There was a time Aerys feared fire, dreaded it more than anything else in the world. It was a shameful, disgusting thing for a son of Valyria to even privately admit. All the same, he could not deny it for many years. Not after Summerhall.
Over twenty years later, Aerys could recall every moment of it with perfect clarity. The walls crumbling around them, he and Rhaella suffocating amidst the smoke in their retreat, the screams of their kin overpowering even Rhaegar's first cries. Their great dynasty almost purged in the span of a single hour.
For many years nothing could hold back the nightmares of that day. Not war and steel, women and wine, friendship and family, useless, all of it. All burned to cinders in the face of such devastation. This was Aerys' great error, the foolishness of his youth. Duskendale had taught him otherwise.
In those six months, alone and beaten like a dog, Aerys found only comfort from the lanterns outside his cell. They brought warmth to his heart, their lights easing the howls of his own troubled mind in those dark lonely nights. When watched the Lace Serpent burn for his treason, a satisfaction unlike any other came over him.
Henceforth, he sought comfort from the fire, not away from it. Why wouldn't he? Nothing could withstand its power.
Metal could stab and cut, beasts ripped and teared. Flames destroyed, conquered. A master of it could turn anyone or anything into ash. Armor, weapons, flesh and stone, even dragons could not survive its fury when the Doom came. Every defiance, every foe and every issue was solvable with a single solution.
Our power always lay there, sorcery, not steel is the Targaryen way! Aerys smiled wider, leaning over the battlements. Unblinkingly, he stared at the pyre of Harrenhal, admiring the way the blaze and smoke swayed in the air, how even the night sky retreated in the face of its towering might.
How I wish you were here to see it, grandfather. How different things could have been if you knew what I know today. The Seven Kingdoms trembling before us, our authority unchallenged in every way…
A shadow fell over him, his joy replaced by a terrible wroth swelling in Aerys' chest until it ached. These too became more frequent with age. I know what you're thinking, Rhaegar, Tywin… His fingers throbbed from the tightening grip about the red stone. Traitors and schemers, plotting my demise, poisoning the greatest joy I've felt in years.
Gazing deeper into the raging inferno, Aerys saw not a castle but a man burning and his good spirits returned at once. It was the great lion of Lannister, whimpering like a beaten cat, begging for the mercy of a quick death ere the dragon was unleashed on him.
Once the almighty Tywin is a stain, all the rest of them shall be brought to heel or join him. Even Rhaegar. A son must always bend to his father's will.
There came a sudden, powerful roar of thunder. Aerys could swear he felt the Red Keep quiver at the mere presence of it. A warm wind blew from the north, bringing the sweet taste of ash to his mouth. He stared transfixed on the fires once again, watched their forms change. They coiled and swayed like tendrils of a kraken wrapping about a single point.
Someone gasped, another cursed, Aerys merely stood in awe of the sight. It was akin to another sun, glowing in the sky. He couldn't help but let the tears flow freely again. "Such power, a gift from the Conqueror himself! And it is mine, all mine-"
Like water spilling from shattered glass, the sun burst. As far his eyes could see, the fires spread, devouring the heavens, bathing all under it in red, yellow and orange. More of the witless fools gasped and panicked. Aerys knew better, he burst into the laughter, spreading his arms wide in embrace of the majesty towering above them all. For the first time in many years, he found the strength to dance, to spin and grasp at the tiny, burning embers descending on them like fiery snow.
Everything was perfect in the world, all too briefly.
Aerys noticed how the flames shone less, the embers fell no more or the growing spots where the night could be seen. A cold dread formed in his stomach. "No, no…" He shouted and reached for the sky. "Stop… Stop! Damn you!"
His demands and shouts for all for naught, Balerion's power sputtered, vanishing in moments. Not even a single trace of it remained, even the taste of ash disappeared from Aerys' lips. He slumped, staring at the red stones beneath his fingers. With each breath, his chest ached again. A maddening throb pierced into his temples like a pair of knives. A back tooth cracked loudly from the force of his gritting.
When Aerys broke the dead silence, it was with a howl of black fury and despair not heard in the Red Keep since the death of prince Jaehaerys.
Shrieks and shouts aplenty echoed throughout many of the Seven Kingdoms. The awakened smallfolk and their livestock cowered, cried and ran in fright from the dragonfire's death throes. Many of the beasts fell dead at once.
House Blackwood's members no longer trebled in their sleep, their fevers gone. They just didn't wake up for another month. The iron beast, blind and in the throes of madness, escaped the grasp of his father and brothers. He ran out into the raging rain and firestorm, screaming of crows and krakens ere flinging himself from the battlements of Pyke.
In the east, the fire watcher stared until the kraken was naught but ash. Within the hour, he and his companion were back out to sea. Past the great wall, amidst ancient stones and deepest tree roots of the world, the three-eyed crow trembled then smiled, sensing the demise of his predecessor's enemy. The Seven Kingdoms would need more of such bravery, ingenuity and sacrifice in the coming days.
None, however, felt the fall of Harren and the end of his curse more acutely than members of House Whent still watching it all unfold.
First came the thunder, loud and strong enough to shake the very ground beneath them. Men and women struggled to stand, horses neighed in terror, ravens croaked and shrieked in their cages. Roland's commands to maintain order fell silent. The wind blew from their backs, warm and uncomfortable, swirling about the camp and castle. Fires and smoke plumes as taller than the walls came alive again, thrusting into the flaming heart of the black storm raging above Harrenhal.
Watching it all unfold left Walter breathless, still as a statue. He could not pry his eyes away from the orb of flames looming over his home. A terrible, evil thing coming to life in the den of night. A perversion of all the laws of men and gods alike.
Have they failed? He dreaded, imagining Oswell and his companions all slain and burnt to ash. Is this the end of us all?
Shella's hand entwined with his couldn't keep the terror at bay any longer. All the same, Walter had no strength left to flee. What could an ordinary man's retreat do in the face of such power when unleashed?
The place drawing all of Harrenhal's evils began to shrink. The smaller it got, the more terrible its red glow became. Eventually, it was no larger than a small, bloody star in the sky ere it burst across the heavens. Everyone in the camp shrieked, Walter and Shella held each other close, a final embrace on the eve of their fiery demise.
An infernal wave sent the heavens afire for miles, blanketing the stars and moon in a sea of red, orange and yellow. Fire did not reach them on the ground, something else did. An unseen force of such power fell with a war hammer's force upon Walter.
His legs gave out, everything became a blur, his face met the dirt. Somewhere, Shella shouted commands, horses neighed and trampled and men panicked. It wasn't merely a weariness overpowering him, not even the Stepstones had left Walter so spent. This was an absence of thought and of feeling. The world no longer spun in his sight but froze and fell silent. Soon enough, Walter didn't even have the desire to blink or breathe nor could he if he wanted.
Lord Whent could not say what stirred him out of this near death. He could not hear the cries of his family, them clutching at his fallen form. It simply went away after a time, with its absence, many sensations overcame him. A searing stinging in his dry eyes, a desperate need for air, a rush of noises assaulting his ears. Roland and Shella held him down during the brief panic, shouting pleas to stop, to calm himself.
Walter eventually recovered his composure, the frantic gasps and flails halting until he simply laid on the grass, an ordinary night sky overhead. No trace of the madness at all. Was it all a dream? The fires, the voices? Am I… dead?
"Walter, Walter are you alright?" Shella said, the pain of her legs and Roland's hands pressing on his limbs revealing to the lord he was in-fact not dead.
"Aye, I am… the panic has left me," The nearby torches revealed just enough of their faces for him to see their concern. All the same, they released him. Ere they could help him up, Lord Whent did so by himself. He all-but sprang to his feet with an ease and swiftness he had not felt in a long time.
Seven hells… Walter nearly blurted out. He hadn't moved this way in years, some days a simple walk from one side of the castle to another left him spent. By all accounts, he should've been in pain. He felt none. There was no ache in his knees or back. No stiffness about his shoulders. When he focused only on his hands, they no longer shook beyond his control. The only thing amiss was his clothes, they felt a size too small for him then.
Can it be? He ran a hand through his hair, wishing a mirror was within reach. Have they truly broken the curse?
The neigh of a horse and the cry of a man-at-arms halted his consideration. Though the chaos within their camp had lessened, men still lied on their knees or backs, steads refused to obey or fell deathly still upon the grass. In the distance, Harrenhal burned no longer, there wasn't even a hint of smoke or heat in the air, the fallen ash had vanished utterly.
"Roland, gather whatever men and horses are still able, we're returning to the castle. Shella-"
"I will remain to oversee the camp," His lady wife rose with a speed matching Walter's own. In the torchlight, he could swear a change had come upon her visage as well. "Go my love, there is no telling what has befallen the others in that dreadful place."
"Seven hells, Geralt," Oswell said, clenching and unclenching his exposed, bandaged right arm. "Even the medicines of your lands are worthy of a bard's tale."
"You're right brother, I scarcely feel the cut at all."
"That'll last for a few more hours, maybe a day if you don't irritate the wounds." Geralt said, pointedly looking at the knights across the table.
"Speaking from experience, Geralt?" Jaime said from the witcher's left with a pleased smile.
"As matter of fact, yes," He returned it, fondly recounting the many scoldings of Nenneke. "Once you get to even half my age, you'll learn the value of letting a wound settle in its own time."
"Cuts, stabs, aching feet, knees, shoulders, really anything at all."
Pycelle's tired remark from the table's head drew laughter from all assembled. Despite being the most tired of their group, he diligently aided Geralt in applying the herbs and ointments to the Kingsguard and the witcher himself.
Once they were tended to, the group mustered the last of their rapidly dwindling strength and dragged themselves down the tower. This proved easier said than done. Only a few floors down, Jaime suggested they rest in one of the numerous, abandoned rooms. No one argued with him.
And so their company sat comfortably in a minor study, surrounded by cobwebs aplenty, illuminated only by candlelight and passing around Oswell's wineskin. It was the best they'd all felt in hours.
"Aye but a tired body after a job well done has a certain charm to it," Arthur replied, swallowing another gulp. "And none here or out there can say we've performed anything less than a miracle tonight."
"For once this damned place doesn't make me reach for a sword," Oswell looked about the room, mostly without distaste. "You can all feel it, can't you? The heat has vanished, the air is easier to breathe."
"The accumulated discharge of power is to thank for that," Geralt explained, placing his medallion atop the desk. It hardly moved at all. "Harrenhal will never be free of magic, it's… festered here for too long. But the brunt of the dragon fire's influence has left this place for good. No more insufferable heats or wraiths prodding around people's heads."
While Jaime accepted and drank the skin offered by Dayne, a look was shared by the other four men. The same thought ran through their heads. Yes, no more wraith kings to trouble people here. Their living one will do it next.
Geralt anticipated a final burst of energy to come with Harren's downfall, not one of that size, however. If his guess was correct, people as far north as the Neck and south as Ashford could have seen or felt it. While they were busy drinking and jesting, untold panic in men and beasts alike was spreading throughout the Seven Kingdoms. It was an inevitable consequence of the breaking, it left a foul taste in his mouth all the same.
It's still more thought than their monarch is sparing for them. The witcher glared at the candlelight.
Provoking Aerys' madness was another inevitability of this endeavor, even less avoidable than the discharge. All the same, it had to be done, for the well-being of those in the castle's shadow and in-part for Geralt's own benefit.
By putting himself in such peril, Ciri could be provoked to dream of him and arrive in Westeros at last. Months with no sign of her pointed to his daughter not even being aware of Geralt's predicament. He hoped that it would end soon. If Aerys was right about anything in his many mad ramblings about dragons, it was the edge overwhelming magical force could give someone. With her, Yennefer and the aid of some men he'd come to know and respect, they just might be able to halt any of the mad king's plans in motion.
If Dandelion was here, he'd say breaking the curse cured the king of his madness. He smiled somewhat bitterly. I doubt it'll be that easy. Not just because of Aerys either.
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the nearby assortment of weaponry they'd left against a wall. The weirwood branches white trunks stuck out amidst the shadows, their red leaves glowing in the candlelight.
Since reuniting, Jaime and Pycelle had said nothing on the matter. Nor did the rest of the group ask, though they all must have considered it. Is this the work of our mysterious ally? The three-eyed crow said all would become clear once the curse breaking was accomplished. Was this some aid given to them when the first attempt failed? More importantly, what was the price for this aid? Lady Whent's payment was losing enough strength to stay bedridden for two days.
He sighed deeply, leaning back into the chair, eyes growing heavier. Speaking of payments…
"Something the matter, Geralt?" Arthur inquired.
"It's just the potions, they're starting to work their way through my system. I'll be asleep as a corpse soon. Probably for a day or two."
The Kingsguard looked at one another and smiled. "Then we'll have to perform the ceremonies swiftly, while all our soon to be knights remain awake."
"It seems so, Arthur."
"Soon to-" Jaime said, confused but for a moment. When his eyes widened and body went still, Geralt couldn't resist a short laugh. "You cannot mean-"
"What else could we mean?" Arthur replied, retrieving Dawn. Oswell did the same for his own sword, using his shield hand to wield it. "An abandoned study is a strange place to knight someone, I admit. Yet, how often do a squire, maester and witcher receive the honor for stopping a fell wraith king?"
"A-A maester knighted?" Pycelle sputtered and coughed, the wine was caught in his throat. "S-Surely you jest."
"Far from it. I promised to knight you for saving me, did I not? I intend to keep it, right now. There are thousands of men who would have fled in your place."
"One can only be brave by overcoming fear," Arthur continued. "You, Jaime and Geralt have all proven yourselves more than capable of this and so much more. You've all saved not just the living from a madman's terror but brought peace to the dead. This honor is the smallest token either of us can give to you for your accomplishments."
"And it is a greatly appreciated offer, my friend," Geralt said, meaning every word. "Unfortunately, it's one I've already received a long time ago."
They all stared at him as if he'd just revealed himself to be Harren the Black reborn in mortal flesh.
"Twice," He clarified, taking the wineskin out of the dumbfounded Pycelle's hand. "Once by a queen with broken teeth and again by a lady of the lake. Our version of ser is addressing someone with their country of origin at the end. In a way, you've been calling me Ser Geralt for months now."
"How does that even happen?" Jaime blurted out. Geralt had seen that look in his eye before, the one hungry for a good story. "And why would you accept a second one-"
"Leave him be, lad," Oswell snorted, shaking his head. "It is likely a long tale and one better left some other time. Let him witness the ceremony then. Or mayhaps you wish to delay it?"
"No, no!" The boy pushed himself up from his chair with the speed of an arrow. "We will do it tonight, right, Grand Maester?"
"W-Well, I-I-I suppose…"
Jaime did not forget Pycelle, helping him rise out of his seat then kneel before the knights. All the same, Geralt could not smallest hint of a smile playing around his lips. Even the Grand Maester, perplexed by this as he was, straightened his back when facing the Kingsguard.
Arthur and Oswell faced them, silent and taller in the candlelight and red leaf glow. Their absent armor pieces, bandages and dirt smeared cloaks doing nothing to lessen the strength of their appearance.
"Jaime of House Lannister," Arthur began, touching the blade to the boy's right shoulder.
"Pycelle of the Citadel," Oswell continued, mirroring the gesture. Squire and maester alike imperceptibly shivered at the touch.
"In the name of the Warrior I charge to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just," the swords moved from one shoulder to another. The Kingsguard voices were strong but dignified. "In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women."
The blades stopped and so did the recipient's breathing. The three other men in the room smiled.
"Arise," Oswell and Arthur said as one. "Jaime of House Lannister and Pycelle of the Citadel, knights of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Ser Jaime and Ser Pycelle did so, joy plain on their faces and pride in their chests. Geralt watched them a little while longer, the four men talking, laughing. Great companions one and all. I'll have to give the two of them something later. The witcher leaned back into his seat, the shadows falling over his eyes. They've both earned it….
With that final thought, he fell asleep and did not wake for the next three days.
A/N: Hello! My apologies for the longer than expected wait, personal issues and college stuff took more out of me than expect. It's also why this chapter is a bit shorter than the usual fare, serving as an epilogue to the Harrenhal arc. A good chunk of 27 is complete, I hope I'll manage to get some of it done in the coming days.