Jaime barely slept that night, his thoughts as restless as a caged lion's with fresh meat just behind steel bars. His first day at Kings Landing was all he'd hoped it to be... And more, or perhaps less? He could not decide yet. He'd met the Sword of the Morning, Barristan the Bold, his heroes since he was but a boy, trained with them, found himself on the receiving end of their remarkable swordsmanship. Every bruise, every defeat from them? It was a reward, a badge of honor. Jaime could not hate them for it, they were the best of the best, but to stalemate them in a single duel was already more than he could ever hope to do.
And then there was the Witcher. A stranger with those frightening eyes, who's technique was unlike any Jaime had ever seen before. It was fast yet powerful, staunch, and reliable, a blur of motion closer to dance. No one had ever pushed him to such a point before, leaving his body drenched, his arms sore, and his pride more than a little bruised. For every moment he enjoyed it, there was another he loathed fiercely. This man, no knight, of no noble birth whatsoever, was besting him. Besting the likes of Ser Barristan, Ser Arthur, Ser Gerold, and the entire rest of the Kingsguard. It could not be so, Jaime simply could not accept this.
It had to be because of his unorthodox fighting technique. Doubtlessly it gave him an advantage rooted in a knights unfamiliarity with it. Once this was taken away, his superiority would disappear with it. Jaime tirelessly spent the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, attempting to unlock the secrets to this fighting form. He was so distracted, Cersei became cross with him, and though he apologized, it was only done half-heartedly. Then Father invited him to his solar, and Jaime's musings were replaced by a predatory excitement.
"Master Geralt and I have come to an agreement, henceforth, until such time as your training is deemed complete by him, you will train together. Here, within the Tower of the Hand, in chambers, I've already emptied for your convenience. I brought you here to hone your skills, to learn from the best, and Geralt numbers among them. You will do as he tells you, follow every command from him as though it came from me. All but this one order which I shall pass onto you now: absolute discretion is mandatory. None can know of this arrangement for reasons of court intrigue save for us three, not even your sister. If it even momentarily appears this secrecy has been undermined, I will personally send you back to the westerlands and ensure you never see a single tourney for the next five years. At least."
The instant the rooster crowed, Jaime all but flew out of his bed. He freshened up with a splash of cold water left for him the night before, filled the pissing bowl near to the top, dressed then rushed from his chambers. The daunting length of the Tower of the Hand seemed to vanish during his descent, the stationed guards and winding steps disappearing in a blur. The chamber Father had cleared for them was a dining room, capable of seating thirty guests. The tables had been dismantled or moved, and the benches bushed to the far corners of the room. On the opposite side, sitting on steps leading to an outside balcony was the Witcher.
Clad in the same attire as from the day before, the Rivian paid no heed to him, almost lazily reading some tome Jaime did not recognize. His bandolier and twin blades were to his immediate left, while a pair of blunted swords laid to his right. Not accustomed to people not greeting him when he entered someplace, Jaime felt irritated as the foreigner continued to ignore him even as his steps were deliberately quite loud. Halfway across the small hall, the Witcher's eye met Jaime's, and once again, the heir of House Lannister momentarily struggled to meet them. But only for just that instant.
"Good morning," Jaime said first as the silence stretched out, even giving the Rivian a courtesy bow of his head.
"To you as well, Jaime," The Witcher replied in that hoarse, grating voice of his, remaining seated. With far more effort than one of his proven physicality required, he eventually got to his feet and leisurely strolled to the nearest bench.
Ignoring the pang of irritation at his failure to address a Lord's heir properly, Jaime eyed his two swords with interest. From what Ser Barristan said, they were capable of carving through even the armor of a Kingsguard. Could they be Valyrian Steel? Or perhaps the same meteor substance Dawn was forged from? Or something else entirely. To try such a blade would be most interesting indeed. Perhaps, Father could even buy one from him...?
"Don't even think about it," The Witcher said without turning around, breaking Jaime's reverie. "The only one way you're touching either of those swords is with my permission or from my corpse."
The latter could be arranged if his insolence continued. "Not gold? My Lord Father could pay you handsomely for them. A Lannister-"
"Always pays his debts, I know," He walked back. "And no amount of gold he or anyone else from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond could match their worth. A Witcher's swords are his life. I'd no sooner part with mine than Ser Arthur would sell Dawn."
"You speak as though their worth is remotely comparable."
"One of them was capable of withstanding several direct blows from Dawn without a scratch," The Rivian said as casually as one may comment on the sky. "Blows meant to kill, might I add."
While Jaime stared, dumbstruck by this revelation, the Witcher walked past his swords and took hold of the blunted steel. Jaime caught it enough, his irritation growing at the thought of using lesser practice equipment when he'd already fought in actual combat with live steel. A fact his Father most definitely would have told the Witcher. Still, this Geralt of Rivia's word was law while they trained and so he said nothing.
"Three days," He spoke, twisting the sword about with circular, smooth motions of his wrist and fingers. "Through the next three days, we will perform a preliminary test of sorts. To see if you've got what it takes to succeed the training I've got in mind for you. If you do so, then I will share some of the secrets to the Witcher arts. If you don't, our business is ended. And yes, your Father is aware of this. Don't go crying to him in the event of failure."
"I don't cry," Jaime replied, clutching his pommel tightly. "But my enemies do when I've bested them!"
Without care for chivalry, Jaime thrust his sword in a feint, switching quickly into a swing meant to strike the insolent cur across the face. The Witcher did not immediately move, standing like a statue. In a quick motion, the foreigner tossed his sword from the right hand to the left and blocked the swing. Jaime, undeterred, swung again and again, in a quick succession of blows and counter blows. Firstly with one hand, and then two, each one with all the force behind it he could muster. Men twice his age and size would've already been overwhelmed, fallen on their arses by the third or fourth. The Witcher did not number among them. His blocks but with one hand were more than enough to render Jaime's two-handed swings useless. His evades were impossibly quick, nimble beyond description.
Even as Jaime circled about him, the Witcher only shifted position to keep the two remained facing one another. His look was severe, and his face chiseled from stone. It only made his frustration worse, the inability to crack defense, or infallible facade. It was unlike anything he'd faced before. Even more so than what he'd done yesterday. Jaime felt no honor or gratification from fighting like this, losing this way, only fury.
Eventually, amidst this rush of this one-sided battle, the Witcher smirked, doing something no sane warrior would ever do, he tossed his sword aside. Jaime would have shouted, had the Witcher not almost leisurely side-stepped his thrust. The Young Lion barely kept his balance thanks to years of practice, it did not make his failing about any less humiliating.
"You!" He spun around, pointing his sword at the Witcher. "What game are you playing? Pick up your sword!"
"Why should I? It's painfully clear to me I don't need it, not against someone like you."
"I care not what you need, I'll not fight an unarmed man. Even an arrogant one such as you. Now, pick it up and fight me properly!"
The Rivian stood there, eyes squinting imperceptibly. Then, with the only show of proper respect so far, nodded, kicking the practice sword into the air and snatching it. A neat trick, Jaime thought before attacking again. They played at this mummers farce for a while longer until even Jaime's rage could not compensate for weariness. He'd failed to realize how much time has passed. A momentary pause let the ache of his arms, and stickiness of drenched hair settle in. Outside, the sun's shine grew with each passing moment, the previous night all but vanished.
"That's enough for today," The Witcher said, turning his back to him and putting the practice sword down. "Get some rest, you'll need it for your training with the Kingsguard."
"W-What?!" Jaime stared, incredulous as the Rivian slung the bandolier across his chest. "We've done nothing!"
"On the contrary, I've learned much today. Keep a cooler head going forward, and you might do the same. See you tomorrow."
With that dismissal, the Witcher left the hall and Jaime alone staring after him, wondering what in Seven fucking Hell he'd just participated in. He could not see reason in any of it. Was it all to test how long Jaime could fight? His patience? Self-control? Or some elaborate plot to humiliate Tywin Lannister's sun under the guise of training? To his great shame, Jaime considered going to his Lord Father a while as he trudged back to his chambers. Such an act would prove the Witcher right, that he was naught but a boy who would run to his parent when something didn't go his way. It was the last time he'd even entertain such a fool notion.
The Witcher did not participate in the days sparring matches, opting to remain by the side with the same tome he'd brought to their training. From what Ser Oswell said in a jape, it was some book detailing the history of the Night's Watch. What could he possibly want with some group of cutthroats, purse-snatchers, and other criminals of the realm exiled to the Northern wastes to the end of their days? And why was it more important than giving Jaime another chance at besting him? The thought irked him to no end, well into the morning of the next day.
It began much the same as their last training, Jaime, ready and eager to fight, the Witcher scrutinizing the same tome as though it held all the answers, ignoring the heir of House Lannister. Did he steal this from Father, who was wont to keep someone waiting under the veneer of work only to annoy them? He'd learned well if such was the case.
"You're unusually quiet today," The Rivian said, turning to the next page.
"I'm merely considering the myriad of ways I've in store to defeat you, foreigner."
"None of which will work, as you well know. Or rather, you should know, if your pride wasn't so wounded."
"Hand me a sword, and we'll see how right you are."
Jaime could not help but fume when he chose for more blunted steel. If it was a proper weapon, the results would be quite different. He knew this to be true.
"Ready?"
"Yes-" A moment later, the Witcher struck. Jaime was so surprised it was only his honed fighting instincts that prevented a blow to the stomach. He tried to riposte the thrust only for the Rivian to perform one of those spinning motions of his, completely changing the course of his next action. The blur he'd encountered during their first match returned with a vengeance, his attacks ceaseless, swift, powerful. Jaime's pitiful attempts at a counter strike worked to his advantage as well, the Witcher seemed to let the blow carry him on, to reposition himself into even deadlier strike than before.
Jaime's perpetual retreat, his faltering defense, brought him to the edge of the hall where the benches were pushed aside. On the nearest one was the Witcher's tome. For an instant, it crossed his mind to grab it, perhaps use it as a weapon or a shield to deter his opponent. The act may even give him a chance to score a hit of his own. But it would not matter. It would be a blow earned through trickery and surprise, not from true skill of the blade. And so Jaime threw the notion aside, grit his teeth and weathered the storm of sword strikes until his arms ached, his chest was on fire, and his knees quivered.
"You should've gone for my book," The Witcher said, walking back to his bandolier at the terrace steps. "Using it to deter me from attacking, even for an instant, would've given you a chance to turn things around."
"... You'd have me resort to trickery?" Jaime panted out, struggling to stay up. "Never... Either I best my enemy with the sword alone or-"
"Or you'll die," He wrapped the bandolier around himself, looking at Jaime as he walked to tome. "Chivalry, fairness, even in a knights tourney, these things aren't absolute. Much less out there in the real world where a desperate enough man will try to slit your throat for your boots. While you sleep."
"The knights of the Kingsguard wouldn't-"
"They most certainly would, they're good men, in many ways honorable men, but they're not stupid. They can and have used trickery and other less than chivalrous methods to win a fight... Or cope with their everyday lives," The Witcher's took the tome under his arm. "If you don't believe me, ask them out in the sparring yard."
Just to spite the bastard, Jaime silently vowed to do precisely this and prove him wrong when next they met. Fortunately, his tutors for the day were Sers Leywn and Ser Barristan. Men who fought against the last Blackfyre pretenders in their youth, attaining knighthood and membership into the Kingsguard for it, respectively. If any could prove the falsehood of the Witcher's lies, it would be them. Instead of receiving vindication, Jaime only found surprise and disappointment.
"The songs and books have no doubt sung my praises aplenty," Ser Barristan said, smiling as though it were no great matter at all. "Aye, I did fight my way to Maelys, even as dozens of other men fell to his sword, and dozens more fled away from it. Soon enough, it was just the two of us, given a wide berth as though a sparring ring was around. It began as the tales say, two men crossing swords, each waiting for the moment to strike, to win. Until the mad dog rushed me, once I'd disarmed him, pushing me into the dirt. After that, there was little gallantry. We'd spent near enough time punching, clawing, trying to choke one another out as we did sword fighting. It was only at the very end when we'd somehow reclaimed our weapons in the mire and dirt that I ran the Monstrous through. It's a blessing most of my teeth were left by the end of it."
"At least your victory was in single combat," Ser Leywn snorted, showing even more mirth even as Jaime silently despaired. "I was knighted for rushing the enemy line, holding fast even as my comrades fell or ran off. Crap, all of it. My horse panicked and threw me from the saddle over the pike well, it was only the fear of death, battle madness, and grabbing some Tyroshi sellsword as a meatshield that saw me live long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Any other man would've been speared through or broken every bone."
The rest of the afternoon continued to be a miserable one. Jaime's thoughts were far from the sparring ring, imagining Ser Lewyn flung from his horse, Ser Barristan beating a man in the dirt and mud like some smallfolk tavern brawler. It would be amusing if it wasn't a knife twisting in his heart. His performance suffered, his hand was slow and clumsy, his footwork appalling. For the first time since he'd begun training properly, Lord Crakehall found him lacking while Merrett Frey came out the better of the two. How dearly he wished for the Witcher to be there, to challenge him before one and all, proper steel in hand and best the prick. He chose that day to forego the sparring yard entirely, spending it with Grand Maester Pycelle or in his chambers.
Jaime did not unleash his fury on anyone. He accepted Lord Carkehall's criticisms, the Kingsguard's advice, the Frey's japes, Father's silent looks, and Cersei's growing disdain for the distance between them. All would be well once the Witcher's arse was knocked upon a stone floor. He did not rush from his chambers, or down the steps, no, Jaime saved every ounce of strength in his body for their final sparring match. The Witcher had no tome with his this time, nor did he wear the metal-studded leather jacket. Instead, he wore a simple, white short with folded sleeves. Revealing the end of a scar on his chest, and one on his right forearm, and a strange wolf-headed medallion dangling from his neck.
Jaime met his eyes unflinchingly, right-hand opening, and closing. So focused was he on letting the viper-eyed bastard know he was not intimidated that he neglected to notice the absence of blunted practice swords. The only blades in the room, near as he could tell, were in the scabbards carried by The Witcher.
"I believe you wanted to try one of these?" He inquired, unsheathing the blade and tossing it to Jaime in one smooth motion. What immediately took him by surprise was the weight of it, more precisely the weightlessness. Despite being around fifty inches from the pommel bottom to the tip, the blade was lighter than castle-forged steel. Its grip, made for either one or two hands with a steel ring dividing the handle, fit perfectly into his palm.
"Go ahead, try it out." The Rivian said, Jaime idly nodded and began to move the blade about, checking its balance, performing rudimentary wrist spins and swings to get his bearings. The sword seemed to almost shimmer as it cut and glided through the air.
"These words, what do they mean?" Jaime asked, trying to make sense of them to no avail.
"They're runes, Dwarven runes, and no, I'm not making a joke about your brother," He unsheathed the other blade, of comparable length to the first though with some differences. The crossguard was straight, not curved, a series of indentations were built along each side, running almost the full length of it. The wolf symbol built into the bottom of the pommel was carved into a ring, while Jaime's had a replica of the Witcher's medallion.
"Where I come from, runes can turn even an ordinary sword into something much more dangerous. The one you're holding is the blade I tested against Dawn. This one I used to cut the Smiling Knight almost in two."
"A pretty tale to be sure, but I've you to thank for not believing in them anymore."
"Your newfound bitterness is as stupid as it is unconvincing," The Witcher said with more bite to his voice. "I see I'll have to knock some more sense into you before you see things clearly."
"We'll see," Jaime said through grit teeth, his hand already growing accustomed to the sword. Things would be different this time, now it was live steel. Every blow could be fatal, ever mistake a death sentence. It was in such bouts that Jaime felt the most alive when his skills shined the most brightly. They had to.
The Rivian took a high stance, sword held-over-head diagonally, legs spread apart and knees bent. Jaime did the same, intending to meet and overpower him. Slowly, carefully, the two circled one another, Lannister to the left and Witcher to the right. They moved almost in unison, colliding in the very center of the hall. Jaime lost almost immediately. The force of the Witcher's strike not only overpowered his but flung the sword from the Young Lion's hands before Jaime could even perceive what happened a sword was pressed against the left side of his throat. He stared at it, blinking and shivering at the touch of steel.
"Pick it up," The Witcher said, no, commanded in a tone that brokered no disagreement or place for negotiation. Jaime moved away, resisting the urge to check his throat for any injury. Instead, he tried to stoke the fires of his anger, to ensure the next attack was stronger and faster than the last.
The Witcher switched stances again, this time into a hanging left pointed at his opponent. Jaime did not bother to wait this time, opting to strike first. The Rivian's riposte left him off balance instantaneously, stumbling like a fool again. By the time Jaime turned around for a swing, the swords fuller struck his wrist, leaving him weaponless and open to another blade press against his throat.
"Pick it up," The Witcher shoved him this time, and Jaime fell. He was too stunned by how wrong everything was going to even protest or brace himself. This wasn't meant to be, he was supposed to be doing better with live steel, not worse than ever before. "Pick it up!"
Like a stumbling Frey oaf, Jaime's hand darted across the stone floor and searched for the sword. Once it was within his grasp, some of his confidence returned. So long as there was a blade to wield, Jaime had a chance to win. This was what he kept telling himself even as the Witcher readied for the following strike. There was no stance this time. Instead, the white-haired beast hunter marched forward, spinning his sword in dazzlingly quick, circular, and half-circular motions, switching it deftly between both hands. With each passing moment, the rotations hastened, creating a dizzying endless storm of motion.
So overwhelmed was Jaime by it, his shaken resolve and everything else that'd happened, he didn't realize the tip of Geralt's sword was pressed against his throat. When, how? It was impossible to tell. It was also impossible to move, even the merest act of gulping would cause the blade to rend his flesh in two. Jaime stopped breathing, his sword handshaking incessantly even after the Witcher took his sword back. Once he walked away, the Young Lion gasped for air and slumped onto the ground, checking his throat for any sign of cuts. None could be found.
He could have killed me... The realization turned his blood into ice and doused the final embers of his rage. He could have killed him any single number of times, not merely this day, but in all the others they'd fought. Even with a blunted sword, the Witcher could no doubt cave a man's head open with a single swing. Perhaps even with his bare hands...
"You're beginning to understand," Geralt's voice made Jaime involuntarily shiver. "The most painful lesson every young man must learn: your own fallibility."
Fail, at fighting? The notion was absurd, impossible to even imagine, yet... There he was. Frightened, shaken, desperately clutching his throat to search for a phantom injury. How, how could it have come to this? He asked the question endlessly, and just as ceaselessly, the answer evaded him. Was he simply not good enough? Was all his vaunted potential as a swordsman truly for naught?! As he tried to make sense of it all, he noticed the Rivian remove his shirt, casting it aside on the floor. What Jaime saw across his chest and arms were scars, countless, horrible scars. Numbering two dozen at the very least, most caused by fangs or claws from creatures he dreaded to even imagine. To suffer even a fraction of these injuries... How, how was this man even alive?!
"Some of these injuries I received when I was like you, young and inexperienced," Geralt said, his voice like steel. "But I assure you Jaime, the vast majority of them were received even when I'd become older and wiser. When I was fully committed to the fight, killing my enemy before it could kill me. And I still almost died three times the number of years you've been alive."
He tapped his chest with his sword. "Now, what do you think would've happened to me, someone who is far and away your superior, if I'd done what you do? Allowed thoughts of glory, pride, or rage to slow me down or guided my sword?"
Then he pointed the blade at Jaime, his eyes narrowing into slits. "Now, I want you to think about what will happen to you?"
The answer he'd look for came to Jaime, in all its horrible clarity. As though a sword had been run right through him.