The yard of Harrenhal was teeming with people, the largest gathering Geralt had yet seen. Men-at-arms of House Whent stood tall upon the walls, bearing shields and tall pikes with the standard of their house aloft. Servants and smallfolk of all ages packed together so tightly that a cavalry charge could not break their ranks. The retinues of the visiting lords formed an inner circle, their mail and shields and steel gleaming in the morning sun as they prepared for days of hard riding ahead. Their banners joined with those of House Whent, fluttering in the cooling breeze, with wolves, falcons, trouts, and stags emblazoned upon them.
The Whents themselves were at the heart of this mass of people, bidding farewell to all their guests.
We're finally leaving. Geralt repeated to himself several times since he'd woken two hours prior, unable to shake the thought. As a Witcher, he was accustomed to a wanderer's life, travelling wherever he needed to earn coin and survive another year on the Path. The Temple of Melitele and Kaer Morhen were the only exceptions he could consider, and he dared not visit the old Witcher stronghold since Vesemir's death. Nevertheless, the notion of leaving Harrenhal filled him with a strange melancholy he was unaccustomed to.
Harrenhal was a damn ugly place, a foreboding ruin where it took forever to get anywhere. It was a monument to a lunatic's ego, a deathtrap that had caused the misery of thousands of people. Just making the place somewhat less deplorable had nearly killed him and his friends a dozen times over.
While Walter shook the hands of Rickard Stark and Lord Arryn, Geralt's eyes were drawn to his companions, lined up to his left. The nearest was Jaime, followed by Pycelle, Arthur, Oswell, and Baratheon. Geralt silently watched them and quickly knew what, among many other things, would bind Harrenhal closely to him until the end of his days. It was the place their party had come together.
Pycelle had found his courage and purpose. Jaime had flagrantly disobeyed and come back to help, saving the entire effort in the process. Arthur and Oswell had been given the chance to be true knights, defenders of the realm instead of sentries for a mad king.
And I found new friends. Geralt thought, looking at each of the Five again and committing them to memory. Tall, rested, prepared for the dangers to come. Alive. How many of them will still be alive when all this is over?
The next few moments only intensified the twisting feeling that had settled into Geralt's gut. Lord Walter and Lady Shella reached Oswell, and without any thought or care for appearances or lordly behaviour, the two brothers looked at each other and embraced.
Walter's voice was rougher than usual as he spoke into his brother's right ear. "Don't do anything stupid, for a change," he warned. "I mean it. I want you by my side when we celebrate our victory over the Others."
Oswell laughed. "I'll try not to claim all the glory for myself, just this once." His eyes were only slightly watery. Then he grew serious, gazing sternly at his brother and nodding. "We will see each other again, I promise."
"I know that, you fool. What I want is for us to see each other while we're still alive."
"Gods willing, it will be so," Lady Shella said, hugging him next and kissing him on the left cheek. "May they watch over you, and all your companions."
Oswell bid his nephews and nieces farewell next, the older ones stoic while the youngest valiantly held back their tears. Meanwhile, their parents addressed the remaining five. Even with them, Geralt could sense a hint of sadness behind their smiles.
"My advice for Oswell concerns all of you," Lord Walter said, clasping Geralt's hand firmly. "Take care of yourself, Master Witcher. I look forward to welcoming you and your fine party back to more peaceful times."
"There is still much work to be done before then."
"Aye, and I will assist in any way I can. You have my word, my friend," Lord Walter released Geralt's hand and gestured to his subjects. "As long as a single soul of House Whent remains, you and your deeds shall never be forgotten. You have vanquished the shadow that threatened our future, and we shall aid you in ensuring the next threat meets the same fate."
"My husband speaks the truth," Lady Shella said, beaming at Geralt. "I have no doubt you will once again accomplish the impossible."
Geralt had seen this look before, when Lady Shella had revealed her visions of the curse-breaking. It was a look of complete trust and unbridled hope that all would end well. Faced with it, the Witcher concealed his own doubts behind a practised mask of self-control and bowed his head.
"Thank you for your trust, my lady," he said, pressing a kiss to her hand. "I shall endeavour to be worthy of it."
She laughed. "You already are, my friend."
Moments later, the Five and the high lords mounted their steeds. The great assemblage of people parted, allowing them a clear shot for the main gate. Ere Lord Tully could gesture for them to ride out, a cry issued forth from someone in the back of the smallfolk.
"Hail the Heroes of Harrenhal!" Geralt turned sharply and noticed an aged man of at least sixty winters cupping both sides of his mouth. "Hail! Hail!"
Soon, the yard burst forth with similar cheers. The voices of young and old, the hearty and the wizened, soldiers and farmers, blacksmiths and stablehands became one, overwhelming voices echoing through the yard and vast, black stones. Such was the force of these unified cries that even the steeds, trained for war and the chaos therein, neighed and stomped in place, so taken aback were they.
Once Geralt had managed to calm his own steed down, he turned to his right at the Whent's and saw the knowing looks Walter and Shella gave him as they too joined the cheers. Even as part of him knew it would take much more to win the coming war than just cheers and thanks, all the same, the Witcher smiled and bowed his head in recognition of their gesture moments before he and the Five at last left Harrenhal behind them.
As they entered the shadow of the long archway, the people's cheers following them, Geralt's face remained unchanged. On the other side of the main gate, they were greeted by green farm fields bathed in bright sunlight.
"At last, he smiles," Oswell commented to Jaime from behind Geralt. "I was afraid he'd be moody throughout the whole war."
"Aye, you'd think he was practising to scowl the Others into submission."
Geralt snorted and turned his head momentarily to glance at them. "Just shut up and ride."
For the next four days, the Five, their lords, and their retinues drove their horses and themselves to the brink, from the moment the sun first kissed the sky to the moment it withdrew from view. In ordinary circumstances, a journey from Harrenhal to Maidenpool would take a week, but their forced pace cut it down by a third.
The expansive and fruitful farmlands that encompassed House Whent's lands gave way to a long expanse of towering and robust soldier pines that reached towards the heavens. Here, the numerous rivers that lend the kingdom its name trailed along the well-trodden road and occasionally intersected with the riders on their way to Maidenpool. The warm summer light, chilled only by a slight breeze, welcomed the riders as they encountered many groups of travelling traders and local soldiers along their way, who typically yielded to them to avoid impeding their progress.
Numerous inns and taverns were passed on the journey, all of which appeared to be thriving, but the riders only halted at one for the trip's duration. Otherwise, they camped and slept under the stars. The soldiers' impressive efficiency was laudable to Geralt; within an hour, they could dismount, assemble the tents, bedrolls, and other necessities and create an entire campsite. Equally as swiftly, the following morning, they would pack up and prepare to ride once again.
The journey was quiet, with little conversation exchanged, as horse-riding at this speed was arduous enough without attempting to converse. By evening, everyone was too preoccupied with readying themselves for the following day's ride. Geralt was unfazed by this, as he had grown accustomed to long rides with nothing and no one to talk to, except for one of his Roche's.
The one Geralt had been most concerned about for the journey proved himself more than capable. Even a young man would have found such a relentless pace taxing, yet Pycelle held himself admirably. He never complained or slowed down, nor did he force them to rest, galloping on with steely determination. When he dismounted, Geralt noticed how he did so without assistance and went about preparing his own sleeping arrangements without showing any signs of fatigue or pain from the ride.
Still, they were all quietly relieved when the flat forest gave way to rolling hills as they approached the eastern coast of the Riverlands. On the fourth day, two hours before sunset, the mass of riders halted to take in the city that lay before them.
Geralt caught the scent of salt in the air and the cries of gulls long before they came into view. As they stopped, he saw the tall pink stone walls that stood out against the blue of the sea and the greens and browns of the surrounding farmland. From a distance, he heard the cries of men, the ringing of harbour bells, and saw ships of all kinds sailing in and out of the harbour.
Shortly thereafter, a group of seven men bearing the blazon of a red on a white field with golden treasure rode up to greet and escort them into the city. The men of House Mooton welcomed them with the usual courtly courtesy and informed Lord Tully that Lord Mooton had prepared a grand feast to welcome his many guests and was eager to assist them in any way he could.
The city they briefly stayed in reminded Geralt of Novigrad. It was a prosperous town with traders and artisans from across the Seven Kingdoms and the Narrow Sea. The number of timber taverns they rode past was matched only by the multitude of revelry they heard emanating from them. As they rode to the highest hill on the coastline, Geralt saw the castle constructed atop it, towering over the rest of the town. Its grey walls shone brightly in the late sunset.
Within the castle, Geralt noticed numerous tapestries, carpets, statues, paintings, and other assorted purchases from the Free Cities. Large black cat statues, reaching up to Geralt's chest, were scattered around the hallways. Tapestries depicted scenes of battles for the Disputed Land. Lord Mooton, who was scrawny and well into his fifties, adorned himself with shining and elaborate gold necklaces and a jeweled ring on every finger. Geralt overheard Lord Tully grumble about how he looked more like a Myrish cheesemonger than a lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
During the feast, Geralt went through all the formalities, drank to the many toasts, and entertained the members of House Mooton with his tales. Besides seeing Howland forced out of his usual, greenmen attire, it was an unremarkable affair.
The morning after, they headed for the docks. There, ss promised by Rhaegar, three of the fastest galleys in the royal fleet awaited them. The banner of House Targaryen flew atop each of the three masts, and Geralt estimated there was enough room for over 30 pairs of oars in total. Each galley was over 120 feet long and nearly 25 feet wide.
One galley would take Elbert Arryn to Gulltown and then further north to White Harbor, where Eddard Stark would disembark. There, the young lords were to head for their kingdoms' respective seats and begin laying the initial preparations for the fight against the Others until their uncle and father respectively returned to take full command. The rest of the highlords and the Five would head to King's Landing along the south coast.
The journey lasted a mere five days with the wind favoring them almost the entire way. Geralt and his companions passed the time in conversation, discussing both grave and trivial matters or considering what exercises they could do without troubling the crew.
The first sign of King's Landing came into view as Geralt stood on the portside, hands resting on the wooden railing. The sea breeze blew into his face, carrying with it a terrible odor that stung his nose like a wasp bite, his eyes threatening to water at once. Then, the Red Keep appeared on the horizon, its seven-drum towers of pale red stone almost aglow in the mid-morning sun.
Geralt heard the thump of boots against the wooden deck behind him. Moments later, Arthur arrived, already donning the white armor of the Kingsguard. In his peripheral vision, the Witcher noticed a severe, haunted look etched on his friend's face as he gazed up at the castle towering above them.
"Feels like years since we last set foot here, doesn't it?" Geralt remarked.
"Aye," Arthur answered with a heavy voice. "Much has changed in the world, and in us."
Geralt saw his friend's gloved hands clench tightly around the railing. "Aerys is dead," he said, hoping to alleviate some of Arthur's troubles. "You don't have to answer to him or his degenerate whims anymore."
"The stains of his crimes that I allowed to go unpunished linger. No, Geralt," Arthur's body shook with his sigh. "There is one person I must answer to in the Red Keep, and her words will cut into me deeper than any blade."
The Witcher could easily guess whom he meant. Nonetheless, he had no words to comfort Arthur's guilt. He wagered Arthur wouldn't accept any words of comfort, and there were merely some failures that words couldn't ease the pain of, or the guilt.
Soon, their ship sailed into the mouth of the Blackwater. Scores of vessels of all kinds sailed to and fro the harbor. Carracks and long ships from the Seven Kingdoms and beyond bobbed on the waves, along with simple fishing vessels for one or two men out to make their haul for the day. On the countless quays, innumerable ships lay docked, some empty, while others unloaded their cargo into the city.
A significant portion of the docks had been cleared for their arrival.
Men-at-arms, donning red and gold cloaks, stood united, holding House Targaryen's banner aloft atop their long pikes. Positioned a few paces behind the Small Council, the Kingsguard, and their monarchs at the forefront of the welcoming party. Geralt spied Varys' purple and green silk robes and the golden lion roaring on Tywin's red tunic. However, the absence of Wisdom Rosart caught his attention, and he hoped the old sadist had been thrown down a long flight of stairs. Fat Staunton, the boot-licker, was gone too. In his stead, Geralt guessed, was Jon Connington, a young man with flame-red hair, a slightly bent nose with an equally red scar running horizontally in the middle. Geralt remembered him as one of Rhaegar's closest advisers and the new Master of Laws.
Beside him stood another tall young man, perhaps the same age as Ciri, garbed in an orange tunic with red and gold highlights, knee-length and similar in style to his sister, the new queen. Geralt recognized him as the infamous Red Viper, feeling the youth's eyes upon him as the galley halted at the quay. Arthur had warned him about this one, a fierce youth who could laugh with you like a best friend only to slit your throat moments later if you offended him. He had earned his moniker by poisoning the man whose paramour he had been found in bed with.
Geralt would have preferred to deal with someone more even-tempered, but Arthur assured him that, despite his recklessness, Oberyn could be an asset and when properly motivated, was a force to be reckoned with. During his long exile following the poisoning, he had apparently traveled to the Citadel, earning many Maester chains and had taken part in numerous adventures across the Free Cities. First-hand knowledge and experience would be invaluable for their mission in Essos.
The three galleys gradually arranged themselves one after another at the docks. The high lords were the first to descend down the long, wide wooden ramps, followed by the Five and Howland Reed, and finally, the lords' personal retinues. Once they had all set foot on land, the entire arriving group dropped to one knee in unison before their new monarch.
Rhaegar had seen fit to correspond with them personally, several times throughout their sojourn at Harrenhal. From his missives, they had gleaned that a swift coronation had taken place soon after Aerys' funeral. The city was in tumultuous disarray, both from the king's demise and the breaking of the curse that had wrought havoc upon the animal population. Geralt found himself in agreement with this. There were far more pressing matters at hand than squandering time and coin on some grandiose ceremony.
Likewise, as Howland began to expound upon their plan of action against the Others and where to locate the necessary resources, Rhaegar was all ears. The young king had already set in motion mining operations for obsidian on Dragonstone, as they had witnessed for themselves during their recent passage by the isle.
Approaching them now, Rhaegar gestured for the group to rise, and patiently waited as they complied, addressing them in turn. It was then that Geralt noted an intriguing detail about the king's attire. Clad in the customary colours of his noble house, accentuated now by a cape of black and red with white fur upon the shoulders, he also wore a crown upon his head. Fashioned from pure gold and bearing eight points, the largest of which was adorned with a three-headed dragon, the remaining points were marked with the sigils of all the great houses represented right on the king's head.
Geralt knew the nobles would undoubtedly take note of the young king's grand display. As with most high born people, grand gestures were their bread and butter. Rhaegar and Elia took their time speaking with each of the high lords, and the princess even managed to get a laugh out of Baratheon with her charms. Meanwhile, Rhaegar reminisced with Tully and Arryn about a tourney they'd all attended several years ago. Queen Dowager Rhaella, looking healthier than the last time the Witcher had seen her, also managed to elicit a smile or two from the grim Lord Stark. The boy Viserys, however, was polite but reserved.
Geralt couldn't help but pity Viserys for missing Aerys. In many ways, the boy was the only one who mourned the late king. But to Geralt, a monster like the mad king was hardly worth a second thought, let alone any mourning.
After the highlords received their due attention, the new king and queen turned their attention to the Five. "It is a pleasure to see you unharmed, Master Witcher," Queen Elia beamed at him. "All of you. Your service to the Realm is unmatched."
"Indeed," The Witcher expected a nod of courtesy. Instead, Rhaegar extended his hand, a gesture he would repeat with all of them. "On behalf of the Seven Kingdoms and House Targaryen, I express my heartfelt gratitude for your services rendered. Once the current crisis is resolved, I will ensure that you are all rewarded as is fitting."
"Your Grace, thank you," Geralt shook his hand and bowed his head. After all the formalities were complete, they began their journey back to the Red Keep.
Passing through Fishmonger's Square to ascend up Aegon's Hill, they wove their way through crowds of people. The Five soon dispersed among the front of the gathering. Jaime was summoned to his father's side, while Arthur and Oswell joined their brothers with the royal family. Pycelle was approached and found himself in talks with Lord Connington about the curse breaking. Howland, who had stayed behind the Five, was asked to ride by the king to give him a preliminary report on the Others and their activities.
Geralt found himself riding at the back of the column's spearhead, next to Prince Oberyn. The young man, atop a black steed with a fiery red mane, pulled up to his left side. The Witcher had never seen a horse like that before.
"So, you're the one the whole castle speaks of," the young man said, a sly grin on his lips. "Geralt of Rivia, the monster killer from another world. Slayer of the Smiling Knight, breaker of curses, bane of Harren the Black."
The Witcher gave no outward sign of offense to the mockery clear in the young man's voice. He had dealt with enough cocksure warriors in his time to know that the best way to cut them down to size, short of a thorough thrashing, was to take the sting out of their words. And so he simply bowed his head politely. "I am. It's an honor to make your acquaintance, Prince Oberyn."
The Witcher paused for a moment, a smile frozen on his face, a hint of challenge flashing in his black eyes. "Some men would not admit their accomplishments so brazenly. Others might think it a show of arrogance."
"I prefer to tell things as they are whenever possible. If someone's got a problem with that, they can lose sleep over it, not me."
"It's a wonder you lasted more than an hour in Aerys' presence, with a tongue like that."
"I'd have gladly gone to my grave without needing to spend a second in it."
The Dornishman let out a hearty laugh at that. Geralt had been advised that a mix of deference to Oberyn's station and a bold disregard for formalities elsewhere was something the Prince appreciated. He had no intention or desire to antagonize the living, but he'd be damned if he had to mince words about Aerys Targaryen anymore.
Oberyn's laughter drew the attention of those at the head of their party, including his sister who glared daggers at him for a few seconds. The Prince caught on to her meaning and swiftly sobered up.
"Forgive me for my earlier words, Master Witcher. Truthfully, I've wished to meet you ever since my sister wrote of her rescue," the Prince said, sounding quite sincere for a change. He put a hand over his heart and bowed his head. "On behalf of my family and all of Dorne, I thank you for protecting her from the Smiling Knight and his brigands."
"I've met their type, and the results are never pretty," Geralt replied, the grinning mad face of the Smiling Knight flashing before his eyes.
"So have I, here and across the Narrow Sea," Oberyn said, his hands gripping the reins so tightly they turned paler. "The very thought of Elia at their mercy," he continued, his nostrils flaring and his shoulders tightening, as though the Smiling Knight were still alive and in front of him.
But then the rage subsided as quickly as it had come, and a fresh smile was on his face. "Still, to face such adversaries at once and emerge victorious is no small feat. In fact," he gave Geralt a sideways look, "I would say only the best of the best could accomplish it."
"I suppose we'll find out in the sparring ring tomorrow morning."
Oberyn chuckled. "I suppose we will."
As they dismounted in the Red Keep's yard, Rhaegar informed them of a meeting in the Small Council's chamber in two hours' time. The group soon dispersed to tend to their own business, including preparations and rest. Geralt accompanied the Lannisters to the Tower of the Hand where he was staying. Servants brought him hot water and a wooden tub, scrubbing him clean from head to toe. He chose to wear his freshly cleaned armor instead of the tunics provided by Tywin, leaving his swords behind.
Accompanied by Tywin and Jaime, Geralt made his way back to the throne room, walking for twenty minutes across the main courtyard of the Red Keep. As before, the dragon skulls hung on the walls, casting deep shadows through the empty sockets. His medallion twitched in their presence. The Iron Throne, with its mass of twisted and burnt swords, caught Geralt's eye. It was now surrounded by wooden scaffolds, and two dozen men worked on blunting the edges of the blades with hammers and stones.
"Smart choice," Geralt commented as they passed by the hulking monstrosity.
"The king felt it was a necessary safety precaution after his predecessor's accident," Tywin answered, with a hint of satisfaction in his voice.
As Jonothor and Lewyn opened the twin doors, Geralt felt the weight of the black, malevolent Valyrian sphinxes lurking on each side of the entrance. With a sideways glare, he moved past them, descending down a small set of steps into the chamber.
The once modest table had been replaced by a far grander one of dark brown ebony wood that stretched the length of the room. At its center lay a wide map of the north, displaying the Wall, its many castles, and the lands beyond almost as long as the table itself. Seated at the head of the table were the king and queen, joined by several lords. The remaining key figures arrived over the next few minutes.
The Kingsguard stood in pairs around the chamber, except for Gerold who stood behind the king. Geralt took his seat at the center of the long table, affording him a clear view of the map. Beams of sunlight touched his back, illuminating much of the room. Howland Reed sat to his left, followed by Pycelle and the other members of the Small Council. Tywin Lannister sat at Rhaegar's right, with Jaime by his side. Oberyn Martell had chosen to take a seat to Geralt's right, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair until one of its front legs hovered mere inches off the ground. The other high lords occupied the remaining seats.
Rhaegar loomed over the assembled lords. Jonothor and Lewyn, stationed closest to the entrance, locked it following his nod.
"My lords," he addressed them with open arms, meeting their eyes for a brief moment. "Although I'm glad to see you all here, I regret that it's not in more cheerful times. A dire threat, more fearsome than any living man has faced in thousands of years, is stirring in the far north. And it seeks to destroy us all: the Others."
At the mention of the Others, Geralt could sense the temperature in the room drop perceptibly. "While they have yet to march on the Seven Kingdoms, it's only a matter of when, not if, they will. To prepare ourselves for the coming war and secure victory, we're blessed to have the presence of those who possess the knowledge to fight and defeat this threat."
He gestured towards Geralt and Howland, and murmurs of agreement and consent rippled through many of those present. The Witcher observed the young crannogman, still garbed in the attire of a greenman, blush and attempt not to shrink under the scrutiny.
"Hence, I'll not waste any more time and let the experts speak." Exchanging a look with Howland, Geralt decided to take the lead, noting the boy's reluctance to speak before so many prominent individuals.
"Thank you, Your Grace," he inclined his head and rose as Rhaegar sat down. Leaning forward, Geralt placed his knuckles on the southern end of the map, his eyes fixed on the Wall.
In the weeks since Howland's arrival, Geralt had committed as much of it as possible to memory. Countless hours had been spent pouring over it with the knowledge delivered to them from the three-eyed crow through Howland. Tales of this world's myths, the lingering impact of them to the present day, and events seemingly lost even to legend and how they could use this information to halt planet-wide extinction.
Some of those already present knew all that he did, or most at any rate. Now, as Gwent players liked to say, it was time to lay it all out on the table.
"Thousands of years ago, after the First Men, the giants, and the children of the forest defeated the Long Night, they were wise enough to know the Others would return and prepared for it accordingly." His finger traced along a portion of the Wall illustration. "Contrary to what most believe, the Wall isn't only an imposing physical defense but also a magical barrier. The children of the forest poured much of their lost power and knowledge into these stones, forming a repelling force against the Others and their undead minions. The crucial points anchoring this vast web of runes and mystical protection are situated at the base foundations of each of the 19 castles along the Wall."
Prince Oberyn's face twisted into a quizzical expression. "So the Others cannot cross?" he inquired, seemingly unperturbed. "Then what is the danger they present?"
Geralt raised his head to meet the prince's gaze, offering him only a cursory glance before addressing the table. "Magic, my prince, is not a perpetual force," he explained. "It ages, fades, and weakens with neglect. A mere few moons past, not a soul gathered here, except for myself, would have given credence to the words I now speak. Men have forgotten the Wall's true purpose, and the youth of today are mere shadows of their forefathers, bereft of the same vigor and vitality. As a result, the power that once repelled the Others from these two fortresses has significantly diminished."
He gestured towards the Long Barrow and the Nightfort, both infamous for their dilapidated state. "Our three-eyed raven, who keeps watch over the goings-on in the frigid north, has confirmed this. Although the Others themselves may not yet be capable of breaching the fortifications of these strongholds, their undead minions could very well do so."
Varys interjected, his tone measured and thoughtful. "And once they breach the defenses, they would attempt to destroy the great runes that you spoke of earlier, concealed within the foundations of the castles."
Geralt nodded, a somber expression crossing his features. "Precisely. If these runes are destroyed, there is no guarantee that the fortresses themselves, along with the nearby sections of the Wall, will not crumble with the collapse of magic. When the Others launch their attack, these two locations will bear the brunt of their assault."
"Both the Long Barrow and the Nightfort are among the most decayed of our castles, Your Grace," Lord Rickard interjected. "We have already dispatched word to Lord Commander Qorgyle and my closest bannermen, instructing them to begin the process of re-garrisoning these sites. However, it will require a significant amount of time and manpower to restore them to defensible positions."
Rhaegar's gaze swept across the room, lingering on each of the gathered lords and advisors. "Ask, and you shall receive, Lord Stark," he said, his voice calm and steady. "Regardless, this situation necessitates the division of our forces. Neither fortress is within close proximity to the sea, making the transportation of goods and soldiers a logistical nightmare."
Geralt cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the room back towards him. "There is yet another problem, one that could render the Wall irrelevant," he said gravely. "The Horn of Winter's Endless Night. Our three-eyed raven has informed us that the Others are actively seeking it, scouring the entirety of the wildling lands."
"The Horn that can shatter the Wall," Rhaegar murmured, his voice filled with foreboding. "I recall the legend well. It was crafted by a wildling king, Joramun."
"Your Grace," Howland spoke, his voice trembling with reverence. "He was a giant, the last of their great kings before their people became divided. He forged a mighty house of his kin, including men and even children. Over time, they grew to despise their lot, trapped north of the Wall. The children under his banner even enchanted the horn, attempting to shatter the very runes that uphold the Wall."
"You said 'attempted,'" Elia pointed out. "Is it not certain to work?"
"Well... no," Howland replied, scratching his chin. "Thanks to the efforts of the Night's Watch, greenseers, and children still loyal to their oaths, Joramun's ambitions were thwarted. He never got the chance to use it."
"All the same," Geralt interjected. "We can't leave anything to chance. Even if the Horn can't bring down the Wall, we can't discount the possibility that the Others may seek to repurpose it for something else we do not know about. It must be found and destroyed."
"As per the three-eyed raven's counsel," Pycelle continued. "Joramun's Horn is most likely buried in the region of Thenn, amidst the northernmost peaks of the Frostfangs. The Others' search parties have been most active in that area of late."
"This task will require a skilled and agile team," The Witcher announced, feeling the unease from his departure from Harrenhal slowly creeping up his spine. "A small but formidable group, able to move quickly and defend themselves in case of a fight."
"A task fit for the Harrenhal Five, it would seem," Varys added, and the table murmured in agreement. Tywin gave the spymaster a brief glance but said nothing. Geralt kept silent, his eyes staring beyond the map, the floor, and the ground to someplace only he could see. For a long while, he wished to simply agree and be done with it. However, he knew he could not. There was something else they needed to do, something likely far worse than going beyond the Wall.
"Perhaps for some of the Five," The Witcher replied with grim finality. "But there is something else we must do. We must arm ourselves to kill the Others. The obsidian we're mining, it can kill them but it's brittle. You can't make more than a speartip or knife or arrowhead with it. And you're not going to parry or block one of the Others enchanted blades with any of that."
"What of silver?" Tywin inquired with a raised eyebrow. "You've wielded it with great efficacy thus far."
"Silver we can count on against the wights," Geralt replied, his eyes scanning the gathered faces. "They are undead beings bound by magic, not unlike wraiths or ghouls. Sever the magic holding them up and they'll fall. But the Others are a different breed. Silver may work, or it may shatter like any other steel. I've learned not to rely on maybes in my line of work. We need a weapon that is guaranteed to kill them."
Geralt paused, his gaze flickering to Howland. "We need Valyrian steel."
The room fell silent, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Those who understood the weight of Geralt's words held their breath, while those who didn't gazed at him with a mix of confusion and awe.
"You mean to go to Valyria?" Lord Chelsted exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Forgive me, Master Witcher, but that is sheer madness. No one has returned from that cursed place alive. And who knows what, if anything, remains there?"
"Those are valid concerns, my lord," Geralt acknowledged with a sigh. "But we have no choice. The Others threaten us all, and Valyrian steel is our only hope. The weirwood granted to us by the greenmen will shield us from the heat and sorcery of dragonfire. A ship outfitted with it should withstand the steam and flames that surround Valyria. And we have confirmed reports of Valyrian steel not only being used against the Others but killing them as well."
"Those are valid concerns, my lord," Geralt acknowledged with a sigh. "But we have no choice. The Others threaten us all, and Valyrian steel is our only hope. The weirwood granted to us by the greenmen will shield us from the heat and sorcery of dragonfire. A ship outfitted with it should withstand the steam and flames that surround Valyria. And we have confirmed reports of Valyrian steel not only being used against the Others but killing them as well."
"Dark Sister," Rhaegar breathed after a moment's thought, his voice heavy with reverence. "The blade of Queen Visenya Targaryen herself. It disappeared with Bloodraven when he was sent to the Wall. It's been lost for nearly three decades..."
"The sword has been found, Your Grace," Howland interjected. "An ally of the three-eyed raven wields it, and has used it to great effect against the Others. Once, the First Men made use of weapons forged from meteor like Ser Arthur's Dawn or Geralt's specialised Witcher steel blade to fight the Others. However," He sighed. "Most of those blades have long since vanished, lost and scattered through the Realm."
"Then let us retrieve it," Oberyn declared, his eyes glinting with determination. "I volunteer myself and my ship for the task."
"Oberyn!" Elia chided her brother. "This is not one of your reckless escapades. Valyria is one of the most perilous places on earth. You cannot charge into this without proper preparation."
"The whole world is in peril, dear sister," Oberyn retorted, gesturing to the map. "The Others threaten everything we hold dear. Waiting for them to come to us is not an option. We must face them head-on."
"I volunteer as well, Master Witcher," Baratheon declared, his hand slamming down on the table with a resounding thud. "You'll need a mighty warrior by your side to face whatever horrors await us. My hammer is at your disposal."
Geralt spoke in a warning tone, "No offense to either of you, your gestures are appreciated, but this requires careful consideration. This isn't just about being bold and mighty. Either of these tasks will make the cursebreaking of Harrenhal seem like a tavern brawl by comparison. The fact of the matter is," the Witcher paused and felt the full weight of dread settle in his throat, "Beyond the Wall or to Valyria, whoever is sent to either one is very likely to die. And I can't promise that's even the worst thing that'll happen to you."
Silence followed Geralt's words, with no more volunteers or murmurs breaking the stillness. The lords, knights, and monarchs were left to ponder the weight of his warning, and to consider the implications of the dangerous tasks at hand. Geralt knew they would heed his counsel, for he was the expert in battling sorcery.
Just as he knew the responsibility of selecting who would go where and the crushing weight of guilt would fall on his shoulders too.
Geralt could feel it bearing down on him, threatening to crush his resolve. He longed for the arrival of Ciri and Yennefer, for they could avert many of the terrible dangers that lay ahead with their help. But he knew the odds were against them.
Despair and fatigue settled over him like a cloak, as he waited for the inevitable. It came moment's later when Rhaegar chose him as his foremost adviser for the assignments of each task.
Thanks again for fellow SBer Skyborne for helping out with this chapter.
Since I know it's going to be brought up, I'll address it here: the Witcher games summarizing Geralt's weapon choices with steel = humans, silver = monsters is neat for gameplay mechanic simplicity but it's not accurate to the books. Geralt very rarely ever uses his silver sword in the books period. In fact, the Witcher TTRPG explains this pretty well by saying meteorite steel is useful for killing monsters like draconids, ogroids, and insectoids while specters, ghouls, elementals, and the like are weak against silver.
Dawn is admittedly a bit of a wild card here: a meteorite steel sword that can kill wights and Others, having the functions of two Witcher swords in one but I think it's a detail that makes ASOIAF neat and helps give it something Geralt's setting doesn't have for the purpose of the crossover. Helps make it a truly formidable blade of legendary proportions it should be IMO.