This place certainly lives up to its name, Geralt thought, mere minutes after entering the Merry Way.
Nestled between the bustling fish markets near the Blackwater Rush and under the shadow of the Great Sept of Baelor, the Witcher navigated through a serpentine labyrinth of narrow streets and alleys. This was where Oberyn had decreed their pre-departure celebration would take place.
The air was thick, tinged with an intoxicating blend of exotic spices, lingering perfumes, the sweaty fervor of the crowd, and that unmistakable undercurrent one only senses where pleasure, thrills, and danger are inextricably mingled—like a volatile mixture on the verge of combustion.
The torchlight's orange and yellow hues regularly erupted into great streams of flame, courtesy of the fire-spewers flanking either side of the pathway. Knives and blades flashed menacingly as jugglers hurled them—sometimes close to a dozen—into the air with a grace and finesse that bordered on Witcher-like.
Makeshift stages, cobbled together from worn planks of wood, creaked under the weight of actors, comedians, musicians, and puppeteers. They performed atop these platforms, drawing crowds dense enough to halt a cavalry charge. As he moved, Geralt caught snippets of their tales and songs: narratives of love, war, past glories, and the troubling events of the present day.
Glancing toward the darker corners off to the side, the Witcher perceived snippets of other kinds of stories: the clatter of dice on stone or wood, men cursing their luck, and women moaning in pleasure.
It wasn't all revelry and amusement, though.
On multiple occasions, he caught sight of cut-purses reaching toward unsuspecting pockets. He also felt the unsettling sensation of being watched; more than once, he sensed footsteps trailing his own. Each time, he'd turn abruptly, lock eyes, and send a glare potent enough to chase the would-be stalkers back into their shadowy corners, where they'd undoubtedly seek easier prey.
Ah, the energy of nightlife, where trouble and pleasure were never far apart—or perhaps it was the other way around? Either way, Geralt found himself somewhat enamored by the experience thus far.
Since arriving in Westeros, his days had been consumed by forests, castles, and seemingly endless stretches of road. Recently, his life had been filled with meetings in austere red halls and long, quiet hours of reading, punctuated only by the occasional sparring session. But here, in this cacophony of sensory stimulation, Geralt felt like he was finally getting a moment's respite, as paradoxical as that seemed.
The kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and smells swept his work-related concerns aside, carrying him along like a leaf caught in a river's current. He found himself descending to the Sundown Circle, the beating heart of the evening's revelry.
By day, Geralt surmised, the area functioned as a marketplace like any other. Merchants from across the Kingdoms and even farther lands would set up stalls, haggling over prices, extolling the virtues of their wares to passersby, rejoicing at a sale made and lamenting the potential customers who slipped through their fingers.
Yet now, as he finally reached the open space, it had transformed into something else entirely. Designed in a circular layout, cobblestone streets radiated out like spokes from a central hub—a grand fountain topped with a weathered statue of a Targaryen king he couldn't identify. Where stalls and shoppers would've bustled hours ago, performers now held court.
Dancers moved fluidly to the rhythmic beats of drums, lutes, and guitars, their silken veils shimmering in the torchlight. Jesters in colorful patchwork garments tumbled and capered about, eliciting laughter and applause. Illusionists deftly pulled coins from behind ears, while fire jugglers filled the air, heavy with incense and wine, with blazing arcs of flame. The spectacle unfolded in dizzying, mesmerizing fashion.
As he stood there, arms crossed, eyes darting from one spectacle to another, a melancholy thought brushed his mind.
Shame Dandelion's not here, this place was made for him.
He could almost hear his old friend prattling on about how a city's true character only reveals itself after dark, or musing on the intricate composition of a song he'd likely forget by the next hour. Geralt could even picture Dandelion scaling the fountain, probably displacing someone in the process, to serenade the crowd with a performance so captivating that even his own musically-inept ears would find it impressive.
Zoltan would probably knock someone's teeth out, Geralt mused with a wistful smile, picturing some unsuspecting Westerosi mistaking him for one of their own dwarves and ending up in a puddle of ale and their own blood.
Ciri, on the other hand, would likely dive headlong into one of the many gyrating crowds, effortlessly losing herself in the rhythm of the place and probably becoming the star dancer of the evening. As for Yennefer, she would initially feign aloofness, pretending she was above such base revelry. But sooner or later, she'd play some clever trick on an unsuspecting passersby or burst into laughter at some ludicrous thing Geralt did after a few too many drinks.
Yes, it would be wonderful to have them all here just for their company... The thought momentarily darkened his mood, dulling the vibrant sounds and sweet aromas that had been so palpable on his tongue just moments before.
"Geralt, over here!"
Amid the cacophony of sounds and distractions, Geralt's ears picked out a voice he recognized. Breaking free from his transient wistfulness, he scanned the crowd until his eyes landed on a cluster of tables positioned outside what appeared to be an inn facing east.
There they were, in order from right to left: Pycelle, Oberyn, Arthur, Oswell, and Jaime, the latter of whom had spotted him and was energetically waving him over. Surrounding them were men of both Dornish and Essosi descent, engrossed in games of chance involving dice and cards, and even a few partaking in a perilous game involving knives and outstretched fingers. As to be expected, Oberyn had secured the largest table for their motley crew. Howland and Meribald were invited too, though both declined. Howland seemed too private a sort to partake in it and Meribald only said with a cryptic smile that his days of revelry were behind him.
As he approached, a cheer of greeting and a sea of raised cups welcomed him. The Witcher managed a rare smile, grateful for the camaraderie he had found in this foreign land. His mood lifted almost instantly as he took his seat between the members of the Kingsguard.
"Took you long enough to get here," Oswell grumbled good-naturedly, handing him a tankard of aromatic wine that was almost comically large.
"The meeting with the King and Hand ran longer than expected," Geralt explained, taking a deep sniff of the wine before indulging in a hearty swig. "I had hoped to be here an hour earlier, but..."
He let the sentence hang, not needing to elaborate further. Time had its own way of running amok when matters of state were involved, and everyone at the table understood that all too well.
"Let my good brother and Lord Tywin bore each other on this fine evening," Oberyn declared, his voice rising with enthusiasm. "We have more entertaining pursuits in mind, don't we, lads?!"
"Aye, Captain!" The response was immediate and thunderous, startling many of the passersby and earning them a few glares from some of the performers. Their voices had easily drowned out the acts, who in turn doubled down on their performances, perhaps to reclaim the crowd's attention.
This is going to get interesting. Geralt thought with a mix of amusement and just a bit of common sense worry. "So, Prince Oberyn, what've you got in mind for us?"
With a flourish, Oberyn lifted his mug, gracefully spun his chair just enough to pivot, and extended an arm toward the revelry that enveloped them. "Take your pick, Master Witcher," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "As you can see, there's no shortage of diversions to enjoy on this fine evening. And you, as my guest of honor, shall have the first choice."
Turning his gaze back to the Sundown Circle, Geralt quietly observed the various games unfolding before him. Among the expected activities—arm-wrestling bouts, ale-quaffing contests, and dice games—one peculiar spectacle caught his eye.
A long, narrow beam, approximately nine meters in length, was elevated about a meter off the ground, supported by sturdy wooden legs at each end. A cushion of thick hay was spread below, clearly intended to soften any falls. The current contestant, a middle-aged man with a notable girth, ascended a small staircase, balancing a tankard of ale on his head. Remarkably, he managed a few steps before stumbling and snarling, much to the delight of the onlookers.
The rules, as Geralt gleaned from the crowd and organizer, were simple: traverse the beam from one end to the other without spilling a drop of ale balanced on the head.
"Ah, the 'Tipsy Trek,' as it's fondly called around here," Oberyn grinned, following Geralt's gaze. "A test for both the sober and the inebriated. I like your style, Witcher. Shall we?"
The Witcher returned the smile and set his tankard down. "Why not," he said, glancing around the table. "Anyone else interested?"
"Doubt I'd make it past a few steps with that on my head," Oswell snorted. "Nay, I think I'll sit back and enjoy watching Prince Oberyn take his tumble."
"You speak as though I've already lost, Ser Whent," Oberyn replied, a dark glint in his eyes belying the smile on his face. "I believe you'll soon see the error in that assumption."
"You'll do better than most, old friend," Arthur added. "But I fear that in Geralt, you've at last met your match when it comes to agility."
"That remains to be seen."
Twenty minutes later, it was.
Geralt and Oberyn each approached the organizer, with the Prince handing over a coin purse the size of an apple and about as heavy. The man's eyes might have bulged out of his skull if Oberyn hadn't quickly instructed that the game be theirs exclusively until he said otherwise. Snapping out of his stupor, the man numbly agreed as they moved past him.
The first round went as expected. Accustomed to walking on narrower, more precarious surfaces—often while things tried to knock him off or kill him—Geralt found little difficulty in the challenge. Oberyn performed almost as well, appearing almost bored by the time he jumped down and caught the mug before it could spill.
"Fine for a start," Oberyn shrugged. "But I say we can make it more fun. You there! Bring us each two more mugs!"
The organizer complied. Once the additional tankards were in place, each man crouched down and balanced two mugs atop their outstretched palms. By this point, the crowd had taken notice of their escalating competition. Many shifted their attention from the performers to this spectacle.
Again, Geralt moved with ease. Oberyn, although slower, managed to keep up, his brow marked by beads of sweat from the exertion.
"Very good, Master Witcher, very good," Oberyn smiled, his easy-going tone almost masking the slight hint of effort. "But I think we can still make it more interesting."
"What's your idea this time?" Geralt asked, eyebrow raised. "Going to try it blindfolded?"
"Oh, you'll see," Oberyn replied, his smile taking on a dangerous edge. With feline grace, he turned and leapt back onto the beam.
"Good people of King's Landing!" Oberyn announced, his voice carrying through the air and drawing the eyes of the gathered crowd like moths to a flame. "You've enjoyed watching me and my friend compete, and not just because we happen to be the most handsome men here!" The crowd laughed, many glancing appreciatively at Oberyn, Geralt, or both.
"I see it in your eyes and hear it in your hushed awes," Oberyn continued, masterfully gauging the crowd's reaction. "But now, we need your help to make this contest even more exciting!"
The atmosphere thickened with anticipation. Oberyn had always had a knack for showmanship, and it was clear that whatever he had in mind, it was going to be memorable. Geralt couldn't help but feel a mixture of intrigue and caution. The Dornish prince was nothing if not unpredictable.
"You've no doubt thrown ale or food at someone you thought deserved it, right? Well, now I ask you to do it again! My friend and I will balance our ales atop this beam, and you will be the ones trying to spill them or knock us down! Do this, and a rain of coins from a very grateful Dornish prince will be your reward!"
A current akin to lightning shot through the crowd. Almost immediately, the promise of a little havoc and some extra coin sent people scrambling to gather whatever they could throw. Oberyn leapt down from the beam and slapped Geralt on the back, his smile stretching from ear to ear.
"Not a bad idea, don't you think?" he asked.
"Guess I should be grateful you didn't ask them to throw knives or rocks. Or get the fire-breathers to target us," Geralt replied, glaring at Oberyn as the idea seemed to flash through the Dornish prince's mind. "Don't even think about it."
Oberyn chuckled, thoroughly and plainly enjoying the look of mild consternation on Geralt's face. "Oh, don't worry. I think food and ale will provide enough spectacle. Besides, I wouldn't want to give my friend any unfair disadvantages."
"Yeah, right," Geralt responded skeptically, but he couldn't help but appreciate the spirit of the contest. Things were certainly getting more… vibrant.
As they both took their terms on the beam, the atmosphere was electric. People had armed themselves with bits of food, scraps of bread, and cups of ale, waiting eagerly for the sign to let loose their salvos.
Oberyn looked down at Geralt as he went first, his eyes twinkling with mischief and excitement. "Good luck."
The Witcher nodded. "You too."
At a signal from Oberyn, the air filled with flying food and splashing ale, as the crowd unleashed their culinary artillery. Balancing carefully on each of their turns, the two men focused on maintaining their poise and keeping the ale from spilling, while simultaneously dodging or deflecting the edible projectiles.
To his credit, Oberyn performed better than most would have anticipated. True, he took a fair few hits—a tankard to the rib, a turnip falling onto the beam that nearly made him slip—but he persevered. Leaping and contorting his body, he narrowly dodged most of the incoming missiles. He landed, splattered with ale and food but without a single spilled drop.
For his part, Geralt felt like a young trainee back at Kaer Morhen. Tankards whizzed past his eyes, tomatoes narrowly missed his chest and back, and he found himself executing small leaps to avoid being tripped up. The only things missing were a blindfold and Vesemir chiding him for favoring one foot over the other.
It was chaos. It was exhilarating. It was utterly ridiculous. Most importantly, it was fun—something Geralt hadn't realized he'd been missing until now.
Reaching the end of the beam for a third time, his ale mostly intact, Geralt leapt down and exhaled a long, relieved breath.
Oberyn, observing him closely, seemed to weigh the events. Though they had both completed the challenge, only Geralt had emerged unscathed. For a moment, Geralt suspected that Oberyn's competitive spirit might issue forth yet another outrageous challenge. Instead, the Dornishman simply laughed and smiled.
"You see?" Oberyn approached Geralt, placing one hand on his shoulder and raising the other high. "Who else but the Red Viper and the Kingswood Knight could have done this!" The crowd erupted in cheers.
As promised, Oberyn untied his coin purse and tossed it into the air, showering the crowd with glinting gold. As people scrambled to collect their prizes, Oberyn turned to Geralt, his face radiant with delight. "Well done, my friend. Truly, no one has ever challenged me like this."
"Likewise," Geralt replied, surprised by his own genuine pleasure. "But if the fates allow, you should see the training courses at Kaer Morhen. Tests of dexterity and agility unlike anything you'll find here, I assure you."
"An intriguing prospect. Do tell me more."
And so they did, walking back to their companions, who had either been observing the contest from a distance or killing time with a game of cards that Pycelle had thoughtfully brought along.
An hour later, several tankards of ale deep, the focus of their conversation shifted to a topic uniquely specific to their table.
"... I will say..." Oberyn mused, his brow furrowed in thought, "Forty."
"Forty?" Jaime exclaimed, looking at him as if he'd lost his mind. "You can't be serious; he's at least fifty."
"You're the one jesting, lad," Oswell countered before taking a sip from his fourth mug. "No man of fifty could fight as he does."
"Ser Gerold still moves faster than men half his age and is considerably stronger," Jaime retorted.
"You didn't spar with the White Bull in his prime. Ten years ago, when I first donned the white cloak, dueling him was like facing a hurricane—a blur of steel and iron that knocked you flat before you knew what hit you. Aye, he's still strong and fast, but age is slowly catching up to him," Oswell argued.
"Let's not forget there are men significantly younger than Geralt who can't hope to match his skills," Arthur chimed in, leaning back into his seat. "Some of whom are at this very table."
Oswell looked at Arthur. "Well, how old would you say he is?"
Arthur rubbed his chin, scrutinizing the Witcher, who silently observed the unfolding debate with thinly hid amusement. "...Perhaps...thirty-five...?"
At that, the table erupted in another wave of heated discussion. As Geralt listened to the shifting conversations, it became clear that his age had been a topic of much speculation among these men, even before they had left for Harrenhal. Apparently, the entire castle was in on the debate.
What he found refreshing about his time in Westeros was that no one knew the first thing about what made a Witcher. They were ignorant of the reasons behind his eye color, skin tone, and speed, why he could consume poisonous substances without harm, or why his fighting prowess was so exceptional. Back home, Witchers were figures of fear and loathing—emotionless mutants who hunted monsters and, according to some stories, even men, all for a handful of coins. Here, though, he was merely a peculiar foreigner with an even stranger title. And that anonymity, he realized, was a kind of freedom he hadn't known he'd been missing.
When questioned about his age, Geralt remained elusive, turning it into a game of sorts. He pledged that if anyone came even remotely close to guessing his true age, he'd empty an entire small barrel of Dornish Red that Oberyn's crew had brought from their ship. So far, the barrel remained untouched, and that didn't seem likely to change.
"Pycelle!" Oswell boomed, pounding the table with his fist. "You've been suspiciously quiet. What's your guess about Geralt's age?"
The Grand Maester wasn't fully inebriated yet, but he was teetering on the edge—another sip or two would tip the balance. Geralt observed Pycelle's slightly slackened mouth, the almost imperceptible swaying in his seat, and the narrowing and widening of his eyes as he pondered his answer.
"I...say," Pycelle started, his words slightly slurred. His gaze locked onto Geralt's, lingering for an uncomfortably long pause. Just when Geralt thought someone would urge the Maester to hurry up, Pycelle finally spoke. "I say... he's older than me!"
The table fell into a stunned silence, the knights looking at Pycelle with a mixture of incredulity and mild amusement. The Grand Maester seemed undeterred as he maintained eye contact with Geralt, then glanced around at the others.
"And how do I deduce this?" he began, his voice that of a tipsy man embarking on a lecture. "Because... if your guesses were correct, which they clearly are not—else he would already be halfway through that barrel—then the opposite must be true!"
Another pause filled the room, pregnant with disbelief. Finally, Jaime broke the silence. "That has to be... the most nonsensical pile of drivel I've ever heard. How could he possibly be older than—"
It was at this precise moment that Geralt chose to reach for the barrel resting beside his chair. Lifting it effortlessly off the ground, he set it onto the table with a resounding thud. Every eye was glued to him, their expressions a combination of utter disbelief and awe. He knew he'd be paying for it with a killer headache and probably an upset stomach the next day, but their shocked faces made it all worth it.
"A deal's a deal," he said, uncorking the barrel with a grin. "Bottom's up."
Following that, things started becoming more fragmented to Geralt's eyes. Even his Witcher biology couldn't withstand that kind of sudden, massive intake of alcohol with no repercussions.
Some time after the initial shock of Geralt's age revelation had worn off, Oswell, inspired by an inexplicable burst of enthusiasm, challenged thirty men to an arm-wrestling contest. The prize? His custom-made, batwinged Kingsguard helm.
And so, one by one, men from all walks of life took up the gauntlet. Some of Oswell's opponents saw their fists slammed against the table with enough force to make the wood splinter. Others managed to give the Kingsguard knight a run for his money. By the end of it all, Oswell's black hair was soaked in sweat, and Geralt could almost hear the man's teeth creaking under the pressure of a clenched jaw.
His final opponent was a burly fisherman, roughly the same age and built like a slightly less hairy grizzly bear. The two men locked hands, muscles bulging, beads of sweat forming on their foreheads. For a few tension-filled seconds, it seemed an even match—neither giving an inch.
Then, Oswell released a roar that started as a low rumble in his throat, a sound so fierce that it silenced the crowd, made the fisherman visibly flinch, and reverberated through the entire Sundown Circle like a peal of thunder. The climax of this terrifying vocal performance coincided with the fisherman's hand slamming against the table, his face contorted in a grimace of pain and exertion.
Grimacing from the sheer effort, Oswell grabbed what was either his eighth or twelfth tankard of ale—Geralt had lost count at this point—and hoisted it high into the air with his free hand.
"I can't feel my bloody arm!" he bellowed, his voice tinged with both triumph and exhaustion.
The crowd erupted into cheers, their earlier shock completely forgotten in the face of this new spectacle. It was a moment of revelry and camaraderie, the likes of which none in attendance would soon forget.
Somewhere around two in the morning, someone had the bright idea to fence off a portion of the Circle, fill the makeshift ring with mud, and place a small piglet inside it. Arthur, Jaime, and Pycelle spent over half an hour engaged in a farcical chase to catch the slippery animal.
"He's there, he's there!" Arthur slurred, his face smeared with mud and his footing uncertain. "Quick, Jaime, go after him!"
"I—I see him!" Jaime lunged, leaping a few seconds too soon, and ended up face-first in the mud. The piglet squealed with delight, scrambled onto his head, and then darted down his back just as Arthur lunged for it.
Arthur gave it a valiant effort, coming close to capturing the elusive piglet several times. However, he miscalculated his final lunge. Tripping over himself as the piglet darted between his legs, he lost his balance and tumbled out of the ring, eliciting roars of laughter from the audience.
Pycelle, who had tired first, had opted to recline in the mud, gazing up at the twinkling stars and chuckling at some private joke. To the crowd's astonishment, the piglet approached him and began nibbling on his long, white, mud-streaked beard.
"Must think it's straw," Oberyn slurred, leaning over the fence, observing the unfolding spectacle with the wide-eyed wonder of a man considering life's absurdities for the first time.
"Uh-huh," Geralt grunted, raising his mug for another sip, only to find it mysteriously empty. He stared at the bottom of the tankard as if its emptiness were a riddle he needed to solve.
Indeed, the piglet was so entranced by Pycelle's beard that it allowed the Grand Maester to grasp it between his trembling fingers and secure a firm hold. Triumphantly, Pycelle rose from the mud, standing tall as the crowd's cheers crescendoed, chanting his name almost a dozen times in their collective euphoria.
As dawn approached, the crowds began to disperse, leaving behind only those sober enough to attempt cleaning up the area. After all, the space served as a market and needed to be in a somewhat usable condition for traders the next day.
The Five, along with Oberyn, were among the last to leave. They stumbled out of the Sundown Circle, made their way up the hill, and navigated through the serpentine labyrinth of streets that comprised the now-emptying Merry Way, finally returning to the Red Keep.
Drunkenly they ambled, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, forming a line that zigzagged more than it went straight.
Oberyn led the tune, though calling it a "tune" might have been generous. It was a Dornish melody, at least initially, but as they went on, elements of Northern dirges, songs from the Riverlands, and even a Dandelion ballad found their way into the mix. Nobody seemed to mind that they were horribly out of tune or that the lyrics made no sense.
"An' the Red Viper pranced through the sands," Oberyn warbled.
"Down by the rivers of Riverrun!" Jaime added.
"With a White Wolf at his right hand!" Geralt chimed in, his voice surprisingly melodic despite the alcohol coursing through his veins.
"Where the Kingsguard helm flies free!" Oswell bellowed, almost losing his balance but steadied by Arthur.
"And the Citadel's bells ring—hic!" Pycelle hiccuped, causing a new round of laughter.
Arthur began a new verse, but it was mostly a string of "la la las," as he'd forgotten the words halfway through. Still, it seemed the perfect addition to their motley choir.
As they approached the looming shadow of the Red Keep, it was clear that not a single one of them would remember the evening's events with complete clarity. But in that moment, none of that mattered. For a few stolen hours, they were not members of a Kingsguard, a Witcher from another land, or a Dornish prince. They were just men, bound by the shared experience of song, laughter, and ridiculous games.
The guards at the Red Keep gate looked astounded as the group approached, their armor clinking out of rhythm with their singing. But the men paid no mind; they had their own rhythm, a beat understood only by those who had ventured out into the madness of King's Landing's nightlife and returned as comrades.
Eventually, they crossed into the courtyard of the Red Keep, their song trailing off into laughter and fragmented conversation. Still, as they parted ways, each headed to his own chamber to sleep off the night's festivities, it was clear to them all even in that drunk state that this was a night they'd speak of in the days to come—each version more exaggerated than the last, but all equally cherished.