The choice before him, like many others preceding it, wasn't simple by any stretch. Geralt was aware of it would come to this since the formation of his Harrenhal curse-breaking scheme weeks ago. From those earliest days, when the plan was in its nascent stages, he knew Aerys would never let him leave alone. The Mad King would want to keep his newly acquired pet Witcher under close watch if he couldn't contain him within the Red Keep. He would also desire witness accounts from credible members of the inner court circle as it were, men who could back up the claim of a genuine curse, and very likely much more, haunting the blasted ruin of Harren the Black.
This alone would present many an issue, practical and more personal. Both of which were respectively made more complicated by Varys and Aerys. If what he thought awaited them at Harrenhal was, they would need his Signs, particularly the Yrden. This meant revealing to even more people that he was a sorcerer, pathetic in comparison to the magic wielders back home. In Westeros, however, even a little was much. Just as Varys told him some days ago. Could he trust them to this secret? The Spider being aware was enough to heighten Geralt's awareness of the danger around him.
Fighting while concealing the Signs would make a dangerous endeavor all the moreso. Even with the diminished magic of this world, once their curse attempt got going, the entire length of the castle would become exponentially more dangerous than it already was. A single well-placed Sign casting could be the difference between life and success, or death and failure. This is where the personal aspect became troublesome. Geralt had gotten to know the people who were willing, and tasked, to accompany him on this job. Perhaps not for long, but enough to build a rapport, even friendships. He'd already lost friends before, men and women who'd accompanied him and paid dearly for it...
It was only made worse by the fact Aerys had thrown Jaime into the thick of it as well. Despite their less than friendly initial encounters, Geralt had grown fond of the boy, enjoying the time they spent sparring and talking. It reminded him of Ciri... and Alvin. Both children he'd taken under his wing, one of whom succeeded in coming out alive and happy from the dire circumstances thrust upon her. The other, changed into someone, something, Geralt had no choice but to stop with what he knew at the time of their duel. Where would Jaime end up, he wondered and dreaded as the sound of many footsteps reverberated in his ears from the halls of the Tower of the Hand.
He waited for them inside the hall used during the hidden practice matches with Jaime. A secret he could, thankfully share with the party with Tywin's permission. It was part of the payment he and Geralt worked out for Jaime's tutoring some days ago in private.
"Three favors," Geralt said, inside Tywin's private study, the same evening he'd spoken to Rhaegar and Varys. "That's all the payment I desire for services rendered and will continue to for the duration of my stay here."
The Lord Hand commented but with a single imperceptibly raised eyebrow.
"If the circumstances ask for it, yes. I won't be unreasonable, of course. You have my assurance I won't use these favors to ask of anything thoughtless or ridiculous from you, like half of the Rock or a seat in the westerlands. In fact, the very first favor requires that you only act much the same as in our first encounters, dubious of me, my motives and of magic before Aerys when I present my Harrenhal plan to him in the coming days."
Tywin silently contemplated this for a moment, unsure of the deal. Did he find but three favors too little a price to pay for his son's improved sword skills and mentality? That may have been part of it. Geralt thought he was busier gauging if one of these three favors could screw him over in the future.
"Anyone else would demand chests of gold or perhaps more for the service you've done House Lannister, a number of them quite foolish," He eventually spoke, leaning into the seat. "You are fortunate then, Geralt. I do not consider you foolish or greedy enough to overstep your boundaries in this arrangement. Regardless, I still hold the right to refuse your desired favor if it does not suit me, agreed?"
"Agreed."
Tywin played his role well, perhaps too well. Once Jaime became involved, Geralt spent his second favor to bend the rules of the arrangements secrecy. He was loathed to grant this, but once Geralt explained how much easier the preparation would go if Jaime could put his newly acquired skills to the test, and how much better the task itself would end from it, Tywin agreed. Accepting the necessity of honesty could save all of their lives. The irony of this didn't escape Geralt's notice in the least, or help give an easy answer to the conundrum facing him.
With a knock and creak of the wooden door, the group entered the hall. Arthur and Oswell, wearing the almost blindly white armor of the Kingsguard, ready and dutiful for the meeting. Grand Maester Pycelle, heaving from the tiresome ascent but smiling nonetheless and finally, Jaime, sweating and curious, fresh from the sparring yard, no doubt. Four, not counting Geralt himself. Larger and smaller by one than his first and second Hanse's, respectively. Just as with them, the position of leader was thrust upon him, and seeing them there, Geralt's mind was made up.
"I sympathize with your plight, Grand Maester," Geralt smiled, taking a book of his own making and rising from the terrace steps to greet them in the center of the room. "Don't worry, I won't have you suffer walking up these stairs much more often."
"Words to comfort an aging man's soul," Pycelle sighed, a look of relief on his face. "And his knees..."
"Mayhaps, you should join us in our training?" Ser Oswell grinned while Pycelle blanched. "I'm certain we'll make a warrior of you yet. You'll be hard-pressed to find better tutors in such an endeavor."
"As interesting as that would be, Ser Oswell," Geralt came to his rescue, walking over to hand the book. "The Grand Maester will have his own battles to fight."
Pycelle accepted it and opened the first page, the sense of wonder so often found in his eyes whenever Geralt regaled him of tales from his world returned tenfold. Though it was a breach in good manners, the Grand Maester, as an excited youth, could not resist but dive into the work.
"Master Geralt is this...?"
"Yes, it's a series of incantations, prayers, and other verbal rituals, translated from the tongues of my lands to your own language. I've even included pronunciations of the original sayings and ranked them from most to least potent. They'll be your silver blade once we arrive at Harrenhal."
"... And what exactly are we doing at Harrenhal, Master Geralt?" Jaime inquired, trying to get a peak in the book to his left with all the subtlety of nosy brat. "Ser Arthur only said my presence was required."
"Apologies, Geralt," Arthur said, looking politely remorseful. "You're the expert and leader, I thought it best for you to inform young Jaime of our task."
"That's fine, Ser Arthur. I've much to say to you all regardless, a great deal of it not from the meeting..." He exhaled. "And some of it which cannot leave this room. Under any circumstances."
The three men who already understood the basics became attentive, while Jaime's curiosity and even excitement grew. His sword hands were twitching, and there was no mistaking that glint in his eye. No doubt, the thought of going out on a mission with such a group was causing his flights of fancy habit to rear its ugly head. As usual, Geralt decided to put a premature end to it. For his and the group's collective good.
"We go to Harrenhal for Witcher's work, the curse there has been a grave threat for centuries, and it's up to us to put a long-overdue end to it. And no, Jaime, I don't exaggerate what my work is or what it needs me to do. You should well know that by now."
The other occupants of the room looked at their apparent familiarity with one another with surprise and interest. Jaime looked stunned, and even a bit afeared, purposefully avoiding the other's gaze.
"Jaime and I are acquainted yes, the hows and whys I'll explain shortly. But first, there's the matter of the curse and what danger it could present to us when we attempt to break it."
"Monsters," Ser Oswell said, his gruff voice stiff. "You mentioned such occurrences can bring them about, yes?"
"Exactly, not every curse brings about or is connected to a monster. When they are, monsters are either the cause or the consequence of the curse's existence. I hope in this case its the latter, it'll make things considerably less dangerous for us all. My boundless optimism is rarely rewarded, so we're assuming its the former. Given the nature of what transpired at Harrenhal, we're looking at wraiths, specters, and other such ghostly apparitions will be our adversaries."
"... We're fighting spirits...?" Jaime languidly repeated as though he were simple. The Grand Maester momentarily looked surprised, but Geralt had told him enough by this point to dampen his disbelief. Ser Arthur remained politely neutral, waiting for Geralt's impending proof. Ser Oswell said nothing, yet the scowl on his face and the stiffening of his entire body betrayed his anxiety and anger.
"That's the most likely scenario, yes. Specters come in many shapes and forms, they're frequently some of the trickiest opponents for a Witcher to face. Not the least of which comes down to their ability to become incorporeal or cross distances while vanishing from sight. Against such enemies, we'll need more than just Witcher training and silver swords. We'll also need one of these..."
Jaime had listened to many of Geralt's tales during their breaks. He spoke of beasts with queer names, coming in shapes and sizes that sounded as incredible as they were formidable. Many appeared too fantastical, too out of the tales from bygones ages to actually exist. But spirits, wraiths? It sounded too unbelievable, and curses as well? Yet, what stopped him from entirely dismissing this was not just curiosity but Geralt himself. The Witcher did not lie or embellish the truth of his work, he was bluntly forthright in what it entailed and did nothing to soften its blow. Perhaps he said this because he knew people would be slow to accept this, in contrast, to say vampires or ground burrowing nekkers?
Whatever his reason for keeping this quiet, Jaime would soon stop to care for something else sent his mind into a whirl of shock and amazement. With his eyes closed, Geralt seemed to concentrate on something, his left hand extended outward, his knees bending alongside it in slow motion. When the first crackle of purple thunder danced through his fingers, Jaime thought he'd imagined it. When it happened again, he assumed madness was upon him. When Geralt thrust his hand at the floor, and the lightning crackled about him, engulfing him in a glowing ring of magic, his mouth hung open.
It was magic! Geralt had performed magic! The realization was slow to come and only stunned him for longer. Unblinkingly, Jaime observed the sight, watching the purple lightning dance in place around the floor, its glow, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. Several points were comprising the circle, runes of some kind in a language he could not begin to decipher. It almost seemed... Alive, from the way that it moved, the way it crackled with the faintest sounds of lightning.
Yet, Jaime was not so astonished as to miss something else change, this time with Geralt. Looking at his instructor, the Witcher looked at his own creation with a thoughtful expression, perhaps even surprise. His eyes passed over the length of the circle, narrowing at it, his gaze eventually resting on the palm of his hand. Before Jaime could ask what was wrong, someone else spoke first.
"By the Seven,..." Grand Maester Pycelle gasped, the aging man staring in a wonder equaling Jaime's end. Only, he dared to approach it.
"I wouldn't do that, Grand Maester," Geralt put whatever troubled him aside and refocused on the group. "The Yrden is a trap Sign. Those who enter or even touch its edges can suffer harm. In the case of living beings, it can wound or slow them down. While specters become corporeal beings, far easier to kill."
Pycelle retreated while Ser Arthur approached, looking intently at the spell. "Signs... is this what the sorcery of your land is called, Geralt?"
"Signs are nothing but primitive spells. Witcher's use them because they require little concentration to use and can be activated quickly in the heat of battle. Proper wizards and sorceress' don't bother with them, they've got far better at their disposal. For our purposes, the Yrden will more than suffice, however."
With a wave of his hand, Geralt did something to the circle. It's lights winked out into the nothingness, along with the strange runes comprising it. Once it faded, there was no trace left of it at all.
"Incredible," The Grand Maester breathed again, coming to one of the places where the rune was, running his hand across the stone. "I had my suspicions that there was more to you than you let even me know... But this..."
"Is something that stays between us," The tone of Geralt's voice was severe, Jaime hadn't heard him speak like this since the earliest days of their training. Even the look he gave one and all sent a shiver of fear across the young Lannister's body. Pycelle stepped back, while Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell appeared... Strange. Jaime could not guess what they were thinking. It eerily reminded him of Father.
"Don't ask me why when most of you know full well. Aerys would use this information to concoct all sorts of insane plots, and everyone in this city would suffer for it."
Jaime's mouth hung open again, to speak in such a way... It was treason, what was Geralt thinking?!
"You speak ill of the king so brazenly," Ser Oswell smiled even as his eyes narrowed. "Careful Geralt, many would not take well to such acts."
"I'm aware Aerys' ass kissers are as endless as the stupidity driving them. I don't care. As the leader of this group, your lives, your well being is my responsibility, and this knowledge could very well see you through this. I've also spent enough time to know you all, you see things as I do, though you've never spoken it aloud until perhaps today. Aerys cannot know of this."
"We are bound by oath to serve him," Ser Oswell said with some force, and far too little of it when addressing some who spoke this way of the king. "You would have us lie to His Grace should he ask us of a truthful account?"
"Your oaths also tell you to protect others in this castle," Geralt's voice might as well have been made from ice, and his gaze of pure venom. "Or is the queen's well-being not important when-"
"Enough!" Ser Arthur's voice cut him off, commanding and powerful... But still lacking in anger. In-fact, the Sword of the Morning looked miserable, his sigh carrying with it the weight of something terrible upon his shoulders. When he locked eyes with the Witcher, there was resignation and even shame in his face. "... You've made your point, Geralt, please... Do not speak more of this..."
Ser Oswell, who's lip curled in distaste, stood there with sheer despondence plain in his face. The Grand Maester shook his head in silence, taking a shaky breath even as the tension in the air hung over them like an executioner blade. Geralt's demeanor changed not at all if anything, the longer he stood there, the more Jaime's mind wondered just what they were talking about? Was the king hurting the queen? Did the Kingsguard know this? It was frightening, impossible to consider, and yet... Geralt would not react like this over nothing.
Jaime felt something twist in the pit of his stomach the more he thought or rather imagined the implications of this. A part of him wished to play the indignant knight to defend his king's honor against such insinuations. He said nothing, these men wouldn't speak of such things if there was not some truth to it. Eventually, Ser Arthur's eyes met Jaime's and properly left again, the shame becoming clearer.
"On my honor as a knight," He said, looking to Geralt instead. "And as a Kingsguard, I swear I will not reveal the truth of you and your Signs, Geralt. For your own good... And of the realm."
To emphasize this, Ser Arthur bent his knee and bowed deeply. Soon enough, Ser Oswell did the same. "I follow my sworn brother, I'll not speak of this to anyone, even under pain of torture or death. Not even the king."
"I too swear myself to secrecy," The Grand Maester, with far less grace and ease, knelt as well. "Many things you've confided in me, and I've not betrayed you, Master Geralt. May they take my chain and fling it into the sea if I should do so now."
Then came Jaime's turn, he followed the knights. "I swear to keep this secret," His voice was rough, making him cough. "From all those who should not know it, even from those closest to me."
Geralt scrutinized them all, silently and intently. Soon enough, some of the tension in his own shoulders seemed to fade, and eventually, he nodded. Even if he looked uncertain still, of their oaths or his choice to reveal this? Both? Jaime could not say, but he knew he did not wish to break Geralt's trust, especially if he took such a great risk to speak of these matters to plainly.
"Alright, you can get up, the theatrics... Weren't necessary," He sighed. "And I apologize for... Speaking of sensitive matters. Let us not go there again and focus only on what task lies before us, agreed?"
"That is what we came here for," Ser Oswell answered. "Now, tell me truthfully, Witcher, that thing I saw as a lad... Will we face it?"
"It's very likely, yes. The dead man, covered by the sea and consumed by flame, came to you on the two-hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Harrenhal's incineration. Many apparitions only appear during certain times of day, in such specific instances, they can only manifest on dates like this with years separating hauntings."
"You don't seem to take much comfort from this," Ser Arthur pointed out.
"The incantations," The Grand Maester said. "From a cursory glance, I saw some within meant to invoke such... Creatures, you mean to spur the wraiths into revealing themselves, yes?"
"If we're lucky, the source of the curse will require them and perhaps some ritual drawings cast at the epicenter to begin the breaking process. Given the longevity of the power hanging over Harrenhal, we're sure to be accosted by spirits. If a spirit itself is the heart, then we'll have to fight and banish it into the netherworld to end the curse."
"... Harren the Black...?" Jaime spoke again, voicing what the others no doubt already knew or guessed. He could not keep the wonder and curiosity from bleeding into his voice. "Are you saying we could actually meet Harren the Black himself?"
Geralt was not so enthused. "It's very possible, Harren was the architect of the castle's misery long before any dragon king decided to make an example of him. If there's any wraith who could be the lynchpin of all the misery wrought by the places magic, it's him."
"... Seven hells..." Ser Oswell muttered. "What are the chances of him being the only one? Harren sired eight sons, all of whom perished alongside him when Aegon the Conqueror struck."
"At the very least, we'll have nine wraiths to contend with and possibly more. The numbers will not favor us, and I very much doubt we could fulfill Harren's request to peacefully send him on his way."
"Such a thing is possible?" Ser Arthur asked, stroking his chin. "If so, is it truly not pursuing?"
"If this were a smaller, less severe case, then yes. Unfortunately, I doubt Harren will give us any demands we can accomplish, for practical or ethical reasons. The last great hateful spirit I attempted to settle down peacefully demanded the body parts of his previous torturers to leave. I tried fooling it with pigs part, but it was too clever for that."
"Then it is with the sword we solve this, good," Ser Oswell actually smiled, some of his mood improving at last. "I've long since wished to trounce the prick who terrorized me as a boy. Tell me what must be done, Geralt, and then let me at him."
"To do that, I'll have to explain what you've all no doubt noticed, my... Familiarity with Jaime."
Before the young Lannister could recover from yet another well delivered surprise from Geralt, or voice the fact no one was to become aware of their arrangement, Ser Arthur spoke. In fact, he even seemed to smile and find little trouble at sending a knowing look Jaime's way.
"I can guess, your student made a slip the other day, letting one of my blows carry him into an answering blow. Very similar to what you so frequently do, Geralt."
"I-It could not be helped!" Jaime said, hoping to forestall any ire to rise back in the Witcher. "It happened on instincts, was that not what you wished of me to accomplish?"
"Calm down," Geralt said, entirely unconcerned. "I figured it would happen sooner or later, though I hope you tell me of such instances henceforth. You can relax about your father knowing too, I already got his permission to let everyone here know."
"It does not surprise me," Ser Oswell commented. "No offense, lad, but your father is one to grasp at an opportunity when he sees it."
"I would be more astounded if he didn't try to enlist Geralt as your hidden instructor," The Grand Maester said, smiling and giving Jaime a knowing look. The lad could not help return the gesture, knowing it was useless to deny such observations. "We shall, of course, keep this between us as well, lest Lord Tywin's enemies at court become aware of it."
"Aye!" The knights of the Kingsguard said in unison.
"Good, then we can move onto the next important point, your training," Geralt looked at the knights. "In our practices, Jaime and I have done reflex training, binding his eyes with cloth and forcing him to use his other senses and ultimately, pure instincts, to let him anticipate and respond to danger. It may sound simple, but from both of our experiences, you will get far worse before you return even to your previous skill level."
"I've the bruises to prove it," Jaime quipped, earning laughs and smile from the others.
"Your silver swords and armors aren't complete yet, and they may prove an added hurdle to overcome, but you'll have to. Until they're ready, you'll practice with your standard equipment."
"In the meantime, I will begin learning these incantations," The Grand Maester said with conviction, holding the tome given to him tightly. "Rest assured, Master Geralt, I will know them by heart before we leave the Red Keep."
"Good to know, Grand Maester," Geralt replied, smirking. "Because I intend to test your knowledge much in the coming evenings."
Pycelle was not deterred by this, if anything, the thought brought out a smile. The kind one saved for an opponent who's challenge one enjoyed. "And I will endeavor to pass without fault."
He nodded, returning his attention back to the Kingsguard. "Your training will begin today, and Jaime's private sessions had a fortuitous consequence, it means there are two of us capable of acting as instructors."
Jaime blinked once, twice, and on the fifth, his mind seemed to recover. "... I beg your pardon?"
"Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur are different in the necessities of their regiments. The former is staunch in his defense, preferring strength and solid footwork above our speed and mobility. I'll have to work with him to make sure he can adapt to the training. Ser Arthur is closer to how we fight, and his prodigious talent with the sword will make him a far easier student."
"... Student...?" Jaime repeated, staring at the Witcher as though he'd gone mad. He must have gone mad for certain! How could he, a boy nearly half the Sword of the Morning's age and but a squire train Arthur bloody Dayne in anything? The very thought was madness, not the least of which insulting to the knight.
"I know I'm throwing a lot your way in so short a time," Geralt said, his rough voice unusually smooth. "But I wouldn't thrust this task upon you if I didn't think you were up for it, you've learned well, Jaime and in such a short amount of time. If you feel something is amiss, I'll help you, you're not in this alone."
"And I will pay close attention," Ser Arthur bowed his head, not at Geralt but Jaime! "Your skill with the blade is great, Jaime, and I will be honored to learn anything I can from you."
Caught in this situation, one madness after another, Jaime could do nothing but silently, and stupidly nod his head as the only answer. Meanwhile, in the back of his mind, Ser Oswell's words from moments ago rang truer than ever.
Seven fucking hells.