The Kingsguard were as still as statues, their white armor resplendent in the afternoon sun shining into the room. Both of them stood ready to attack or defend. Ser Arthur held Dawn in a close left stance while Ser Oswell took a phalanx position with his silver sword and shield. Both had thick cloths wrapped around their heads, making sight an impossibility. The scent of perspiration hung heavy in the air, Geralt could practically see the waves of exertion made stench rolling off of them. Silently, steadily, he and Jaime both stalked around the two knights, waiting for an opportunity to attack.
Though, Jaime's footwork was not quite as silent as Geralt's, letting out a thump every so often. The Witcher didn't begrudge him this, if anything, letting your anticipating enemy think you've made a mistake can present an opportunity for later. When the lads latest footfall made them twitch just a bit too much in Jaime's direction, he struck. Ser Oswell reacted immediately and appropriately, his shield meeting each blow with a satisfying clang. When he moved to counter-attack, Geralt leaped aside in a half-circle. Jaime went after him next, striking Ser Oswell from the side, only for Ser Arthur's blade to intercept the cut.
The boy tried to goad Ser Arthur to break the back to back position with his sworn brother by feigning weakness with little success. Geralt decided to aid him by rejoining the fray, letting his footfalls give away his place in the room only to squeeze just in-between the Kingsguard with a tight but fast pirouette. Ser Oswell's reflexes served him well, his sword meeting Geralt's strike for strike. Jaime went on the offensive as well, darting in and out of Arthur Dayne's reach with swift blows followed by equally quick retreats and repositionings.
When Ser Oswell tried to strike back with a shield swing, Geralt broke off from their engagement entirely and switched out with Jaime. With the Sword of Morning, the Witcher did not engage, letting his blade spin in quiet, rhythmic motions as close as he could get the knight without provoking his attacks. Ser Arthur didn't take the bait, breathing in and out in the automated sequence Jaime had passed down onto him. It was not a matter of trust, the Dornishmen knew Geralt could and would strike him to wound and hurt. His body simply refused to answer anything less than a proper threat.
This is what Geralt was counting on exploiting. While the two of them did nothing much at all, Jaime and Ser Oswell were busy fighting as though a melee was on. Youth and speed against experience and strength. A fierce exchange of sword and shield strikes and blocks one would be forgiven to think them lost in a battle frenzy. Jaime smirking and breaking off the engagement, deftly zipping under a sword swing to attack Ser Arthur, proved otherwise. The Dornishman moved to stop him only to stiffen when Geralt attacked next, forcing him to break from his sworn brothers back.
If Ser Oswell was deterred by this, he didn't show this, grimly smiling even as he realized he'd been fooled. Geralt switched the weight and momentum of his swing intended for Arthur and attacked the knight of Whent once more.
"Don't let that happen at Harrenhal," Geralt grunted. "Wraiths love to goad you into overplaying your hand."
"Aye, I'll not!"
For the next half hour, Geralt and Jaime both took turns making sure he did. On and on they fought, the attackers switching between prey, falling silent or immobile only to reposition and strike again. The sun was setting as the final exercise in the Tower of the Hand came to a halt. Most of the combatants were decently tired, Geralt's constitution serving him the best of them all. As always, Ser Oswell produced a cask of wine for them to enjoy. They sat in amicable silence at the steps of the terrace, their various weapons settled within reach.
"Finally leaving the Red Keep," Geralt commented after a while, savoring the fine booze's aftertaste. "Feels like a lifetime since I've been outside castle walls."
"The weather has been good to us this year," Ser Arthur said. "Long, summer-like days, warm breezes..."
"Let's hope it doesn't take a turn for the worse, although," Ser Oswell's lip curled. "Home would look like arse even if you plopped it in the middle of the Reach."
"Or the westerlands," Jaime smiled, taking a good swing from the cask. "Mayhaps if we liberate Harrenhal, we could go there next? I've heard stories about Tarbeck Hall being haunted ever since my father was through with it."
"One curse at a time," Geralt replied, taking the cask. "And don't drink too much of that. The three of you still need to practice after I've gone."
"Exercising that elvish of yours, no offense Geralt, all of it sounds like someone choking on a bone to me."
"None taken," The Witcher smiled, imagining many an appalled Elf's expression at Ser Oswell's words. With a final swing of the cask, Geralt took it and his own possessions and made his way for the door. Ser Oswell made a noise of protest about the wine being snatched away but otherwise did nothing to stop it.
"Make sure they don't get into trouble, will you?"
"I wouldn't dream of it," Jaime answered, the past week of near-constant training in the presence of the Kingsguard loosening his tongue. Or maybe that was from the alcohol.
"I was talking to Ser Arthur."
"Very amusing," Jaime replied with a ton drier than the Korath desert. "It's a wonder you need a sword at all, much less two, with such razor-sharp wit."
"It's all I need to win some fights. I'd rather avoid wasting good steel or silver," Glancing at the opposite end of the room, Jaime took the riposte with a smile, while the Kingsguard snorted or laughed. With a wave, Geralt bade them farewell and began the trek over to the Grand Maester.
Jaime climbed down up his chambers tired, and sore. His knees ached incessantly with every step, his legs almost hung at his sides, and he smelled like horses balls. It was the best kind of fatigue, one acquired through unceasing sword practice, backed by the elation of a good day's work and sense of self-satisfaction. It didn't hurt his sparring partners, mentors, and in some cases, apprentices were the finest he could ask for. Always keeping him and one another ready for more, always pushing themselves and accepting of a jest.
He was almost saddened to know their training would lessen in the coming days. Their journey to Harrenhal, while not pressed for time, would be made up of riding on horseback and taking breaks for sleeping, eating, and drinking. Opportunities to spar would be infrequent, lest their traveling becomes too slowed down. Still, the company was an interesting one, and being able to ride with them alone, chosen for this task was an honor he would never forget. In ways he could never have foreseen, his great hope about the Red Keep came true: it was the best time of his life.
The thought brought a smile to his face, content despite his weary body. It didn't hurt Father, and Cersei already feasted with him in the early afternoon, leaving him the entire evening to simply take off his boots and fall on his welcoming bed. Simply imagining those soft cushions and freshly cleaned sheets was enough to bolster his strength and make the final steps a great deal easier.
Yet, the moment Jaime opened the door, his body froze, and his sharpened instincts warned him something was amiss. All thoughts of sleep, rest, and weariness vanished at a moment's notice, he was not alone in the room. The fact his hanging had been lowered said as much. Before he could turn to the guard or draw his recently forged silver sword, the hangings parted, and from the crack, emerged Cersei.
Before he could do much more than stare like a simpleton, his dear sister smiled sweetly in a way he hadn't seen much recently. She pressed a single finger to her lips for silence, then waved a hand for him to shut the door. Jaime regained enough sense to do both and to run a thousand questions through his head. What was she doing there, had she gone mad, did the guards see her? All of these and many more came and went unquestioned. When he turned around, Jaime's mind went blank all over again.
In the scant moments he turned around, Cersei rose from the bed and stood before him in all her naked splendor. Her golden locks glowed in the candlelight, her eyes were full of want, and her smile equal parts predatory and enrapturing.
"I know we've not spoken well in each other's company of late," She said, walking in such a way as to emphasize her hips, those, and so much more. The only piece of clothing, a Lannister necklace, accentuated her enticing breasts, coming ever closer. "But it does not have to be so, not when you're leaving me again tomorrow."
Slowly, her arms rose and entwined around his neck, her body pressing against his. There was only the faintest of perfumes on her, the smell alone doing things to him.
"Come, let us do what we've both wanted for so long."
And she was right, they did want this, ever since they were children. Before the servant informed their mother and forced them to separate ends of the castle. Even then, as a boy still green with a sword, who knew nothing of love and taking a woman, Jaime knew Cersei was the only one for him. No one knew him like she, none could make him feel what he did. Leave him sleepless and intoxicated at the mere thought of touching her soft skin, running his fingers through her hair. One of his few regrets since arriving at the Red Keep, for a time, was not being able to take her. Or rather, becoming less willing to.
Even as she closed the distance, capturing his lips in hers and giving herself into pure want, Jaime stood there, stiff... And afraid. The conversation on incest with Geralt many, many weeks past, was never too far from his mind. The fact Father and Mother both, mere cousins, may have caused their children to think this way, that their last born son was broken forever from it. No, that wasn't all that kept him from returning the embrace, it was Geralt himself. He spoke of the mere act of incest with disgust, revulsion, not even holding the Targaryens above it. If anything, he found them quite appalling for the practice.
And he was sharp, impossibly observant. He'd seen right through Jaime in scarcely an afternoon and knew precisely where and how to bring him down to reality. He would notice something amiss, Jaime knew this to be true. They were to spend the next days together, sooner rather than later, Geralt would take him aside and ask him what troubled him. Could Jaime keep bedding his own sister from him? Perhaps he could fumble through some lies and half-truths until Geralt left the matter alone. The thought almost broke his restraint.
And yet, Jaime could not budge. He could stomach keeping this part of himself a secret from Geralt, so long as it remained an idle fantasy never partook in. But after it was no longer mere reverie, becoming something real, something a man of his keen senses would pick up on... All it would take for him to know the truth was to be in the same room as Jaime and Cersei for a few minutes. An invitation from Father to join them at dinner after they return from Harrenhal. The knowedlge he had partaken in something Geralt so vehemetly loathed and despised. The look of sheer disappointment and disgust Geralt would feel toward him for partaking in such an act... I'd sooner run myself through with a sword...
"... Cersei..." His voice came out rough, strained. "... We can't..."
She blinked at him, want replaced by stunned confusion. "Can't... What do you mean-"
"We can't go through with this," He responded with more resolve, settling himself down with the breathing exercises from Geralt. "Mother was... Right to separate us, she knew nothing good would come from us pursuing this."
Cersei said nothing, staring at him until somehow, she smiled and then giggled. It seemed to take all her strength to keep herself quiet. She didn't believe him, thinking it was some game he was playing on her. The thought set a fire in his chest that spurned his insistence onward.
"This is not a jape!" Jaime whispered forcefully, hoping the severity of his voice would help her see reason. "We cannot do this, and we will not, do you understand me?!"
Her giggling ceased, and when she looked at him again, all humor vanished. "You're serious," Cersei spoke as though he'd grown another head. Already, her beautiful features began to contort from a smile capable of starting a war to something far, far uglier. "You're truly refusing me? After all these years of waiting...? Now, when I am offering myself to you in a way we've both yearned for?!"
"... Things have changed," Jaime answered, feeling a horrible ache stir in the back of his head.
"... Is this because of Lysa Tully?!" Cersei all but snarled her face inches from his. Jaime's body stiffened again, not from surprise but from the possibility she could strike him. "Did that trout fucking little whore put herself between us?!"
Once Jaime may have laughed at the thought, it still amused him privately. But it would not do this time, if he intended to impart to Cersei the severity of the situation, old habits had no place.
"This has nothing to do with the Tully girl," Jaime steely told her. He barely even remembered what his wife to be looked like. "It is only between the two of us and how our relationship... It will do neither of us any good, Cersei. We are not Targaryens, we do not and should not do what you wish us to. We're brother and sister-"
"No, we are not mere siblings," She hissed, scowling with a curled lip that removed all of her beauty entirely. "We are one, you and I. We came into this world together, we grew in our mother's womb together... Jaime... We are parts of the same whole, you cannot reject me any more than you could remove your own sword hand."
Cersei moved closer to him again, calming herself, hoping the gesture would weaken him. Jaime breathed harder and, with a hand to her left shoulder, kept her at bay. Even as the effort threatened to drain his already spent strength.
"No."
The fury took over her, and the inevitable smack to his cheek came. Only this time, Jaime was swift enough to catch it. The movement surprised her, and even tired, he could hold her in place. Then, leaning closer, Jaime tried to capture the same look on Geralt's face. The expression when he'd revealed his collection of scars and shattered Jaime's foolish notions of glory and pride.
"I said no," Cersei's eyes grew with shock and fear at his voice, her strength leaving her. "You and I are brother and sister, nothing more. And if we have to become even less to stop us from making a terrible mistake... Then so be it, Father will hear of it."
"Y-You wouldn't dare-"
"Wouldn't I?" He smiled. It was an ugly one judging by how she seemed to shrink at the sight of it. "You were certain I would never refuse you, yet I am. It is plain you do not know me, not anymore. What we both know, however, is this: Father will punish one of us more for these near follies. Who do you think will get the worse of it, I wonder?"
Cersei's palling face said it all when he let go of her hand, Jaime knew she would not strike him again. Wordlessly, she walked back to the bed and collected her discarded robes from it. Once she was clothed, Cersei walked to the door, sending a single look at him filled with poison before opening the door and slamming it on the way out. Once she left, Jaime walked to the nearest chair and fall on top of it, not trusting his legs to hold out anymore.
Father would hear of this, without question. Cersei most likely used Lannister gold to bribe his own men to let her in at this hour, without his leave. Stupidly believing gold could withstand but a single, stern glance from Tywin Lannister. It was a foolish plan, short-sighted and ill-conceived. Only his sister could think it would work. Would Father ask of it immediately? No, the journey to Harrenhal awaited, and Jaime needed his rest. That gave him time to think of a reasonable enough lie to avoid whatever disaster Cersei might bring upon them. The guards would not speak either, not to anyone but their liege lord.
But more than a few eyes were sure to find Cersei furiously crossing through the Tower back to her own chambers. And there were other ways to loosen a man's tongue than with just gold or fear, as Father told him many times. Jaime sighed, the headache growing more terrible the further he considered the many ways this could come back to bite them in the arse. With some final effort, he removed his boots and made it to his bed, and hoped he did not dream of monsters this night.
"Vort aep taedh... Vort aep taedh..."
"Speak taedh more softly. It'll help with the last parts pronunciation."
"Vort aep taedh d'yaebl... Vort aep taedh d'yaebl!"
"Perfect," Geralt smiled toasting to the Grand Maester sitting across from him. "Keep this up, my friend, and you'll be chatting with the elves as one of their own."
"A conversation enjoyed only by myself, from your own words on elven, human relations," The Grand Maester returned the gesture, partaking in some alcohol to parch his dried throat. Night had fallen well over two hours ago, covering much of his office in darkness. The parts that weren't, illuminated by candlelight, gave the impression of visiting a library or laboratory when no one was supposed to. Geralt liked it, particularly the fact no nosy spy was intruding on them this evening.
"Not all elves hold grudges, the crafter of my swords, Éibhear Hattori, would gladly speak to you. Although, much of it would be about blacksmithing." Geralt, not for the first time since their preparations began, wished for the elves presence. With his expertise, they could have used the Katakan pieces to forge stronger blades, at least one or two. When presented with the opportunity to use bones, fangs and claws as components of sword crafting, the smiths of Westeros were left amused or befuddled.
"But a few moons ago, I'd never thought I would learn of magic, monsters and a great many other things, why not add blacksmithing to the list?"
"Life does enjoy throwing many surprises at us," Geralt said, leaning back into the chair and gazing at the stars twinkling through the nearest window. "Sometimes, the surprise grows day by day."
His tone faltered Pycelle's smile, the Maester put his cup aside and looked at him with concern. "So, it is true then, what you've suspected since the first Yrden casting?"
"It is," Geralt said with an exhale, remembering the many late nights and early mornings spent meditating. Opening his meager perceptions of the power to the world around him, trying to prove a hunch and quell a fear. Time and again, he tested this with various Signs in the privacy of his own chamber. The differences were minute, but they were present. Comparing what he could do now to when he'd first arrived, there was little room for doubt. "Magic is growing stronger, Pycelle. Little by little. Before, I could scarcely produce more than a fart of wind without considerable concentration and time. Now? I could throw a grown man in full plate on his ass with but a wave of my hand."
Geralt set the drink aside and looked back at Pycelle, the older man meeting his eyes with a thoughtful look. "We'll have to provoke the wraiths holding the curse, and with the power growing, the side effect of this will be far more dangerous than I initially thought. We'll have to evacuate the castle."
"Lord Whent will not do so lightly, even under more... Mundane crises, abandoning such a place is done only under dire circumstances. Even Ser Arthur's reputation and Ser Oswell's word may not be enough."
"Which is why I've come up with an idea or two to show him, and everyone else there, that magic is quite real."
"Something I've seen before, mayhaps?" Pycelle smiled conspiratorially.
"Maybe," Geralt smirked. "As I said, I'm keeping my options open. There's still time to find an answer, we won't be reaching Harrenhal tomorrow after all."
"... I know not of this will ease or add to your burden, however," The Grand Maester rose sharply from his seat, darting to one of the smaller desks along the north side of the room. With some effort, he lifted a chest and brought it over to Geralt. "I believe it will still serve our purposes well."
"So, you're finally showing me what's inside," Geralt smiled, getting on his feet and running a hand along the length of the chest. "I was wondering when you'd do it, my medallion's been twitching incessantly."
"My apologies, but it is not often I take you by surprise after all, not in matters such as these." With a key produced from a chain of dozens, Pycelle opened the chest with deliberate slowness and revealed what was inside. When Geralt laid eyes on the contents, he couldn't stop but stare.
"Holy shit... " He said after a while, reaching into the chest once Pycelle gave him an approving nod. "How did you...?"
"Convince the king to part with it?" The Grand Maester let out a shaky laugh, a bead of sweat-producing itself across his brow. "It was not an easy task, much of my morning was spent convincing His Grace of why it was imperative to the curse-breaking process. You did say we would require suitable bait to lure the wraiths out, after all?"
"That I did..." Geralt said, hefting the lure in his hand, his medallion's vibrations intensifying from the proximity. The Witcher was indeed unsure of what to think of this, once the surprise was dulled. What he held would help and potentially doom them in equal measure. "One thing's for sure, this will definitely piss off Harren like almost nothing else."
The party out to see them off was small. The sun was yet to even fully rise, and much of the castle and city remained asleep. Their horses had already been prepared for them, fully stocked, and checked with all they would require. There was food enough for the entire journey and then some, a sizable sum of coin for any additional needs, places for books, to carry equipment on four young, strong stallions. Some of the best in the entire castle, as Aerys promised. The king and much of the small council refrained from being present, however, with some exceptions. Varys and Tywin were both in the courtyard, talking with Pycelle and Jaime, respectively. Geralt stayed with the knights, the two accompanying him and Sers Jonothor and Luwyn.
"Keep an eye on them, eh, Geralt?" Ser Luwyn asked, smiling, and patting Oswell's shoulder. "Particularly this one, the Red Keep will not be the same without his gallows humor."
"Aye," Ser Jonothor said. "Though, mayhaps we'll enjoy fewer bruises for a change."
"It's not my fault you can't avoid a sword strike for shit," Oswell laughed, clapping hands with both of them.
"If it makes you feel any better, brother," Ser Arthur said, smiling. "It's likely we'll be the ones suffering for a change."
"You can be sure we'll climb many an insufferably tall tower before its over," Geralt drily replied, earning laughs from the assembled men. While the men spoke on, he listened in on Tywin and Jaime's conversation.
"Remember all you have learned," The Lord Hand said with his usual tone of voice, keeping a respectful distance from Jaime. "Let it guide your blade to a killing stroke, and let it keep you alive."
"Yes, Father," Jaime bowed, voice resolute and respectful. "I swear, I will not fail you."
Though he did not embrace the boy, or even shake his hand, from a cursory glance, Geralt could swear Tywin graced the boy with something akin to a smile.
"I know, now, off with you, Harrenhal awaits."
Dislodging himself from the Kingsguard, Geralt approached Pycelle and Varys next. The two of them had passed the time discussing small council matters.
"Ah, Master Geralt," The Spider said with enthusiasm deceptively genuine, the Witcher's in a double handshake. "We've not spoken much since you've been excused from dinners with the king. All the same, I wish you and your company great success on the road ahead."
"Thank you, Lord Varys," Geralt said, his grip just a bit tighter than necessary. "Regardless of what happens, I'm sure you'll be the first to know either way."
If it bothered him, the eunuch did not show it, merely bowing his head with a knowing smile. Then, Geralt excused himself from them as well, letting the two return to matters of state, he stopped before Tywin last. The Lord of Lannister stood tall, unmoving with that piercing gaze of his. As always, the Witcher was undeterred by it.
"Despite all I've learned, from you and Jaime both, I do not... Fully perceive the danger awaiting you, it is of a world foreign to me," He admitted with great, pained reluctance. "Regardless, the danger is great, and that is all I need to know. You've looked after Jaime well so far, Witcher. Do not falter now."
"I won't," Geralt said with utmost honesty. "I'll tear that castle to the ground before I let it claim Jaime or anyone else in my company."
The Lord Hand scrutinized him for a few moments. Then, he nodded his head in approval, even offering his hand to Geralt. "Good luck out there, Geralt."
"Thank you," The Witcher shook it, meaning this as well. With these farewells completed, the company mounted on their horses, Ser Arthur at the front with Geralt behind him, followed by Ser Oswell, then the Grand Maester, and finally Jaime. Before he gave the command to leave, Geralt's eyes swept across the battlements and spotted a figure watching them from afar. A young man with silver hair flowing in the early morning wind. Rhaegar waved his farewell to them and then vanished from sight, back into the depths of the castle.
"Shall we?" Ser Arthur asked, bringing Geralt's attention back to the matter at hand.
"Yes, let's ride."