin to humans? Yes, this is known among us Witchers. Of the tales I know coming from reputable sources, the dragons who've interacted with mankind have shown incredible benevolence, and even, dare I say it, human decency. Years and years ago, one particular dragon attempted to create her own kingdom where elves, dwarves, and even humans could live together in peace."
"A kind dragon? A dragon with scruples?!" Aerys said, all but spitting out the word. "Ridiculous, a dragon has no business thinking for itself, least of all with compassion! They exist only to listen to the commands of their rider, to burn and destroy their enemies to the ground! The Black Dread would not have hesitated setting Aegon's foes aflame!"
The compulsion to point out how the bestial Valyrian dragons were extinct while the so-called, scrupulous ones of his lands still survived was strong. Aerys' tirade continued on, speaking of the Valyrian breeds superiority, their unmatched power, and all he could do with it. Judging by Tywin's imperceptible eye roll, this was far from the only time he'd praised them so highly, despite never seeing more than a dead egg.
"What say you, Master Witcher?" Aerys said, focusing back on Geralt, an intense look on his face. "Would you accept a contract on The Black Dread? A creature with neither scruples nor mercy?"
"The largest dragon in the throne room?" Geralt smiled, shaking his head. "Not if you gave me an army of one million men and half the Seven Kingdoms as a reward."
The brazen statement achieved its desired effect, Aerys' eyes lit up like an excited child's, his chest heaving up and down as he chortled. When he could, he spoke loudly and at length of the Valyrian dragons superiority, of such great power even a man born and bred to kill monsters would refuse to fight one. For the next half hour, Geralt played along with it, letting Aerys' glee at his apparent inferiority sink into the king's mind. A simple look at Tywin from across the table told him he'd played this well.
Authors notes - Next time, something fairly big happens for the story. There will be a small-time skip between this chapter and the following one, with this chapter giving you folks an idea of what Geralt will be doing in the days we pass over.