"Why won't it end?!"
"The gods have forsaken us!"
"It's burning everywhere... my mouth, my eyes..."
The countless cries, moans, and wails of the damned accompanied Jaime and Pycelle whilst they traversed the fiery hallways of Harrenhal. Inside the endless rooms and adjacent halls they passed by, the dead roamed and despaired. Some only stood in place, writhing in pain. Others went about whatever they did before fire destroyed their bodies and a curse trapped their souls.
The air was hot, but surprisingly enough, not stifling. The brunt of the heat and smoke was repelled by the weirwood presence on their path. Cracks along the ground and walls lessened the further they drew away from the main hall. Debris that would have caved their skulls in shrank to pebbles the size of Tyrion's littlest fingers.
Other paths less protected were not so fortunate. Where there were rooms not a few hours before, now remained only piles of fallen stone or frightening chasms leading to pits of fire and shadows. Places best avoided and not spared a single thought.
Just keep moving, Jaime repeated to himself for the hundredth time, one arm wrapped around Pycelle's back and the other still wielding his silver sword. His hand ready to attack whatever wraith waylaid them. And yet they haven't, they won't. We're halfway to the woods. It's the others Harren is after...
The poisonous notion brought dread to Jaime's heart. The witcher with secrets the Black yearned for, some of the finest knights in the realm, all now under direct threat from the vicious shade. A fleeing squire and maester are beneath his notice. Jaime quickened his step, fear and fury alike pressing him onward. A choice he'll regret if I have my way.
"My l-lord Jaime," Pycelle said, his voice nearly drowned out by the dead. "I-I do not think I can keep-"
"Just a while longer, Grand Maester."
They turned a corner, passing by a room where the sounds of pleasure and love transformed into wails of horror and misery and back again. Long-dead lovers caught in a repeating cycle since the day Balerion's flames washed over the castle more than two hundred years ago. "We're nearly... we're nearly there."
After what seemed an eternity, the trees indeed came into sight. Pycelle sighed with relief, and Jaime couldn't well begrudge him that, at least. At once, the heat vanished at the edge of the godswood. The moans of the dead and their very presence banished back into the hallways they'd left behind. The forest remaining secure despite all the madness was enough to loosen the tightness in Jaime's chest.
Finally... He let out a long, shaky breath, his eyes staring into the depths of the ancient woods. Never thought the sight of damned trees would be so comforting.
"Gods be good..." The Grand Maester's words at once put him on edge, his body tensing in anticipation of an attack or some disaster. Indeed there was one- above them.
Following Pycelle's gaze, Jaime looked to the heavens and found only hell. Streaks of blood-red fire burned along the length of walls and spires. Plumes of black and red-tinted smoke rose and bent, swaying like gargantuan shades, rising above even the tallest towers. They devoured the night sky, blotting out moon and stars alike, their unnatural spill stretching out beyond the borders of the castle. Lightning and thunder flashed and roared amongst the clouds. What appeared as snow was in truth ash and soot. They watched it all fall then vanish before their eyes whenever a flake dared to approach the trees themselves.
"Such a sight," Pycelle said after a moment's silence. "It must be visible for miles, perhaps even as far as King's Landing."
"Aye, " Jaime's grip tightened around the pommel as fear did the same to his heart. And now the others march to the heart of the madness, where that bastard Harren is strongest...
With a sense of purpose and urgency only strengthened by what existed above the castle, Jaime walked into the forest proper. The Grand Maester followed a step or two behind. The woods seemed their usual quiet self for a short time. He feared the horses had run off, spooked by all the bending of nature around them. To his eventual relief, the noble beasts were where they'd left them hours ago, tied to a tree and one another. They chewed on the nearby grass, snorting softly as though nothing at all was amiss.
No doubt the forest and godswood filling their saddlebags saw to that. Jaime approached them, running a hand across the strong necks. Lord Whent had personally chosen some of his youngest, strongest, and most fearless mares for the task of getting them away from the castle. Now, let's hope they don't throw us on our arses when we ride back into the castle.
"Come, Grand Maester," Jaime said, reaching out to the older man, offering a disarming smile that seemed to please most people. "We've much to do and little time."
"Ah, yes, thank you, my lord," The Grand Maester returned the smile, climbing onto the saddle with some effort. Jaime heard more than one bone creak in the sudden eerie silence of their surroundings. "Have no fear, I will not slow us down."
"It gladdens my heart to hear so," Jaime removed the rope holding his mare to the tree, lifting himself effortlessly into the saddle. "The sooner we get to the weirwood, the sooner we can speak with it and help the others."
"Speak to the-" The sudden spurring of the mare forward into the forest cut him momentarily off. "Master Geralt told us to leave, my lord, not to disturb the weirwoods!"
"We won't disturb it, Grand Maester," Jaime replied, holding back the anger threatening to escape at the situation and Pycelle's fear. For in truth, that was immensely unfair to the old man. He had stood his ground and spoken the spells against Harren despite his fear where lesser and younger men would have long since fled. "Contrary to what my father and sister might tell you, I am more than capable of listening."
Geralt and Pycelle had explained it a dozen times during their stay: they were not to disturb the weirwoods. Ever. Not to cut them for weapons or to make armor or move them from any place they'd spent the past near three hundred years. They were connected, an unfathomably ancient web intricately and purposefully made, and disturbing it was deemed most unwise.
Geralt feared the castle itself would become unstable once they took the fight to Harren, that his power had festered too long and sunk too deeply into the very stone, not unlike a disease contaminating the flesh. What remained of the paths lacking any weirwood presence were proof enough of that. No, disturbing the trees and risking any weakening of the weirwoods' power against the undead was deemed unwise.
"We will talk to it, Grand Maester," Jaime said to Pycelle, with a desperate hope it would come true. "To the crow or raven or whatever sort creature dwells in the midst and watches from afar. We will tell it the situation has grown worse, and we need aid if we are to end the curse once and for all. It wished to speak to Geralt of other matters, did it not? Fine, let it support us now, one more time, and we'll do whatever else it wishes of us later."
"T-The First Men spoke to the weirwoods, this is true, to swear oaths or to watch over marriage ceremonies..." Pycelle said slowly. "But my lord, it was the Blackwood blood tying together Houses Whent and Hoare that allowed the tree to answer back."
"I'm aware of that, and the tree need not give me nightmares," he replied. The gods know I'll suffer plenty of those if I live to see the end of this.
"You forget, Grand Maester, House Lannister descends from the First Men as well, and there as many tales of our past as there are of the Blackwoods. The tree has a face, it weeps sap, and it knows when someone is addressing it. I need only a sign, permission to remove a single branch, any part of it to use as a weapon against Harren. Seven hells, I'd settle for a single fucking acorn to throw!"
"And what if a simple request is not enough?!" Pycelle's voice rose with desperation and the first hint of genuine anger Jaime had ever heard from him. "The First Men made blood offerings to the weirwoods! Their innards split open and hanged from branches for all to see! To punish the wicked and to curry favor with the old gods! What if all your words fall on deaf ears?! What if you are only giving yourself false hope-"
"Then I will have done something!" The long-simmering anger burst forth in a sudden roar. Something about the way he'd been addressed broke all restraint. Jaime's voice carried through the otherwise empty and silent woods. Pycelle, wisely and immediately, shut his mouth.
"I will know I tried all that I could to save some of the finest men I've had the honor of fighting alongside. It is preferable to nothing or to cowering like the worst of cravens. Is that good enough cause to try, Grand Maester?!"
Jaime spat the title out, turning his mare to the side, allowing him to look the old man in the eye, to remind him who was in command between them. It was a look he had seen countless times before, whenever Father brought men ten times braver than Pycelle to their knees. Eyes wide, mouth stupidly agape, sweat the size of pebbles falling down their faces.
Cersei enjoyed cowing people this way, and Jaime long suspected Father did too. And to his secret shame, so did he.
It was a look he'd gotten out of Merrett Frey when the oaf had made the mistake of trying to bully him. An expression the other young boys had during Frey's reign of terror at Crakehall. At the moment, his patience long gone, Pycelle reminded him greatly of those lads, a frightened boy in an old and weathered body.
And far less used to fighting than we were even back then. The fires of Jaime's fury shrank to ashes, doused by a sudden wave of pity and shame. His eyes could not meet the maester's, much less continue to deliver a baleful glare. To the hells with this, there is work to be done. Apologies can come later. He spurred the horse forward into the depths of the forest, ignoring Pycelle's yelp.
They rushed past the trees as quickly as the wild forest path allowed. It was dark as usual, for even the light of spectral fires could not penetrate the thick leaves. Save for the trampling of horse hooves and their soft breaths, Harrenhal's godswood was as silent as a grave.
Soon enough, however, they reached Jaime's intended destination, the clearing where no other trees grew or resided. A place reserved for one unlike all the others. Its blood-red leaves captured the glow of the fires, the red deepening every other moment like the rhythmic beating of a heart against the bone-white bark. Beautiful and terrible in equal measure.
"Make sure the horses don't wander off," Jaime instructed Pycelle, climbing down from the saddle. The Grand Maester made no objections. Good, if he will not aid me then let him remain silent. With a purposeful stride toward the tree, he entered the clearing proper, closing the distance between them in short order. Ten feet separated man and source of power. The latter's murderous gaze from narrow, bloody sap flowing eyes stared back at him, as welcoming as ever. Go on boy, he could imagine its disdainful taunt from those curled lips. Go on, if you dare.
And Jaime could never refuse a dare.
"Old gods of the streams, of the stones, and of the forests." He held the sword as if to stab the earth, leaning the tip against the grass as he knelt. His head was bowed low and each spoken word held the utmost of deference, as though Jaime was addressing a king. Perhaps one even greater.
"I am Jaime, firstborn son of Tywin, lord of House Lannister and Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King. You know my purpose here, you had foreseen and foretold it to Lady Whent years ago and I am here to tell you I fear we will not succeed.
"Harren has torn the main hall and much of the castle asunder and we were forced to separate. Geralt, Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell… they head to Kingspyre tower where the wraiths await them, stronger than ever. They've no weirwood or godswood circles for aid. Not unless I bring it to them."
His fingers tightened around the pommel. "That's why I'm here. I ask for permission to remove only a single branch. One last wound inflicted upon your prized heart trees so that we may banish the one who means to inflict more evil upon this world. Help us now, and you will… you will..."
The words he'd prepared were there, and all the same, Jaime fought to speak them. One cannot lie in the presence of the old gods. He knew the saying, they'd all just about bludgeoned it into his skull. He had no intention of lying to the tree, matters were too grave for something so foolish.
Why then do I hesitate? No… I know why oaths carry weight. What does a knight do if his family and the king come into conflict, and he must choose? Those were Geralt's words on the eve of their first, proper lesson. The responsibilities of a single oath or vow, the inevitability of hypocrisy and conflict against others, and most terribly, one's own self.
Now, I'm pledging my service to this… The expression held a different meaning altogether when Jaime dared to return its gaze again. A sudden chill ran down the length of his spine, his breath caught in his throat. It's watching me now. The chill returned, a thousandfold stronger. He felt naked, intimately scrutinized in a way only his mother ever once achieved.
Go on boy, Jaime imagined the voice jeer again. Speak the words or begone.
"Your messenger spoke of other matters, the kind you need someone like Geralt for," he spoke once more, trying to sound resolute. "Lend me your aid now, and I will see to them as well. I will see them through to the end, even if all others refuse to."
He placed the length of the blade on both hands and held it out to the heart tree, bowing his head once more. "You will have my sword, until all matters are settled and my service is no longer required. This, I swear to you, old gods, on my honor as a Lannister!"
"... I too wish to offer something."
Jaime's eyes snapped open and turned his head left to find Pycelle a few paces behind him. The old man stood upright, appearing stalwart even as his exposed hands quivered. Jaime watched him take a handful of furtive steps forward and kneel down, bowing low enough for his brow to touch the grass.
"Gods of the First Men and the Children, I am Pycelle, Grand Maester of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. I have served three kings of the blood of Valyria and in the midst of this catastrophe, I seek your aid."
"What are you doing?" Jaime blurted. "Why are you-"
"You were right, my lord," Pycelle rose from his bow, settling his palms against his bent knees. He never looked away from the heart tree. "Whilst I… cowered in the godswood circles, I witnessed Harren the Black's weapon shatter against a weirwood beam like glass. A single branch could end this madness in an instant. If this is the only way to acquire it without angering the old gods, then I say again: I offer my service until all your troubles are no more!"
Pycelle's voice cracked like a boy's, his fingers nervously fidgeting with the fabric of his robes, and his face shone with his tears as he spoke.
"I do not have either strength of arm or knowledge of the sword to stand as a champion, but I will offer what I have nonetheless so greater and braver men may live. My sins are legion - I have laid with women against my vows and many were old enough to call me 'grandfather', I have worked against the one I am oathbound to serve, and I have played the game of thrones against my duties. But I will repent, nameless lords of wood, stone, and stream. For your aid in this desperate hour, I offer you my service until the day it is needed no more."
Jaime could do nothing but stare in stunned disbelief as if this moment were stranger than all else he had seen this past night. In many ways, perhaps it was.
But even as he did so, the gods answered.
The heart tree was changed. The bleeding sap had run out, the scowl about its eyes had vanished, and the yawning chasm of its snarling mouth was sealed shut. Where once was an expression of pure disdain, now was a face of calm consideration and wisdom.
A snapping sound from above caught their attention, and then another. From the mess of tangled branches and red leaves, two shapes fell, rolling across the ground until it hit their knees.
Branches… Jaime would've gasped if his voice hadn't failed him. One for each of them. Nearly the length of his silver sword and cut so neatly at the end Dawn itself couldn't have done it better. Along each long branch jutted out seven smaller ones.
"Those potions are terribly dangerous. They'll eventually kill you." Yennefer had told him that more times than they were stars in the sky. All Geralt could ever say on the matter was emphasize their necessity before a fight. Witchers could only match a fraction of a true mage's full destructive potential.
Unless one drank a Petri's Philter, then it became just a bit more.
The potion was a product of numerous failed experiments intended to permanently strengthen magical power. Failed for not achieving this end and for being poisonous enough to kill any non-mutants. Not that witchers had an easy time drinking it down either.
The philter tasted like shit-stained sewer water vomited into one's mouth through a necrophage. Unfortunately, that wasn't hyperbole, but humiliatingly painful experience speaking.
It took considerable willpower for Geralt not to retch. All his feelings of disgust and unease were released through a single, long-suffering breath. This was a dangerous game he played. Though the initial Blizzard had worn off on their run to Kingspyre, it hadn't left his system entirely. Adding a Petri's and second Blizzard elixir wasn't exactly the wisest of choices, but given the circumstances, there was little else to do.
Thus he sat there, meditating, controlling his breathing, and by extension, his metabolism to properly work the potion through his system. The two Kingsguard standing nearby observed the emptied room. Once they were quarters of some kind for visiting guests to Harrenhal but now were left almost bare save for the godswood circles they'd planted in it beforehand. A second and last place for them all to catch their breaths before heading up to the higher levels of the tower where the wraiths awaited.
Harren and his remaining servants didn't waylay them on the path there. A fact his remaining companions didn't draw much comfort from.
"He's nowhere to be seen," Oswell spat. "Too afraid to face us anywhere else, I say."
"Were we in his position, we'd do the same," Arthur replied. "Geralt, what do you make of that… ability of his, devouring his own sons. You made no mention of such a power in all your stories."
"...I've never seen one wraith consume others before, not even specters so strongly linked by a curse," he admitted with reluctance, knowing it did nothing to lift their spirits. He couldn't recall such an instance himself, from any other witcher he personally knew, or in the countless monster tomes. "It could be from any number of things: a property of the weirwood power they held in their blood, the circumstances they perished from in the presence of it, or even... something the wraiths of this world are uniquely capable of. "
"Then let us hope that's the only surprise they have for us," Arthur concluded grimly. "No matter the why or how, they must be swept off the board no matter what. Leave them to us, Geralt."
"Aye, the curs will know such fury they'll wish Harren let himself fall to your blade already," Oswell said with a bloodthirsty grin.
If only it were that easy. A thousand things could still go wrong and we're two men short… Geralt lamented in his motionless meditation, his breathing quickening and gradually slowing down. Jaime and Pycelle were just as likely out of the castle and already safe as they were to be dead for all he knew. They could be buried under stone or fallen into whatever black chasm opened beneath their feet or cut to pieces by Harren to dishearten and provoke his pursuers.
He'd rather drink ten thousand Petri's rather than live to see any one of those possibilities come true.
Now's not the time for this. Geralt slowly stood up, his breathing almost entirely halted. The ones I can help are right here, time to focus.
The fingers of his free hand swayed and bent gently in slow and deliberate motions. The power danced between them, a cauldron of different magical energies swirling throughout this singular room, nevermind the rest of Harrenhal. There was one he could only faintly sense thanks to their protection, a void of power several floors above where no weirwood presence or godswood circles existed.
"Seven hells…" Geralt heard Oswell mutter. The witcher opened his eyes to see an all too familiar fear on the faces of those he had come to call friends as they looked upon him in the aftermath of using the vile potions. Arthur said nothing but his face was so pale that it spoke volumes enough.
"I'm fine," The witcher assured them and meant it. The nausea and overwhelming weariness wouldn't overcome him for a while, even if Harren pushed him to his limits. The knights didn't bother responding. They just continued to stare, and for good reason.
He was hardly pleasant to look at on the best of days. Pronounced sickly black and green veins all across his exposed, suddenly chalk-white skin wouldn't have done his visage any favors. "Trust me, I've done this before."
"Aye so you've told us," Arthur replied quickly enough, with forced calmness. His complexion, however, was slower to recover.
Credit where it's due, they're taking it better than most others who've seen me like this. Geralt put the empty vial away, taking the second Blizzard from a bandolier pouch, eyeing the substance with distaste.
"Sod it," Oswell said in his usual forceful voice, sheathing his sword and removing the wineskin fastened around the belt. "Die tonight or live to see tomorrow, I'll have one last drink. May victory be ours and Harren be buggered in whatever hell is waiting for him!"
He raised the wineskin like a cup at a feast and drank two gulps, handing it to Arthur next. The Sword of Morning looked hesitant for a moment, not the lover of good drink like some of his sworn brothers. "Sod it," he echoed Oswell, raising the wineskin as well. "To victory and to buggering that undead son of a whore!"
Geralt smiled at the uncharacteristic swearing from the usually calm-mannered knight and returned the gesture with his Blizzard vial. "To victory!"
For once, the elixir didn't taste as foul as it usually did.
They abandoned the safety of the spare godswood circle soon after, beginning the final advance on Harren's trap-in-waiting. They kept a steady pace, not moving too quickly. The Blizzard still needed time to work through his already overtasked body and it wouldn't do for the enemy to catch them unawares. As Geralt expected, the wraiths made no attempt to attack.
All the same, simply arriving at the hall in question increased in difficulty with every step forward. The heat rose noticeably, becoming stifling. The air grew thick with an invisible and loathsome pressure pushing against their chests. Before they even reached the door of the last hall, Geralt heard the knights' breathing grow heavy. Were it not for the scant godswood soil they already carried on hand, he was certain the effects of the pure curse energy would've been manifold worse.
Methodically, like wolves passing through the territory of a bear, the three men entered the hall. They did so in a circular formation, their backs covered by one other.
The purest remaining source point of the curse visibly available for Harren appeared the same as the first night Geralt had inspected it. There were no shades wailing along the walls or screaming in perpetuity. Fires burned along the edges of the room or shone from the outside through cracks and holes, just enough to illuminate sizable swaths of the otherwise pitch dark hall.
The slithering sensation evolved. Now it was like coils of a massive sea beast were slowly being shoved into his head. Wriggling around and going through any opening, digging into the depths of the brain and skull. Despite the godswood soil they kept close, the disturbing feeling was overpowering.
"Gods… "
"This is…"
"An annoyance at most," Geralt cut them off, feeling the beginnings of the Blizzard affect his perceptions. "A futile strategy to grind us down. Is that the best you can do, Harren?"
"Certainly not, master witcher."
His voice was like an echo from the bottom of a well, carried through the hall, seemingly nowhere and everywhere. Geralt's medallion began to shake even more intensely. His free fingers bent imperceptibly, already gathering power for the Sign.
"I wish to inflict such pain on you in a more personal manner," Harren said. "Your provocations will turn to cries of pain and finally, you will beg me for mercy that will never come, just like your whore dragon queen does in the grasp of her mad husband…"
To Geralt's acute hearing, the knights' low growls and tightening steel fingers were as loud as shouts of outrage. All three were close to the center of the hall, and the Sign was almost ready.
"You will never leave this place," Harren continued to gloat. "Eternal servitude is the punishment for your defiance. I will tear every scrap of knowledge you possess on magic from the depths of your mind, your souls and flesh broken in ways I've had centuries of time to invent. And then, when I've taken all you can imagine, I will take even more." Harren's voice became amused, the medallion jerked with increasing frequency. "You three will become my next wraiths, new soldiers to replace those sacrificed, my thralls. You will, as all things in this castle are, become Harren!"
Geralt's left palm thrust toward the ground, the modified Yrden forming at his feet precious moments ere the air rippled with the wraith's power. Blinding flashes manifested around them in an instant, the largest ahead of the witcher. They changed shape, reverting to the skeletal and armored visages of the last sons of House Hoare, teleporting in to finish off their intruders as quickly as possible.
Sadly for them, they weren't as fast as the Yrden.
Harren's mace was poised to turn the witcher's head into pulp while his sons attacked the Kingsguard. The moment they struck, however, they were pushed back by a bolt of purple lightning. His howl of fury was like the finest of Dandelion's songs to Geralt's ears.
Just as they'd planned, the knights made use of the enemy's momentary surprise. They immediately positioned themselves between the Sign, using it as a fourth combatant of sorts to even the odds. The altered Yrden was focused on a single point, functioning with a mind of its own, attacking any monster foolish enough to enter its range. Most importantly, it ensured the enemy couldn't simply teleport to the men's blindspots without paying dearly for it.
Geralt rushed forward and then to the left, intending to cut off the mace-wielding left hand. Harren surprised him again. In spite of the Yrden, the great wraith recovered and persevered through the agony just as the Cat sword cut into his forearm. The witcher leaned into the slash, using the momentum to propel himself into a roll just before the massive shield could swat him across the room.
The instant his feet were back on the ground, Harren's mace came for him, again and again. Geralt ducked and sidestepped under and around each swing, retaliating with an Aard. The telekinetic blast rippled through the air, striking the mace mere inches away from Geralt's freehand. Harren spun, his balance broken and momentum entirely reversed.
Geralt pressed his advantage, tossing another vial of godswood soil to melt through the shield. Harren vanished in another flash of light, the vial harmlessly spilling soil across the ground. At once, the witcher stopped and waited, sword held high, his every muscle tense in preparation for an incoming strike. Harren returned and struck from behind and Geralt ducked and spun around, knocking aside the following strike only for Harren to disappear again.
Soon enough, both witcher and wraith entered a frenzied rhythm of blow and counterblow, slowly moving them away from the hall's other occupants. A deadly dance ensued between two beings simultaneously lesser and greater than mortal men. Where the only instruments were sword and steel, and the only music, their snarls and growls of fury.
At the hall's center, the Kingsguard knights were locked in battles of their own. Oswell stood his ground, letting his enemies' weapons crash against his shield like water against stone before his sword made them regret even trying it. Though he had yet to deliver a killing blow, Oswell smiled in the wraiths' faces regardless.
I see you, whoreson. He recognized the axe wielder, his tormentor from childhood with his melted tongue dangling out and long, black hair sticking wetly to his charred flesh as if he'd been doused by water mere moments before his death. Live or die this day, you'll trouble me no more, specter. I swear it.
He waited for them to come to him, the swordsman approaching first. Where Geralt was water, always moving, Oswell was earth - stolid and unmoving until the moment it wasn't. It was only when the first wraith was almost upon him that the knight swiftly sidestepped its downward slash, leaving it exposed to Geralt's spell. The creature shrieked and retreated when another crack of lightning struck it.
Its brother came for Oswell a moment later. The Whent grit his teeth and swung the sword sideways, knocking the falling axe to the side. For a moment, man and wraith stood inches apart, nearly face to face, until the former smiled and struck it with his helm. The undead warrior snarled and tried to retreat. But Oswell would have none of it.
With a shout born from years of nightmares and vengeance, he swung with all his might and watched with satisfaction when the skulled face was ripped asunder by the force of his shield.
At his feet, the creature bent and contorted its body, shrieking through annihilated lips, its form barely holding itself together until his sword came down upon its head, finally silencing it for all time. Was it his imagination, or had that been relief in its last wails?
Arthur kept his enemies at bay, a human whirlwind, switching seamlessly from blocking a wraith's weapon and following with a counterattack. Dawn shone as brightly as it had in the first battle, a purple light matching the Yrden and pulsing with a power that emboldened the Sword of Morning. The enemy weapons could not withstand it as every touch of its blade on them seemed to mar them. More than once, the wraiths were forced to flee beyond the range of the knight's famed greatsword and cast spells to restore them.
Not this time.
When one of the five fell, the remaining recoiled from the destruction, momentarily dazed and ripe for a killing strike. Arthur broke formation as well, rushing at the closest wraith - the hammer wielder. The creature's arms bent in a futile attempt to block the blow, but the Sword of Morning used all of his momentum and strength to unleash a swing that would've been the envy of knights across the realms. Dawn carved through the hammer's handle and the wraith's armored neck too for good measure, decapitating it in a single cut.
The remaining specters recoiled and retreated, keeping their attacks sparser and more cautious.
Harren snarled and suddenly broke off his attack, recoiling in fury and pain as if Geralt had skewered his intestines when he had been alive. The witcher felt a drop in the curse's power, the same sensation he had felt when he had felled the first of the wraiths. But it didn't put him at ease, not when the medallion's trembling began anew.
Not this time. Steeling himself for the struggle to come, Geralt pointed his free hand in Harren's direction, his fingers performing the three steps of the Axii sign. The spell came to life in a white flash, reaching its target a moment later. Now comes the hard part…
Clenching his jaw until his teeth ached from the pressure, Geralt focused as much power as he could on simply penetrating Harren's mental defenses. The wraith snarled and froze in place, its fury and willpower focused inward to overcome the psychic assault. It was not unlike banging one's head against the wall or trying to bend steel and wrap it around a raging bull. Soon, Geralt's free hand shook and his whole body froze from overwhelming tension.
Damn it, finish them already!
The hanse had to destroy the remaining wraiths, or Harren could simply heal himself once more. Geralt dared not shout this command. Even the mere thought spent on the knights very nearly broke his hold. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe and a horrible rhythmic throbbing pounded between his eyes. The remaining sounds of battle had not ended either.
Shit. Choosing to break the hold rather than overtaxing himself beyond all reason, Geralt released the Sign, gasping for air. The sounds of battle behind him still rang through the hall.
"You've troubled me enough, foreigner," Harren snarled, a very human fatigue in his voice. "Die. Die forever like the rest of the mongrels under my power!"
The strongest of the foul spirits roared, lifting his shield high into the air. Geralt retook control of his breathing, knees bending in anticipation of the throw. Except it never came. Or at least, not at him. As if metal monstrosity weighed nothing at all, Harren tossed it across the hall to where the Kingsguard were.
Geralt had no time to think, to even consider if his Yrden could deflect a projectile of such size. His hands thrust in the direction of the flying shield, unleashing an Aard. The blast traveled almost instantaneously across the room, sending pieces of broken stone and dust into the air. The shield rang with an irritating, drum-like noise as it was knocked aside. It spiun wildly, landing in the eastern side of the hall.
Harren was on him in an instant, wielding the mace with one hand. Geralt attempted a sidestep but the distance was too great and time was not on his side this time. To his great fortune, the first swing passed scant inches from his face rather than reduce it to pulp.
The next attack was so bold, so unlike anything else any foul spirit had ever tried, Geralt could not help but be surprised. Even a little impressed. With his free hand, Harren grabbed the blade of the silver Cat sword. He snarled and held on in spite of the pain and Geralt's attempts to break free. When the mace swung for his torso, the witcher was left with no choice but to let go.
At once, Harren's weapon hand swung in the opposite direction, striking Geralt across the left cheek. His whole world flashed white from the impact and blood filled his mouth in moments. Black spots filled his clearing vision as he clumsily stumbled back. His ears, however, didn't ring so loudly as to miss the sound of something whistling through the air. It wasn't the mace for sure. Geralt sidestepped to the right, trying to use what strength he could to evade whatever blow came next.
Only years of experience ensured that rather than a scream of pain, a snarl of rage ensued from his lips as his own sword impaled him through the shoulder. His step turned into a fumbling, painful roll across the ground. Ironically enough, that may have saved him.
The throbbing sensation that exploded throughout his entire body was like a pail of cold water doused over him, refocusing Geralt's other senses immediately.
Before the next attack could strike him down, Geralt forced his body up and thrust his good arm forward in the wraith's direction. The black steel would have succeeded in ripping the limb off had it not been for the Quen barrier that stopped it. Harren's scream of rage nearly burst his ears, his maddened strikes failing to break through the bubble of energy surrounding the witcher. The semi-transparent yellow construct of power surrounded him from all sides and Harren's teleportation would amount to nothing. Not that this deterred him from trying.
Good, at least he's not throwing shields at the others. Geralt calmed his breathing, taking back control of his heart rate and dropping it as low as necessary. Blood loss wasn't too bad, he hadn't hit a vital vein or artery. Now if I could just move it.
It wasn't a question of pain. Geralt had long accustomed himself to withstand injuries where the pain alone should have had a normal man begging for a sleep that never ended. No, it wasn't that. It was a question of basic anatomy and physiology. He couldn't risk placing the hand in the proper casting position, not without tearing through his own flesh. I have to discharge, buy myself some time to pull this out-
A sudden shift in the power took away what little breath Geralt allowed himself, his blood turning to ice. Glancing at where the wraiths kept a fair distance from the Kingsguard, daring them to leave the Signs protection, his Yrden's light dimmed until it vanished entirely. A low and dark chuckle outside the barrier caught his attention. Geralt could swear he saw that lipless face form a smile. Before he could even break the shield to stun the undead creature, Harren's shape already glowed, teleporting away.
"Look out!" Geralt shouted, breaking the shield. "He's coming for you!"
The knights immediately broke apart and fled, Harren appearing a few feet behind where the Sign once was. Though his mace failed to directly strike either one of them, the impact tore floorboards asunder, sending the wood hurtling through the air.
Oswell was struck in the back by one fragment. His balance did not fail, but he was delayed long enough for a flail wielding wraith to meet him. Arthur was waylaid by the spearbearer, spinning its weapon with a renewed speed and enthusiasm.
Casting a weaker Quen shield over his body, Geralt grit his teeth and pulled at the sword, keeping his breath rate as slow as possible. Moments later, it exploded when something struck him from behind. Geralt leaped forward, landing on one hand and balancing himself on it before pushing off and landing on his feet just. Harren teleported to his side. Geralt sidestepped the first swing and performed a minor Quen counter, discharging the spell an instant before the next swing impacted.
This time, the wraith king did not howl so much as cackle in spite of the pain he must have felt. "Go ahead, witcher. Use the first spell you wreaked such havoc on us with." He roared with mad laughter, pointing the mace at him as if it were a sword. "It's the only way you will gain enough time to remove that sword!"
Geralt's hatred of the loathsome beast before him intensified tenfold. Harren was right. Petri's wasn't spent yet, so he could cast another altered Yrden and pull the sword out. But in those precious moments, he'd butcher Arthur and Oswell like dogs…
The odds were already not in the knights' favor.
Arthur traded blows with the spearman as best he could, for while the foul spirit could not commit to a prolonged assault thanks to Dawn, neither could the Dornish knight land a direct strike. Without the Yrden to deter or slow them, the creature could vanish far beyond his reach and reform its weapon. When it did strike, it moved with such practiced speed, a maddening spins of thrusts, sweeps, and feints.
The wraith thrust forward, only to disappear when Arthur readied to block, reappearing behind him and striking his helm with such strength it flew off his head. Only the knight's meager witcher training kept him from landing on his arse. He spun around on one leg and thrust his blade in retaliation.
Alas! The spirit disappeared again. When next it appeared, the tip of its spear managed to scrape the surface of his chest plate. No blood had been drawn, but how long this could last, he was not certain of.
The flail struck Oswell again, removing one of the wings adorning his helm. The Kingsguard snarled and swung his sword only to cut naught but air. When it reappeared moments later at his side, he succeeded in bashing the flail away before his own blade cut through the air once more. His enemy's shortsword screeched against Oswell's longsword, the silver blade coming close to striking the undead flesh only for the accursed flail to swing once more.
"Shit!" Oswell snarled, lowering his head lest it score another blow and break his attack. The fell spirit followed after, spinning the weapon unceasingly with a speed he would've thought impossible mere months ago. It came for his legs next, but Oswell backstepped and swung to cut its chains. The wraith pulled it back and spun its entire legless form alongside the flail.
Oswell bent his knees and waited for the blow to come, for the creature to disappear once again. It did so, reappearing to his right. When he slashed again, he realized too late it was not the flail that was meant to strike him first but the shortsword, thrown as if it were a knife.
The speed of the throw sent every instinct in his body on fire. There was no time to reposition and block with the shield. Instead, he hastily sidestepped, the blade passing so close to his cheek it scraped the side of his helm. All of it happened in less time than for a heart to beat once, but the wraith already came for him again.
The chains wrapped around his left leg, its spikes cutting through his armor about the ankle. When the wraith pulled, it was with the strength of several men. Oswell's thoughts were scattered as if they were hens beset by a fox as he almost flew across the air. He landed with all the grace of a tavern drunkard, the very wood underneath creaking and cracking as his entire weight fell on it.
"Thrice…damned…cunt…" He gasped for breath, his whole body shook from the impact. Forcing it to act, Oswell attempted to cut the flail still encircling his leg. Or he would have, if the wraith hadn't driven its shortsword through his right forearm deep enough for the hilt to press against the plates, pinning it to the ground.
The fell spirit removed the flail and conjured another blade, hovering over Oswell, away from his futile shield swings. "I was not quiet in life and I'll not leave it quietly," The Kingsguard roared, swinging again and again, every painful throb from his pierced limb utterly ignored. "Come on, do your worst!"
Harren laughed malevolently through his son's wraith."I, hehe, humbly thank you, little whelp, for volunte-"
"VORT AEP TAEDH D'YAEBL! VORT AEP TAEDH D'YAEBL!"
"Wha-NO! NOOOO!"
The thunder of the magical words outrang even Harren's screams, echoing from the hall's entrance and running through its entire length. It was the howling of the strongest wind, the cracking of the heavens above and the earth below, of the angry sea washing away all in its path. It was, in a sense, the inevitability of death approaching at long last. Living and dead alike heard it but only one of them fully perceived the discharge of overwhelming power rippling the air.
Geralt felt it wash over him, familiar, primordial magic whose purity was contained in only one thing in all of Harrenhal. And now the source of it was at the entrance, embodied in two weirwood branches with glowing, red leaves. Held by the utterly exhausted and mismatched pair of Pycelle and Jaime.
They'd brazenly disobeyed his orders. Never was he more thankful that someone had not listened to him.
The wraiths convulsed in pain, giving out unearthly shrieks. Their assault on Geralt and his company was halted as they struggled to merely mantain their form. Unfortunately for them, Geralt wasn't about to make it any easier for them. At once, he reached for the very last vials of godswood soil he possessed and threw them at Harren.
The great wraith shrieked and aimlessly swung his mace, overwhelmed by agony as soil spilled over him . Geralt couldn't stop smiling even as he, at long last, removed the Cat sword from his shoulder and jumped back into the fray
Pycelle split from Jaime, ignoring the pain in his heaving chest and the ache of his knees for a madness he had not felt since the days of his youth overtook all thought of resting. He was as relentless as the horses who had very nearly died bearing them through the accursed castle. The staggering wraith next to Ser Oswell snarled even as its body continued to flicker.
"Vort aep taedh d'yaebl!" The Grand Maester's voice boomed with a strength that surprised even he. A sense of righteous fury burned in his chest, anger for what the foul spirit had done to his comrades. Snarling and gritting what teeth he still had, Pycelle swung the weirwood branch, shattering the specter's flail and limbs like glass. "VORT AEP TAEDH D'YAEBL!"
He stabbed the bottom end of the branch into its snarling mouth and shouted with a fury of ten men, pushing it down and down until at long last, the accursed spirit crumbled into dust at his very feet.
Pycelle gasped and watched it disappear. For a moment, he simply stared into nothing, wondering what force had possessed him. The spell was broken by the sound and sight of an elated, albeit sorely wounded, Ser Oswell.
"Pycelle, by the gods, I'll make sure you're knighted for this!"
"..there is time for that later, ser." Putting the branch close to the ground, he knelt by Ser Oswell's side and tried his best to help the man up. The Grand Maester hoped his newfound strength would not fail him then.
The old maester was not alone in his madness.
Jaime ran toward the spirit hovering close to Ser Arthur. An icy coil of dread had crept into his heart when his eyes beheld the awful scene of the Sword of Morning losing ground to the loathsome wraith. Arthur, emboldened by the approaching presence of an ally, sallied forth once more.
Swinging Dawn with a dancer's grace, the Dornishman carved the spear in twain and left a burning slash mark across the creature's chest. Then, the young Lannister roared like the great beast that had become his family's sigil in a bygone age and threw himself at the stricken wraith. Like a hot knife through butter, his silver blade cut open the specter's throat.
With a flash of light, the last of Harren's sons faded into oblivion with only a dying whimper to mark his passing.
"Thank you, lad… '' Ser Arthur gasped out smiling, for not even his exhauston would rob him of his joy in their victory. "You've done a job worthy of ten thousand songs. Aye, both of you have."
"Well," Jaime smiled in return. "I couldn't let the three of you have all the glory-"
"Accursed wretches!" Harren's enraged howl forestalled any further talk. The knight and the young lord turned, to be met with the sight of the wraith and Geralt locked in a frenzied duel of black steel and glowing silver.
"Come, Jaime! We've still more work to do!" Ser Arthur ran towards the dueling pair, and Jaime followed without hesitation.
"All of you!" the wraith king raged, swinging his mace to and fro. Geralt put another end to it with an enhanced Aard, blasting Harren away with such force he sailed through the air, only stopping when his mace crashed into the ground. "You will all pay for this…"
Earlier, the fury in his voice would have troubled Geralt far more. But now, the ground no longer quivered in his wake for the combined power of godly weirwoods and magic had greatly diminished his power. Harren hadn't manifested his shield or teleported even once since Pycelle's most powerful incantation.
"Well now," Geralt smiled nastily, unable to squash the desire to rub it into the vile thing's face and feeling absolutely no regrets about it. "Isn't this a fine reversal of fortunes? What are you waiting for, Harren, here I am. You wanted to kill me, did you not?"
The ghost was so taken back that he could only stare in silence, his featureless eyes gaze blank and mouth agape. The witcher was not surprised in the least that the wraith's last piece of composure had crumbled in the face of such provocation and disrespect. Disbelief turned into rage, and rage into frenzied action. With his weapon high, Harren the Black rushed headlong into absolute defeat.
Geralt merely waited, his weapon held low and power dancing between his free fingers. The Blizzard and Petri's both were nearly spent, but he had just enough left of both to make one last move.
As Harren swung, Geralt retaliated, gathering all the power he could for a final Quen counter. Instantaneously, a barrier of yellow energy surrounded him once more. It shattered nearly as quickly, unleashing a colossal discharge of lightning. The wraith was overwhelmed by it and pushed back. His entire being was aglow, the lightning crackling through it and burning him from the inside out. What few teeth he had left snapped out of their sockets and burst out of his mouth.
And still, he would not stop, snarling through a lipless mouth and raising his mace once more. Or he would have, if Dawn hadn't then descended upon his forearm, severing it and leaving nothing but a steaming stump. Harren had scarcely any time to react in any manner before Jaime approached the ghost from behind and drove the weirwood branch through his torso.
A soundless scream left the gaping maw of Harren's mouth, his featureless eyes staring wildly at the ceiling. His body flickered and shifted in place unceasingly until Jaime put an end to it with a twist of the branch. The wraith king froze, a visage of pain and horror.
At long last, true death had finally come for him as he began to fade. By the time Oswell and Pycelle reached the rest of their friends, there was nothing left of him at all.
None of the five men said anything for what seemed like hours. Even their breath was still as they looked at where the wraith once was, then at each other, and back again.
"Is..." Jaime spoke, wetting his dry lips. "Is it over?"
A sudden burst of thunder shook the room. The five men rushed to the nearest window, huddling around it to see what was happening. They watched in silent awe as the storm above them rippled and shifted across the sky. The fire, the smoke, even the accursedly everpresent heat, streaked across the air over their heads and was sucked into the storm's blood-red center.
For a short while, its heart glowed in the night sky as if it were a second sun, shining upon the world with its terrible glory. It began to grow smaller, shrinking into itself and sending Geralt's medallion into a frenzy. Then, just as quickly as the terrifyingly beautiful sight had come to life, so too did it end. The accumulated power burst across the heavens with such brilliance that it was painful to look upon. But look they did, unflinchingly watching as a massive flame burst in all directions for miles and miles, devouring the blackness of the night and even the light of the moon and stars.
And then... nothing. The wine-dark sky was studded with silver and bathed in the light of the glowing moon as if it were any other night. Such a simple sight had never looked more beautiful.
"Now, it's over…" Geralt sighed, feeling the power around them drop. The constant quivering of his medallion had now slowed to a slight tremble. They removed themselves from the window, slumping against each side of the it as their weapons fell and clattered against the ground.
"... Fuck," Jaime muttered.
"Quite right, young Jaime," Arthur laughed, pressing the back of his hand against a cut on his forehead.
"I've got something for our injuries," Geralt said while reaching for some ointments and bandages, courtesy of the Priestess of Melitele.
"As do I," Oswell grunted, uncorking the wineskin with his teeth even as blood trickled through his wound.
"I would help you with those, Geralt," Pycelle said through gasps. "Truly I would. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"...I can't feel my bloody legs."
The four turned their heads and stared at the old man.
Whenever they were asked later, none of them could recall who had started laughing, or even, if they had all started it immediately. All they did know was that the moon had never seemed so bright, the silence of the hall so pleasantly peaceful, and the sight of friends and sword-brothers more joyous. They knew they laughed their hearts out, their merry band of five, in sheer relief and joy to be alive.
By the time they halted, every single one of them was short of breath and their throats and faces ached. They settled into a short and comfortable silence for a while, broken only by Geralt rising to finally apply the medicines.
Just as he rose to his feet however, the witcher's medallion jerked sharply and shook with growing intensity. A power was rising in the hall once more. But if it wasn't Harren, what was it?
"W-What is that?" Jaime asked, reaching for his sword, and the others following his example. Geralt did not as he gestured for them to stop and wait.
The suddenly visible being approaching them made no sounds as his feet touched the ground. He was a boy, no more than seven or eight years old. He was well-dressed, the image of fine clothing and a furred cloak draped over his shoulders, but his features were eerily familiar.
The spirit looked at them all, smiling and at ease. The hanse could see the joy and relief in his large eyes. "I had always hoped this day would come, the day someone would arrive and end my father's reign of terror. The day when we can finally rest."
Pycelle gasped and Oswell cursed under his breath.
"The eighth child, the first of you all to suffer the curse..." Geralt muttered, a feeling of overwhelming pity for the boy overtaking the righteous fury directed at his father. As he spoke, the hall was slowly filled with more spirits until there was no end to be seen of their number.
The tortured, screaming shadows of Harrenhal were gone. In their places were the inhabitants of Harrenhal as whole as they had been before the Black Dread's flames had washed over the castle. Laughing children played in their mothers' arms as their fathers watched proudly, maids sung songs, and friends roared in joy as they greeted each other at long last. On and on, it went.
They all looked at Geralt and his hanse in joy. In relief. In graitude.
"Thank you, noble knights," The young prince proclaimed, falling on one knee and bowing his head. As did every single one of the spirits present. "On behalf of all of us who have been trapped here: thank you for ending this nightmare. From the bottom of our hearts, we wish you, the Heroes of Harrenhal, good fortune in life and in death."
"Hail!" They rose back up, shouting with a thousand voices. "Hail, the Heroes of Harrenhal!"
And so they passed from this world, their forms flickering out of existence one by one until the prince was the only one left. Then he too disappeared, and only the five living men were alone in the great hall.
And may good fortune smile upon you all too, the witcher hoped with all his heart as he gazed at where the boy once stood.
"Is your witchers' work always like this, Geralt?" Jaime asked.
"Honestly? No. It's a hard and lonely life with shit pay," Geralt said morosely. "It's dangerous, tragic, bloody, and most of the time, you wonder why the hell you do any of it for."
The witcher turned and smiled in genuine joy to his friends. "Then you live to receive rare and genuine gratitude like this, you know to yourself you did something truly great and good, and then it's all absolutely worth it."
A/N: And with that, the main Harrenhal story-line is completed! Oh there are dangling threads left for sure but I really wanted to resolve the main conflict in this chapter, hence the length. It went through a lot of revisions and rewrites. Ultimately, I'm very happy with it and would like to thank [USER=321792]KnightStar[/USER] for ironing out the many kinks, polishing it so well. This will be the last chapter I'll post for a month. I've got lots of college stuff to do so I won't be able to write much. If an update does drop, I expect it'll be shorter word count wise, definitely not the mammoth this one turned out to be lol.