The night gave him no peace, only restlessness.
Meribald lay in his bed, the wooden frame creaking subtly beneath the weight of not just his body, but the ponderous thoughts that filled his head. A surreal sense of wonder crept through him as he, not for the first time, thought where he was—the Red Keep. He, a commoner with no noble blood or house of significance, was sleeping under the same roof as the King of the Seven Kingdoms.
As the lone candle flickered on his bedside table, it animated shadows that danced like wraiths across the walls. In his mind, these were not mere illusions of light but ominous silhouettes of things past and those yet to come—terrible events that brought prayers to the Seven to his lips, words intended to ward off private worries.
Each whispered prayer left his lips only to dissipate into the gloom, each unanswered. And so, beneath the ceiling of his chamber, in the heart of the castle that stood as much as a symbol of power as it did of age-old traditions, Meribald lay awake for what felt like an eternity.
Unsettled, the Septon rose from the bed that was too deep and too soft for his liking. He lowered himself onto the ground, seeking comfort in its unyielding nature. This familiarity—feeling the hard ground beneath him—brought only momentary respite, delivering not a wink of sleep.
At some point during the long, dragging hours of the night, he could stomach it no more.
Tossing aside his blanket, Meribald swung his legs over the edge of the bed and set his feet onto the cold, stone floor. A chill ran up his spine, but he ignored it, grabbing a candlestick from the table beside him. With a flint and steel, he lit the wick, casting a small pool of light in the darkness that surrounded him. "Might as well wander," he mumbled, half to himself, half to the room that still felt foreign despite the weeks he'd been there.
Gingerly stepping out into the hall, he held the candle in front of him as if it could dispel not just the physical darkness but the murky thoughts clouding his mind. Yet, as he walked, he found little solace in the labyrinthine corridors of the Red Keep. The red stone walls felt as if they were closing in on him, seemingly stretching forever yet nowhere at all, mocking his disorientation.
Every step echoed back at him, the sound a hollow affirmation of his alienation. Where he once found peace in the open meadows, amidst trees and birdsong, he now felt the weight of stone all around him—above, below, and on all sides. It was claustrophobic, stifling.
Meribald couldn't help but feel he was in a maze without an exit, a puzzle without a solution. This was a different world, a fortress of stone, not the open fields and hills he was used to. And yet here he was, a common man amidst towers and tapestries, wrestling with worries about cosmic battles and existential threats in hallways that felt as labyrinthine as his thoughts.
And so, he walked on, hoping in vain that the path ahead would somehow clear the fog in his head.
Navigating the endless corridors, Meribald found his thoughts drifting back to earlier in the evening. He pictured the rowdy escapade he'd chosen to miss out on —Geralt and the others, their laughter and songs echoing off stone walls. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he should have joined them, partaken in the revelry that now seemed like a distant echo.
But then he shook his head, dismissing the idea as quickly as it had come. Those days were behind him, long gone were the times when he donned the cloth and carried the Seven-Pointed Star as a mere tool to gain favor or indulge in earthly pleasures. The very thought that such considerations were plaguing him now was disconcerting. They were merely ghosts, remnants of a man he had once been but had forsaken, resurfacing to test his resolve and shake his already fragile confidence on this restless night.
Pushing these thoughts aside, Meribald continued on his aimless journey, each step resonating with a sense of purpose he struggled to define. It wasn't until he looked up and saw the imposing structure of the Rookery Tower looming above him that he realized how far he'd wandered. In a chamber within this very tower resided Howland Reed, the mysterious greenman who had also found a temporary home in the Red Keep. Unaware of his newfound proximity to the enigmatic figure, Meribald paused, casting a glance at the tower as if it might offer him the answers he so desperately sought.
Climbing the winding steps of the Rookery Tower, each footfall seemed to echo Meribald's internal disquiet. A commoner among lords, he was always hesitant to engage with highborn men, and young Lord Howland Reed was no exception. Despite their similarities—each serving as a representative of gods vastly different but equally enigmatic—Meribald had found reasons to steer clear of the boy.
The youth was a mystery, rarely seen and even more rarely heard, speaking only on matters that concerned the Old Gods or the impending threat of the Others. His youth did little to lessen his enigmatic aura; if anything, it added another layer of complexity to him. He was a boy in years but seemed to carry the weight of ages.
Meribald had considered, more than once, the notion of approaching Howland to discuss matters of faith and perhaps find some common ground. Yet, his reservations about conversing with lords had been a barrier too significant to cross. His insecurities whispered that a commoner had no business intruding into the lives of the noble, even if their purposes were aligned.
But tonight was different. The weight of his thoughts, compounded by his lingering sense of loneliness and the immense, unyielding walls of the Red Keep, drove him onward. As he reached the door at the top of the tower, he felt an unfamiliar sense of resolve settle over him. With a deep breath to steel himself, he knocked softly, hand trembling slightly.
The door creaked open on its own and he cautiously pushed it open after a moment's pause.
Meribald was greeted not by the young lord's visage, but by a low, rumbling sound that filled the air. Hesitant steps carried him inside the dimly lit rookery, his eyes widening as they adjusted to the sight before him.
Howland Reed sat at the center of the room, his legs crossed and arms resting atop his knees, his head slightly upturned. His eyes were closed, but his face emanated a sense of serene focus. From his lips flowed a stream of words in the ancient tongue of the First Men—a language that seemed as old as the earth itself. It was not a pleasant tongue to untrained ears, filled with rumbling, throaty syllables that were utterly alien to most. Yet the language carried an undeniable power, a pulsing force that seemed to resonate in the very air around him.
The air responded, sometimes as a gentle breeze, sometimes as a mighty whirlwind. The earth beneath him seemed both nurturing and tinged with wrath. The atmosphere of the room echoed the ebb and flow of the sea—sometimes languid, sometimes forceful. These sensations and perceptions coursed through Meribald's mind, making the hairs on his body stand on end and causing his temples to pulse with an ever-mounting intensity.
Around him, the ravens in their opened cages appeared entranced as well. Some even mimicked Howland's speech, joining in this eerie but mesmerizing chorus that filled the rookery with its otherworldly resonance.
It was a sacred moment, one Meribald felt he had no right to interrupt. Slowly, almost as if afraid that a sudden move would break the spell, he settled down on a nearby bench. He waited, his heart filled with a mixture of awe and trepidation, for the young lord to complete his performance.
The rumbling continued for what felt like an eternity but was likely only minutes. All the while, Meribald was caught between his own lingering doubts and fears, and the undeniable pull of whatever ancient power was at work in that room. Finally, the chant wound down to its conclusion, and the ravens' eerie mimicry ceased.
Howland's eyes flickered open, settling on Meribald as if he had known all along that he was not alone. The palpable energy that had filled the room vanished in an instant, yet the memory of it lingered in Meribald's thoughts, indelibly imprinted on his soul.
"Ah, my apologies for interrupting you, Lord Reed," Meribald said, pausing briefly and appearing slightly embarrassed as his focus returned to the present. He lowered his head in a bow. "My mind is restless tonight, and somehow, my wandering feet led me here."
Though an odd explanation for his presence, the young crannogman took it in stride. Howland offered a faint smile and gestured for Meribald to lift his head.
"You need not apologize. I, too, occupy myself with rituals and contemplation when sleep proves elusive," he said, his eyes scanning the room and meeting the inquisitive gaze of the numerous ravens, who observed their exchange in utter silence. "I suspect my methods are a fair bit more unusual than yours. Certainly stranger than our companions are spending their evening."
"I've no doubt their night will be filled with merriment and laughter," Meribald replied. "However, such pleasures are a thing of the past for a man of the cloth like myself."
"We crannogmen are quiet both by nature and necessity," Howland said, a trace of wistfulness coloring his voice. "The swamps of the Neck are harsh and unforgiving. Making noise or drawing attention to oneself—it's a surefire way to meet a painful end. Even our celebrations are subdued." A slightly embarrassed look crossed his face. "I fear I wouldn't be much use in their revelry."
"Solitude has its own merits, as I've come to discover in my wanderings," Meribald said, his gaze sweeping the room to take in the watchful army of ravens that flitted their eyes between him and the young lord. "Your performance, for example, was quite a remarkable thing to witness. I've never heard anything quite like it."
"It's the tongue of the First Men," Howland responded, gesturing for Meribald to take a seat across from him. "Seldom spoken by anyone south of the Wall, and even beyond it, only a dwindling few still actively use it as their first language. An ancient tongue that has, like many things, waned and largely faded from this world."
Meribald had expected to detect a note of sorrow or lament in the young lord's voice, given his deep connection to the old gods and their fading heritage. Instead, Howland shared this information with serene acceptance, as naturally as one might comment on the weather.
For a fleeting moment, Meribald weighed the idea of mentioning the palpable force he had just felt, still resonant in the air moments ago.
With Geralt, it was a different matter entirely. The Witcher was well-versed in the mystical and arcane, but he was also an unmistakable skeptic. Despite his best efforts to mask it—likely to avoid causing offense—Meribald sensed this skepticism simmering beneath the surface. And he didn't begrudge Geralt for it. He knew all too well the kind of life experiences that could make a man question the very existence of divine beings. In that aspect, Geralt was an older, more jaded soul.
Discussing the gods with such a man was a complex endeavor. How could you speak of divine purpose and celestial design to someone who saw their miracles as phenomena to be dissected and understood, almost scientifically?
But in this brief interaction with Howland, Meribald felt none of that skepticism, none of that analytical distance. And it occurred to him that perhaps this was what had been gnawing at him since his arrival at the Red Keep: the absence of straightforward conversation about faith with someone who truly understood its nuances.
"Yet the power of the old gods remains strong," Meribald decided, accepting Howland's unspoken invitation and seating himself on the cold, red stone floor a respectful distance away. "I could feel it in the air. Different from the Seven who aid me, but potent all the same."
"The old gods are omnipresent," Howland responded, pausing for a moment to choose his words carefully. "They are in the air we breathe, the water we drink, the soil that nourishes our crops. One doesn't have to worship them, or even believe in them, to feel their influence."
"Yet calling upon that influence intentionally is another matter entirely," Meribald observed.
"Indeed, you're quite right," Howland's voice grew distant, and his gaze seemed to traverse unfathomable distances. "I've always felt their presence more keenly than most. But it was the tutelage of the greenmen and the three-eyed raven that opened my eyes, allowing me to glimpse even a fraction of the world's hidden wonders. To comprehend the vastness of the seas, the reach of the winds, and the depths of the earth is to be in awe. When I am in the midst of it, I feel as if I become the mountains themselves, the snow that blankets them, the wind that sweeps across their jagged peaks. Yet, in the same breath, I am also smaller than a pebble, less significant than a single snowflake. To be simultaneously an integral part of it all and yet less than a speck in the grand scheme—it's an experience that is at once enlightening, humbling, and terrifying."
Howland seemed to disappear and lose himself in that vastness." My apologies, I've wandered off on a tangent," Howland shook his head slightly, his eyes refocusing as if he'd just returned from a distant journey. "I'm sure you have your own experiences with the Seven that you'd like to share."
"When I experience the aid of the Seven, it's far more personal," Meribald chuckled softly, his eyes gaining a wistful gleam. "When the Mother's grace envelops me, it's as though my own mother is with me once more. I can almost feel her arms wrapping around me in a warm embrace. I hear her voice, singing in that slightly off-key manner she had, echoing in my ears. I can even see her smile—bright and unfaltering despite her crooked, missing teeth."
He paused, allowing the words and the memories they conjured to settle in the space between them. "When the Smith lends me his strength, I'm transported back to my boyhood days, spending time with Alyn, an old blacksmith in our village. Stern he may have appeared, but he was always quick to mend what was broken and generous with his wisdom. In those moments, I feel like that young lad again, watching as Alyn seemed to mend the woes of the world, one horseshoe at a time."
At the mention of the Warrior, Meribald's expression shifted, the wistfulness replaced by a sense of inner conflict. It was as though he had run into a barrier he hadn't yet managed to scale. "Ah, the Warrior... Now there's an aspect of the Seven that I grapple with. I have a long and troubled history with warfare and battle," Meribald conceded, his face clouded by the weight of untold stories.
Sensing the hesitation, Howland reached for his weirwood staff, which lay beside him. "My father fought in the Stepstones," he said softly. "He seldom spoke of it, but when he did, his accounts were far from the valorous tales most imagine war to be."
Meribald nodded solemnly. "There is nothing valorous about driving steel through another man's flesh," he replied, his voice tinged with a bitterness that seemed to rise like bile. "Nothing commendable about cutting down someone's father, son, brother, or uncle—crushing them beneath hooves and boots and leaving them to die in the mud. I understand the world we live in is fraught with danger, and there are times we must protect or reclaim what is ours. But still, I wish there were a way other than war."
Howland looked at him with a calm, accepting gaze. "Yet war is often inevitable, as it is with the Others."
"My heart would be gladdened if it could be averted. There will be untold misery in that war to come, on all sides."
"Unfortunately, peace with the Others is impossible," Howland said with a calm finality.
Meribald raised an eyebrow. "They are a people, as far as I understand from what Geralt has told me. Aye, people seek war, but when something valuable is offered, surely they would choose to avoid conflict? They are few in number as it is."
"The Others' objective, their core belief, is that the world itself has been taken from them," Howland explained. "They've focused for millennia on reclaiming it and will settle for nothing less than our complete destruction. A world of eternal winter is what they desire, even if it leads to its own ruin."
Meribald was puzzled. "But there are other worlds. Geralt is proof of that. Could the Others be convinced to leave, to find a world more suitable for them?"
"We have discussed this possibility," Howland answered with a hint of reluctance. "Yes, people and animals do relocate when their old homes become uninhabitable."
"But you're convinced there's no hope they will yield?"
"As I've said," Howland's voice was tinged with a certain finality, "their fury is old, potent, and all-consuming. They would likely reject even the most generous offer. To them, leaving this world would be a defeat."
Meribald fell silent, absorbing Howland's words. There was no anger in Howland's voice, just a calm acceptance. It was troubling to Meribald that someone so young could be at peace with the idea of another race's complete annihilation.
"I do not think I can agree with you or your master on this matter," Meribald finally said. "I do not believe any people, be it the Others or anyone else, would be so foolish as to bring about their own doom, no matter their age-old hatreds."
"It is their belief," Howland insisted, "a belief that has driven them for millennia."
"Beliefs and motivations change," Meribald retorted. "I was once driven by a desire to see the world. Leaders told me to hate and kill men on the opposite side, and I did—until the carnage subsided. Then, I sought solace in women and wine to quiet my wounded spirit." He smiled. "Now, here I am, serving the Seven and hoping to help the Realm in any way I can."
The septon peered through one of the rookery's windows, catching the first hints of dawn breaking. "I won't claim that some are incapable of change, or that some don't change for the worse," he added softly. "However, I've come to recognize that the nature of people is both complicated and beautiful. Who's to say that at this very moment, a pair of Others aren't debating the worth of their war as we are? Or perhaps, spending their evening with friends while they still can?"
For a moment, Howland seemed stunned into silence, his eyes widening as though considering a concept that had never before occurred to him. The tension in the room hung palpably, like a weight suspended in the air, until Howland's eyes found Meribald's once again.
At last, Howland spoke, his voice softer and more thoughtful than before. "You offer a perspective that is... uncommon, to say the least. Only Geralt has voiced such thoughts before, of pitying the Others. Still, I thought it unique to him for he is not from our lands and the Others have not haunted him or his people through war and legends."
"To consider the thoughts and hearts of those who oppose you is rarer than you know, even when your foe is a man like any other," Meribald said with a hint of sadness. "A lesson few get the opportunity to learn but one I feel should be considered."
"I sense you speak from some experience," Howland noted, now curious. "And not just from the War of Ninepenny Kings."
The Septon chuckled at that, at last feeling the draw of sleep encroach upon him as the dawn drew nearer. "Indeed, though that is a very long tale and one I do not feel strong enough to share at this time."
"We still have a week before departing," the young lord reminded him. "I would like to hear more of your experiences and what has brought you to these conclusions."
"Why not?" Meribald accepted the offer without hesitation, finding himself more at ease now than at any other point since his arrival at the Red Keep. "Though only if you reveal to me more about your own order. I am quite curious how one becomes a 'mountain.'"
Both men laughed, agreed to meet while they still could, and parted ways. When Meribald returned to his quarters and sank into his bed, he found himself at peace.
He had consumed potions that would make even a Witcher nauseous and cause ordinary people's hair and teeth to fall out. He had imbibed elixirs that would either kill a person in excruciating pain or leave them irreparably brain-damaged.
Yet, for all the decades he'd done it, Geralt was still amazed at how an ordinary booze hangover could utterly debilitate him.
He dragged himself out of bed around noon, his arms feeling like limp noodles and his legs even worse. Each step wobbled under him, threatening to send him crashing to the ground, while every noise seemed to reverberate directly into the throbbing pain between his eyes.
This is the last time I get drunk, I swear. Geralt thought then almost laughed if he didn't need to rush to the nearest window and empty his stomach through it. Still, one advantage he had was that his body was faster to recover than ordinary men.
An hour and a long, scalding shower later, Geralt felt a good deal better already. He and most of the party reconvened in the hall where they'd held briefings for the North and Valyria missions. Meribald and Howland were running late, but the Five and Oberyn had arrived ahead of Geralt.
The room was a tableau of the morning after, each man nursing his own private agony. Despite his own discomfort, Geralt couldn't help but feel both amused and sympathetic.
Oswell sat rigidly in his seat, his mouth drawn into a thin line and his eyes fixed in a perpetual frown that wavered between pain and annoyance. Arthur rested his elbows on the table, massaging his left temple as he tried to blink his headache away. Pycelle looked close to collapsing; his clothes were still stained from the previous night's escapades, and his eyes were as red as the wine they'd consumed. Oberyn's hair was a chaotic tangle of black curls, each strand seemingly rebelling against the other. Despite the bags under his eyes, he tried to exude a casual demeanor, though it was clearly forced.
But it was Jaime who looked the worst for wear. Geralt noticed immediately the way his half-lidded eyes were fixed on the table, his mouth hanging open slightly. Every time the sound of Geralt's boots echoed on the stone floor, Jaime winced, as if each step were a personal affront.
"I am never, ever doing that again," Jaime declared by way of greeting, closing his eyes as if pained by the sound of his own voice. "I'd sooner let the Others take me."
"Yeah, you will," the Witcher responded, his tone tinged with sympathy. "Everyone regrets getting intoxicated the morning after, but we all keep doing it."
"It's simply a matter of experience," Prince Oberyn chimed in, inexplicably taking a sip from a mug of Dornish Red. "The more you do it, the better you get at it."
"I have no desire to excel in this particular skill," Jaime retorted, his voice almost rising before he took a long, steadying breath. "My father dragged me out of bed hours ago, summoned me to his solar, and lectured me about being a Lannister and upholding proper conduct. I swear, it felt like my skull would split open every time he stamped one of those accursed papers."
"Our lecture is forthcoming," Arthur replied in a weary tone. "We've only been spared it because Gerold is on duty this morning."
"Please," Oswell scoffed. "As if he never accompanied the King when they snuck out of the castle to serenade the common folk or drink themselves senseless..."
Before anyone could inquire about those particular details, the doors swung open, revealing Howland Reed and Septon Meribald deep in conversation. Neither seemed weighed down by the previous night's festivities. Geralt noticed that Meribald appeared more at ease than he had just a day prior; Howland, too, seemed unburdened by his usual reservations. The mood they carried stood in stark contrast to the collective misery of the men already in the room.
As they entered, an earthy aroma filled the air, emanating from a tray of steeping cups and teapots that Meribald carried. The scent immediately reminded Geralt of the countryside: freshly cut grass and bundles of hay.
"Ah, good morning," Meribald said, placing the cups on the table. The aroma instantly captured nearly everyone's attention. "I apologize for our tardiness. Lord Howland and I were busy gathering herbs and materials for the drink I've brought you."
"What is it?" Pycelle inquired, a hint of life returning to his otherwise dead face.
"It's a remedy of my own creation," Meribald explained, "from a time before I became a proper Septon and partook in late-night festivities. It may not be the most pleasant-tasting concoction, but I assure you it will alleviate your headaches and settle your stomachs."
"I'll take it," Jaime said, reaching for a cup as though he were a man dying of thirst. "Cheers!" With a nod to Meribald, he raised the cup and downed its contents in seconds.
Immediately, his half-lidded eyes snapped wide open as if he'd been physically struck, and a violent coughing fit ensued. He hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and licked his lips, but the offensive taste lingered.
"Herbal remedies have a particular taste," Geralt remarked, his lips curling into the faintest of smiles.
"You might've warned me," Jaime shot back, still coughing.
"You might not have drunk all of it if I had," the Witcher countered, shrugging his shoulders. He took a more measured sip from his own cup. The taste was foul, certainly, but compared to the majority of concoctions he'd ingested over the years, it was relatively mild. "But I can tell it's well-made. You'll all benefit from having some."
And so, after some grumbling, the herbal tea did its work as promised. As the meeting progressed, Geralt noted a slow but definite shift in the room's atmosphere. Faces that had been haggard and lined with exhaustion began to soften, eyes that had been dull started to brighten, and the room gradually filled with more lively conversation. Pycelle seemed particularly enamored with the tea's effects, peppering Howland and Meribald with questions about its composition and how he might replicate it himself.
In the days that followed, a palpable sense of camaraderie began to settle in among the group. They were no longer just allies of circumstance; they were becoming friends. Whether as a large group or in smaller gatherings, their interactions were increasingly marked by warmth and mutual respect.
Howland Reed impressed everyone when he joined them in the training yard. His skill with both bow and spear were remarkable, and his surefootedness drew comparisons to Oberyn Martell. In a moment of competitive spirit, Oberyn even organized a series of games to determine who was the better warrior. Though the Prince of Dorne emerged victorious, it was a close match, and the respect between the two men was evident.
Septon Meribald also found his place among the group. With Howland, he had discussions ranging from herbal remedies to spiritual beliefs, while with Pycelle he recounted stories from the War of Ninepenny Kings, offering the Grand Maester a view from the trenches that was both gritty and illuminating.
Jaime Lannister spent considerable time getting accustomed to the sword Geralt had given him. It was a lighter blade, and it took him a few days to adapt his fighting style to its unique balance. During a late-night sparring session, he revealed he'd named the sword Steelfang.
"What will you name the silver one?" Geralt inquired during a break.
"The one I already have? Nothing," Jaime grinned. "I'm waiting for you to give me that Cat School blade of yours first."
Geralt chuckled. "You'll have to earn it first."
"All in good time," Jaime assured him.
But time, as it often does, flew by. Soon enough, the last day in King's Landing had arrived. a large procession made its way out of the gates of the Red Keep, winding down the hill and into the heart of the city. They reached the docks where their ships awaited, ready to carry them to the perilous missions that lay ahead.
The morning sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows and glistening reflections across the waters of Blackwater Bay. At the bustling docks below the towering silhouette of the Red Keep, a panorama of vibrant colors and sounds came to life as people gathered from all corners of King's Landing.
Rows of men-at-arms stood at attention, their polished armor glinting in the morning light, creating an impressive backdrop of steel and discipline. Sailors scurried up and down the gangplanks, loading crates of provisions and weapons onto ships whose sails billowed lazily in the gentle morning breeze. Each ship bore the sigils of different houses, the emblems flapping in the wind as if to announce their readiness for the adventure or peril that lay ahead.
To the side, under a canopy of rich, Targaryen red fabric, King Rhaegar and Queen Elia sat on elevated chairs. They were the epitome of royal grace, with Rhaegar's silver hair almost ethereal in the sunlight and Elia's eyes, filled with both pride and concern, scanning the crowd and the ships. Around them, other nobles were engaged in hushed conversations, their vibrant robes contrasting starkly with the more utilitarian garb of the soldiers and sailors.
The air was thick with a mixture of salt and anticipation. Hints of tar and timber intermingled with the scent of the sea, providing a heady, grounded aroma that filled the senses. A low murmur permeated the crowd, made up of farewells, blessings, and last-minute strategizing. Every so often, the clank of armor or the shout of a shipmaster cut through the atmosphere, a reminder that this was not a spectacle but a prelude to a dangerous mission.
As Geralt looked around, he locked eyes with each of his companions. Jaime stood off to the side, speaking with his father, sister even as his eyes seemed to search for someone else in the crowd. Oberyn was leaning against a barrel, seemingly at ease but with an alert glint in his eye. Arthur and Oswell were deep in conversation with some of the King's Guard, while Pycelle was scrutinizing a parchment, probably a last-minute checklist. Howland and Meribald stood together, Meribald offering a prayer under his breath while Howland looked off into the distance.
The Witcher realised with no small amount of sadness and regret at that moment that this was likely to be the last time all of them would be gathered together. Even if they were successful in their endeavours, he knew that death was waiting. So, he watched them, committing them all to memory as they were then. Once it was done, he looked away, steeled himself and waited for the agonising minutes to pass by.
As the ships were almost ready to set sail, King Rhaegar stood up, his posture dignified, yet filled with a sense of gravitas that demanded attention. Silence fell upon the crowd like a blanket, smoothing out the rumble of conversations and drowning out even the distant cries of seagulls.
"Lords, knights, soldiers, and friends," Rhaegar began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the crowd. "Today, we gather here not just as representatives of our houses or kingdoms, but as denizens of this realm, united by a common cause."
Queen Elia rose to stand beside him, her presence adding a softer, yet equally compelling, authority to the moment.
"We know that what we ask of you is no small feat," Elia said, her voice imbued with warmth and solemnity. "You venture into lands unknown, face dangers untold, and make sacrifices that we can only begin to fathom."
Rhaegar continued, "In you, we place not just our trust, but also the very hope that unites us all. With your valor, skill, and fellowship, you carry forth the very essence of what makes us strong."
The King paused, his eyes sweeping across the faces before him—men and women of different backgrounds, different allegiances, different beliefs, yet all bound by a single purpose.
"And so," Rhaegar's voice tinged with emotion, "we offer you our deepest gratitude. You do not just sail for adventure or conquest; you sail to secure a future for us all. Your names shall be honored, your deeds etched into the annals of history."
Elia took over once more, her words simple yet profound. "May the Seven watch over you, may the winds be ever in your favor, and may you return to us, triumphant and unbroken."
With that, both King and Queen raised their hands, not in a gesture of royalty, but in a universal sign of farewell and goodwill.
For a moment, the crowd was still, absorbing the weight of their words. And then, as if guided by some unspoken cue, a cheer erupted from the assembly, a resonant affirmation that reverberated through the very timbers of the ships, echoing across the waters and filling the air with a palpable sense of hope and determination.
As the cheers crescendoed, Rhaegar and Elia began to descend from the makeshift dais, each step a testament to their unity and purpose. They moved with a regal grace but also with an approachability that was all too rare among rulers.
King Rhaegar extended his hand to each of the champions in turn. His grip was firm, his eyes piercing yet filled with an unmistakable respect. "May your blade stay sharp," he told Geralt, who nodded in acknowledgment.
"And may your arrows find their mark," he said to Howland Reed, who smiled and inclined his head. Each greeting was personal, a specific blessing for each man's unique abilities.
Beside him, Queen Elia held a small bundle of favors — small tokens made of embroidered cloth, each bearing the sigil of House Targaryen. As she handed one to each of the champions, her gaze met theirs, a silent but potent expression of her gratitude and hope.
"To keep you safe," she whispered as she offered one to Jaime, who accepted it with a solemn nod.
"And to remind you of home," she added, bestowing her favor upon Oberyn, who accepted it with an enigmatic smile. Elia, pained but smiling all the same, kissed him on the forehead and muttered a farewell.
Arthur Dayne took his favor and held it aloft, letting the silken fabric catch the light, symbolizing, perhaps, the honor and weight that each man now carried with him. Oswell did the same, his face stern but proud.
As Meribald received his, he nodded and said, "May the Seven be with us all." Elia smiled, "And may they guide you back to us."
The crowd watched, some with misty eyes, as the King and Queen of the realm honored each man. It was a small gesture but a deeply symbolic one, a moment of individual recognition in a mission that was greater than any single person.
As the champions boarded their respective ships, a final cheer erupted from the crowd, echoing the sentiments so eloquently expressed by their King and Queen: gratitude, hope, and an undying wish for a safe return.
Geralt wished he could share their optimism. As he stepped onto the deck, Oberyn immediately barked orders to unfurl the sails and prepare for immediate departure. Meribald and Oswell joined him at his side, their hands or elbows resting atop the railing. Across the water, the faces of their comrades watched back as their own ship also drew near to departure.
For a time, no words passed between them. Stern or grim expressions marked the faces of everyone present. It looked to be a solemn farewell until a smile spread across Jaime's face.
"Next time we go down the Merry Way," he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, "we'll catch that bloody pig!"
Meribald looked bemused, while Oswell grinned back. "We? You're the one who fell into the mud, lad!"
"Don't mind him, brother," Arthur slapped Jaime on the left shoulder. "He's still sore about being outdone by Pycelle!"
Laughter erupted from most of them, breaking the tension. Even Geralt managed a passing smile. Moments later, the sails unfurled, the docking ropes were cast off and hoisted onboard. A westerly wind filled the sails, and gradually their ships pulled away from the docks, gliding down the Blackwater Bay. For a while, they traveled side by side but eventually drifted apart: the northern company's vessel angled itself northeast, while the Serpent's Kiss sailed purely east.
As they drifted farther away, Geralt lost sight of the faces he'd grown familiar with. In a few days, even their ship would vanish beyond his gaze. The melancholy weighed him down, rooting him to the deck even as King's Landing receded into a shrinking dot on the horizon.
Eventually, as he always did, Geralt set his feelings aside and refocused. He'd done all he could for the others; now all he could do was hope they would emerge alive and whole on the other side. Those still with him needed him even more.
There was still work to be done.
The cold, harsh wind howled through the turrets, towers, and halls of a desolate castle. Snow and ice invaded each chamber, freezing every shard of red rock. The chill cut through Ciri's clothes, bit at her skin, and gnawed at her trembling lungs as she sprinted through the winding, labyrinthine hallways.
It was a castle she had never encountered in her many travels, a malevolent fortress bent on her destruction. Shadows animated the walls, stalking her with a malicious, inhuman language. Their blades whizzed through the air, missing her by the thinnest margins. Their eyes—impossibly blue—watched her with unblinking intensity.
The corridors seemed endless, each an eerie replica of the last, blurring time and distance. It wasn't until she rounded a corner and narrowly evaded more blades that she found herself in a spacious hall free of shadows. The ceiling here was ripped apart, and towering pillars stood like broken sentinels. Snow blanketed the ground, at times shallow, at others knee-deep. At the end of the hall, a grotesque sight captured her gaze.
A throne crafted from melted, gray and black swords loomed over her like some monstrous, slumbering beast. If it had ever been alive, the ice had claimed it, leaving shattered hilts and blade fragments around its base. Beside it lay a skull, one belonging to a creature that could only have been a dragon.
As she stared, bewildered and frightened, movement in the snow snapped her attention. She spun around and readied her blade. However, the shadow that rose from the snow shattered her heart.
It was Geralt, a grotesque version of her father. His chest was ripped open, exposing rows of jagged, icy ribs. His jaw was half-torn, one eye missing, and the remaining eye a haunting blue.
Tears welled up in Ciri's eyes, freezing instantly. Blinded, she hastily wiped them clear, only to see the abomination that had been her father lunge at her with inhuman speed. A roar that sounded like the embodiment of death itself accompanied the blade that cut her down.
"NO!" Ciri screamed, bolting upright in her bed. The sensation of steel piercing her flesh felt alarmingly real. Drenched in cold sweat, she fought to steady her racing heart, using techniques taught by the Witchers of Kaer Morhen. It was a struggle; the vision haunted her thoughts, each detail as vivid as the last.
Outside, the small town lay quiet, disturbed only by the occasional hoot of an owl or laughter from the tavern below. Her room was a cocoon of darkness, and for a moment, Ciri feared she'd glimpse something blue lurking in the shadows.
After regaining her composure, Ciri dressed quickly, slung her sword over her shoulder, and descended to the innkeeper. Without a word, she left a small pouch of gold and made her way to Kelpie, her new steed won in an illegal horse race a week prior.
"Hold on, Geralt," she murmured, mounting the ebony horse and urging it forward. "Whatever mess you're in, we're coming to help."
With a spirited neigh, Kelpie burst into a lightning-fast gallop down the cobblestone road. In the distance, illuminated by torchlight against the night sky, stood the rebuilt city of Vengerberg.