The blade rose and fell, first a dozen then over a hundred times. Nothing more, nothing less. An exercise so ordinary a small child could do it with a twig. It was swordsmanship in its simplest form, its drawn-out, repeated execution enough to numb the mind and body. That was why Arthur increasingly did over the past few years, it helped keep him sane.
Shortly after Duskendale, he rose to the position of Kingsguard to replace Ser Gwayne Gaunt. It was all he ever wanted, to serve among the finest knights of the realm. Such was his excitement at the time, it dulled his perceptions of all the signs.
Aerys' behavior during Arthur's first two years was erratic, somewhat concerning but not cruel yet. He was slow to trust and quick to snap at perceived slights. The estrangement between him and Rhaegar widened into a vast chasm. Dragonfire and its power to defeat all traitors and enemies quickly became a favorite subject.
His Sworn Brothers assured him it would pass, the king suffered grievously in captivity, time would heal his wounds. Everything would turn out well, Arthur believed it too. Until the rapes and wildfire burnings started.
Once it became clear this would not come to pass, they all discovered ways of staying their tongues and hands.
Barristan found strength from his vows, Leywn comfort from his paramour, Oswell in his outward disinterest. Gerold in the assurances of better days ahead from Rhaegar. It wasn't that Arthur didn't believe his friend, it just wasn't enough. He needed to cut something down, even if it was just air. Or whatever he allowed himself to imagine in its place.
For that reason, Arthur was grateful he volunteered to come to Harrenhal. Despite all the dangers within and to come out of the curse-breaking, it was the first time in years he didn't feel useless. He wasn't a glorified sentry to a madman, admired for his perceived, unwavering dedication to duty and the values of knighthood.
Harren had to fall, the lives of thousands depended on it and many more souls deserved their long denied justice. There was nothing else to it and it felt good.
In all the weeks they'd spent in the castle, Arthur never once resorted to the exercise. Bonds were forged or strengthened, a great service was performed to the realm. He would go to his grave remembering the freed spirits cheer in gratitude as they departed this world in peace. It was the first time in years he had achieved what a knight should.
All the same, sleep eluded him that evening. He endlessly tossed and turned in bed for what felt like hours, his eyes always resting at the beam of moonlight cut through the otherwise pitch-black room. In time, Arthur could stomach it no more.
Returning to the godswood not only felt better, it felt right. So familiar was it, he knew where to avoid each branch, stone or small pity with nothing practiced ease. Its stale air bothered him not, the sight of strange and bent shadows all around, given life under the moon's shine was more welcoming than the pure void of a cavernous bedroom.
The only unwelcome sight was the weirwood, its bark and leaves glowing like a great, fire-less torch. Arthur felt its eyes upon him and promptly moved to where they could not see.
And there he stood, a lone man amid pure nature, focused only on the practice. He couldn't begin to remember where he stopped counting by the time his body began to fail. Pains and aches began to mount across his legs, arms and shoulder. Arthur's hair stuck to his brow, his breathing becoming labored, almost desperate. All the same, the heart's disquiet did not abate.
"... why." He pierced the ground, steadying on Dawn. "Why isn't it working? What's wrong with me?"
"Old failures taste bitter even after a good victory, as my grandfather liked to say. I don't think I ever understood it truly until now."
Startled, Arthur turned with the grace of a drunken boar to find Oswell standing behind him, cross-armed, plainly dressed as if right out of bed and wineskin-in-hand. Twilight had arrived, banishing the night on the eve of dawn.
Gods, I've been at it for hours.
"Come, brother," Oswell said, patting him on the shoulder. "Let us sit, it'll do you more good than torturing yourself."
Arthur considered protesting until the pat sent a ripple of pain running down his whole sword arm. Wordlessly, he followed after Oswell, feeling a great deal worse for wear than after fighting Harren.
They stopped at the table amidst the remnants of their former camp. Tents, blankets, bedrolls, stools, crates, plates and a score of other items lay just where they'd left them ere the curse-breaking. They could all go back to it at once and would want for nothing.
Dawn was laid atop the table, the two men sitting apart from one another. The weirwoods features were, thankfully, not visible from where they were.
"Drink up, you need it a great deal more than I."
"Bit early for wine," Arthur pointed out, uncorking the skin all the same. He was pleasantly proven wrong with the first gulps. "Water? You've always preferred stronger drinks."
"I had considered it when staring at the ceiling lost its charm. It simply… didn't feel right," He looked about the former camp, a smile playing around his lips. "Strange as it sounds, I almost wish something else was amiss here. Naught but a beast for us to slay and hours spent here planning it."
"Something else is amiss, somewhere" Arthur reminded him, handing back the waterskin. "The three-eyed crow implied as much and our companions' oath only adds fuel to the fire."
Both had learned of Jaime and Pycelle's vow to the old gods the previous afternoon. Arthur had wondered about the story behind their branches and misliked much of it. They had learned much of what the weirwoods could do, but not everything.
As thankful as he was for what the two did, he could not escape the terrible feeling they had bound themselves to something none of them fully understood. Just like I didn't when I put on the cloak.
"Yet our mysterious benefactor has fallen silent, like every other bird recently," Oswell gave an ugly smile as he drank. "Walter is expecting riders from other houses to head out any day now. Hoster and Brynden are likely on kingsroad as we speak, ravens be damned."
Many are likely doing just that. Geralt had warned of side-effects to the curse breaking, yet even his bleakest estimations did not foresee a total breakdown amongst the messenger birds.
The ravens would not fly, no matter what anyone did. Many had outright perished in the chaos, those who remained just shook in their cages, day and night. No messages had arrived from King's Landing or anyone else for that matter. Much of the realm could be in utter disarray after the curse-breaking and they'd likely learn nothing of it for days or weeks.
"I expect our king is accepting it all most graciously," Arthur said, the disquiet in his heart was joined by another feeling. "Barristan and Varys can only do so much this time. You saw the power, how far it traveled. He is no doubt scheming a thousand different ways to get his dragons."
"Walter and I spoke of that as well. He fears all our efforts with Harren will be for nothing when Aerys arrives. With no tourney to gain the great lords support as we planned, he says Harrenhal will not survive a third burning."
"He's right," Arthur replied, his fingers tightened about the chair's arms. "No matter what any of us tell him, Aerys will proceed with his plan. Even if it means the end of himself, this place and all the rest of us in it."
He looked away from his Sworn Brother, gaze falling upon the greatsword resting on the table. The disquiet from before was gone, in its place was a mounting, raw fury the likes of which he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since that night.
"Have I ever told you what happened the first time I listened to him ravage the queen?" He spoke in a low voice, sharper than steel and colder than ice. "Lewyn was with me. Aerys had spent the afternoon with that toad Rossart, talking of fire and alchemy. Silly to my ears but it lifted his spirits. He was excited, happy, even deigning to jest with me like we were old friends on the way to his chambers. For the only time, I thought Aerys was charming.
"Stop, she kept telling him, you're hurting me. She screamed and begged and he struck her every time. I stood frozen in that hall, I couldn't believe what I was hearing, what was happening on the other side of that door. It was like a nightmare you couldn't wake from, no matter how terrible…"
Staring into the pale steel, he could almost see it reflected in the blade with perfect clarity. Aerys swaggered out of the queen's chambers, jesting and bragging, Rhaella sobbing as the door closed behind him. How he and Lewyn followed in stunned silence like a dutiful pair of accomplices. The cold fury that burned in Arthur's chest until a long bout of sword practice left him aching and exhausted for days thereafter.
The same anger had returned, many-fold stronger. Adventure, survival and victory against a powerful curse had unleashed something he feared could not be quieted again.
"Then let us end the nightmare ourselves by killing him."
Arthur did not react, at first. The statement came so swiftly, so brazenly, he wasn't entirely sure his troubled mind wasn't playing more tricks on him.
Looking away from the steel, he saw Oswell's unflinching, grim and half-shadowed visage across the table. This was not his Sworn Brother speaking, but the Dread Bat of Whent.
"False tourneys, great lords and councils, promises of a better tomorrow, piss on all of it I say. All we have ever needed is the will to act and one of those." He pointed to Dawn. "There is evil in this world, Arthur. Something foul in the hearts of men, driving them to commit unspeakable acts. Harren is all the proof anyone ever needs that some men must be punished, be they beggars or kings."
Weeks, even days past, Arthur would have disagreed outright. To kill a king was no simple matter. He would cite their vows, their duties to the crown. What such an act would do to their honor, their family names, the very existence of the Kingsguard. A thousand excuses to delay, to do nothing, he felt no desire to voice any of them.
Instead, he looked back to the greatsword. There, in the reflection of the steel, he saw fire and death, the slain creature whose words he tried to bury and ignore rattled his soul that evening.
Do you merely mean to make me the first of horrible rulers to face justice? Harren's taunt was as clear as the first time. From Kingsguard to Kingslayer, quite a tale for the great Ser Arthur Dayne. Would you still be worthy of bearing that famed sword of your family?
He lifted the sword atop his palms, looking it over once, twice. In the steel, there were Morgan, Ashara, his father and mother, Rhaegar and Rhaella, his Sworn Brothers. Those who would love and hate him for what must be done, who would live free of Aerys and his evil because of the dishonor to come.
"The will to act and a sword to make use of it," Arthur glanced over at his smiling brother. "You should've been a poet."
"Mayhaps, I will when I'm too old and tired to swing a sword."
The thought brought a brief smile to Arthur's face. Taking the sword in both hands, he held Dawn aloft, pointing to the sky. It shined in the early sunlight creeping into the clearing, weighing nothing at all.
"If Aerys pursues his heart's desire, we will do the same," The Sword of Morning vowed, to himself, to Oswell and to all those wronged by the mad king and their hesitation. "He will die by the sword."
"And so there we were, two men riding through the firestorm. The fires were red as blood, all-consuming and the dead were with us almost every step of the way. Moaning, begging for someone, anyone to release them from Harren's evil. Our faithful steads galloped through the inferno, never once showing fear in the face of the chaos around them. Kingspyre tower loomed over us most of the way, a great fiery pillar almost daring us to come."
The assembled men, women and children all gasped and murmured, huddling around closer Jaime's table, forming a wall of bodies around it that could halt a cavalry charge. Fresh meals went cold and uneaten at fifteen or so tables around the hall. The early morning sun shined just over the crowd while the wooden floor protested audibly from the sheer weight pressed upon it.
Not that anyone present cared for such things. Their focus lay entirely on Jaime, sitting relaxed near the hall's center and a cup of fine ale always in hand. Glancing about their faces, he could see the mounting anticipation and fright in their eyes.
Jaime had chosen to break his fast in that hall, being the closest to his chambers. He had scarcely eaten a bite of bread when Ben Whent and a group of other children arrived after him, like a small Dothraki horde, asking to hear all about the curse-breaking. They weren't alone in wanting this and Jaime was never one to refuse an enthusiastic public.
"Tired from battle and riding, we ascended the tower-like men possessed. The heat was scalding, the dead growing more numerous," His voice lowered with each word, and his eyes meeting many others. "Slayer of thousands, devourer of his own child, Harren was dangerous already but in his own domain? The wraith's power was tenfold greater still!"
They sat and stood frozen, unable to muster even a whimper, growing as pale as the steel of Dawn. He let the fright hang over them a while, what was a good story after all if the listeners weren't terrified at least once?
"W-Were you afraid, ser?" A girl, the castellan's daughter, mustered the courage to ask.
"Afraid? Of course not," Jaime gave the girl his most winning smile, his friendly demeanor restored. "When your comrades' lives are on the line, there is no time or place for fear."
The half-truth was received very well, their unease from moments ago changed to wonder, awe and even greater respect than before. Particularly from the children, who so very much reminded him of Tyrion. It was their gratitude and admiration he held dearer than most others. It was not so long ago I looked at many others with the same reverence. I probably still do.
"What happened next, Ser Jaime?" Ben Whent asked from the front, his eyes sparkled with barely contained enthusiasm. "What happened next?! Is it true you killed Harren yourself?!"
"Aye! Please tell us, ser!" One of the oldest men there said, short, balding and supported by a cane.
Ser Jaime. I will never grow tired of hearing that. His smile widened. "Of course I will tell you, how could I possibly refuse such a wonderful public?"
Nearly an hour later, once the tale was told in all its deserved glory, Jaime excused himself without inciting a rebellion. Down the endless stairs, he went, receiving more thanks and acknowledgments all the while. The destination in mind, however, soured the sweet taste of victory.
Geralt had forewarned them of what the potions could do. For the first day and a half, he was merely in a deep sleep. Then, in the waning hours of the last afternoon, the witcher fell ill. The bed was drenched from the sweat, his complexion grew paler and his face contorted from deep pain.
In a way, it was as if the witcher was giving him another brazen lesson: even the best can fall ill like anyone else. It didn't make seeing it any more pleasant. At least he left Pycelle armed with the knowledge and medicines to ensure a proper recovery.
With Geralt's first chambers destroyed during the curse-breaking, he was placed in one of the finest left in all of Harrenhal at Lord Walter's express wish. No expense was spared in its furnishing.
Jaime had seen enough tapestries and carpets from the Free Cities in his time to recognize them at a glance, the strange colors and shapes were woven across them. Alongside the carpets, there were the furs of wolves and even a bear lying about. Fine wooden chests, seats and tables of varying sizes were placed throughout, a large bath in a corner with white folded curtains for added privacy and weirwood ceiling beams standing out amidst the black stones overhead.
It was fit for a king and far too ostentatious for a man like Geralt. At one of the tables closest to the drape-covered bed, sat Pycelle. A tiny figure amidst the stable-sized chambers, busying himself not with hovering around the slumbering witcher with papers of some sort. At a smaller, adjacent desk, were many vials.
"Ah, Ser Jaime," Pycelle greeted him warmly, turning on his seat to face the doorway. "Good morning to you."
"To you as well, Grand Maester," he replied, unable to resist a smirk. "Or is it Ser Grand Maester now? I'm afraid that still confounds me."
"Amuses, from what I can see," There was only the barest hint of sarcasm in his voice. The others wouldn't be so polite. "For now, let us say I am only the Grand Maester."
"Or we can simply put aside such formalities, at least in private. We've certainly gone through enough together to earn such liberties." And we're both oath-bound to that suddenly silent tree.
After a moment's pondering, he nodded. "Yes, I suppose we have indeed… Jaime."
"Good, now, what of our leader? I assume he's better today?"
"Oh yes, considerably so," The two approached Geralt's sleeping form, protected from the outside light by thick, red curtains hanging off the wall. Some of the color had returned to his face, his expression calm, breathing steady.
"Though it may surprise you, many of the worst symptoms never came to pass."
Jaime gave him a startled look. "It could have been worse?"
"In any number of ways. Luckily, Geralt suffered but one injury and a swiftly treated one. His body only needs to recover from exertion, most of the potion's contents have been expelled already."
Right, I'll not ask what that entailed. "Will he awaken today?"
"Most likely, tomorrow at the latest," He replied with reassuring certainty. "I am hoping it is sooner, I've not slept at all in close to a day."
"You can do it now if you wish. With Harren defeated, those of us good for only swinging our swords don't have much else to do here."
In truth, there was never a dull moment with the curse about. Sword practices, planning out routes for the godswood trails, learning the weakness and strengths of the enemy, scouting the area of magic effect.
Not all of it was enjoyable and yet all of it was done with a purpose. It was time well spent, on matters of genuine importance, a foundation for their great victory. Much as he enjoyed the fruits of their efforts, a part of Jaime was sad to see it all end.
"It is a most generous offer my lo- Jaime, though I must refuse," Pycelle walked back to the desk, gesturing at a dozen or papers scattered along its length. "I've found something else to stave off sleep a while longer."
It only took a few glances and quick reads for him to recognize their contents. "You're writing a book about the curse-breaking?"
"Indeed I am!" He replied with great excitement. "An event of such magnitude, such sorcery has not happened in the known world since the Doom of Valyria. There will be much speculation, conjecture and falsehood concerning it long after we are all dust. Creating a reliable account of what transpired is of the utmost importance."
"True enough," Jaime replied, smiling fondly at one particular claim made yesterday by a guard. "Some are already changing the story, saying we each defeated a hundred fire-breathing specters."
"And others will believe little to none of it, regardless of evidence or how many witnesses we provide. My many years in the Citadel and serving in King's Landing have taught me that quite well."
"I know a few such men too, pains in the arse every one." Father most certainly numbers among them. Tywin Lannister only acknowledged the gods when necessary, to swear an oath or as part of a ceremony. Advancing the dynasty and an unquestioning, absolute rule was his faith. He who achieved both commanded the world.
It did not help that he usually proved it to be true.
Pycelle continued. "Precisely why we must arm ourselves with knowledge. Imagine for a moment how we would have fared against the curse if it erupted last year? With no witcher to aid us and many, myself included, obstinate and ignorant to its nature?"
"Thousands dead on the first day, ravens and beasts going mad, a winter slowing our every move and likely thousands more lost before we could even gain any foothold inside," Jaime answered moments later, a chill running down his spine. And my father, among those leading the effort, curtailed at every turn while Harren laughed at them all from inside his fiery domain.
The Grand Maester nodded with approval. "And within us, few lies the power to ensure such a thing never comes to pass. Not if our true experiences, our knowledge live on."
"Then allow me to aid you, I've become quite accomplished at recounting our adventure of late."
And so they did, putting many important details to the ink while leaving others for the rest to fill. It was both far more enjoyable and exhausting than he ever expected writing a book could be. After a fine lunch of bacon, soft-boiled eggs and roasted ribs was delivered to them, Jaime left Pycelle's company and Harrenhal itself.
Cersei once said horses were among the few things in life he cared for and she was right. There was nothing like the rush of a fine stead in full gallop. How the wind whipped at his face, the countryside turned into a blur. Nowhere and everywhere to go at once, at a speed only a noble beast could offer.
So passed almost his whole afternoon, riding near the northwestern banks of Gods Eye without a single care in the world. By their return journey, man and beast alike were spent but content. The sun was setting at their backs, bathing everything around them in striking orange hues.
Saving castles, slaying monsters and riding however long I want. Jaime smiled, breathing in a pleasant scent from the nearby lake. I could get used to this.
As he took one more look at the countryside, the castle growing larger and finally the lake, something caught his attention there. Slowing the horses' walk further still, Jaime peered in the direction of the Isle of Faces. A movement caught his eye there, a tiny shape in the distance.
There he stood, transfixed and then stunned as if struck across the face. For the movement was no trick of the light or of a tired mind. A boat was coming, with a single cloaked occupant rowing it toward Harrenhal.
The worst part of waking up after downing several potions wasn't the stomach cramps, shivers, or vomiting but the stiffness. A witcher's speed and mobility were among his greatest weapons. Constricted muscles and numb legs went against their very nature. A monster slayer could only feel more vulnerable if deprived of their swords.
Luckily, Geralt had someone to help him through it this time.
"Careful now, careful," Pycelle guided a cup to Geralt's parched mouth. His breath smelled of bacon and eggs. "We would not wish a repeat of last night."
No, no we wouldn't.
Slowly, he rose just enough to drink the offered beverage. It was Ellander tea, made from the region's herbs specifically to aid in lessening the potions after effects. It tasted like warm wine from an old boot, far preferable to the aftertaste of retching. He drank several cups.
Geralt had awoken shortly after lunch, just missing Jaime. For the first two hours, he remained in bed, using breathing exercises to impose a metabolic control over his body. It was taxing in its own way but it would let the medicine work faster.
Once he felt strong enough, he proceeded to spend the remainder of the afternoon exercising. The overly ostentatious room was large enough for him to perform some rudimentary sword practices. Slow and deliberate, the blade swung about, speeding up in proportion to how much his muscles relaxed.
"Lord Whent was swift and tireless in re-establishing control over the castle," Pycelle explained, sipping red wine from the desk. "With the curse destroyed, it was more of a matter of ascertaining the state of the castle itself. The great hall is ruined, beyond repair if you ask me, as are many pathways and chambers closest to it."
"Not the towers?"
"They survived the event more or less unscathed. Once the smallfolk began to arrive, Lord Whent offered refuge inside them for the many thousands now homeless until a new town is built. They were… understandably hesitant, Arthur assured them all was well."
Doesn't surprise me it worked. Geralt smiled, weaving intricate patterns through the air, the blade alight from the falling sun's rays.
Though the walls were quite thick, he could make out enough noises from the nearest rooms, hallways and the buzzing activity out the window. Children playing around, men and women alike shouting after them or going about their work.
It wasn't just the sensibility of the act he found privately admirable but the sense of responsibility towards the peasantry. He had worked for lords, princelings, kings, queens and even an emperor, most of whom could be generously called pricks. The likes of Emhyr or Henselt never would have given up even a small portion of their own castles or residences to help their displaced people. Even if they had someplace as spacious as Harrenhal.
Before he could ask more, however, there was a knock on the door. "Enter."
A guard showed himself in, an older, rough-looking man well into his forties. "Apologies for disturbing you, Grand Maester, master witcher," The man bowed. "Lord Whent wishes to see you both in his solar."
"If I may ask my good man," Geralt asked. "What for, is something amiss?"
"... Mayhaps, my lord," He said uncertainly. "A man came to speak with Lord and Lady Whent not too long ago. Ser Jaime brought him into the solar, he… wore a green hood, walked with a white staff."
"Thank you for telling us, inform Lord Whent we'll be there shortly."
Once he was gone, Geralt and Pycelle stared at the door, neither speaking for a short while. "He knew you were already awake."
"Yes, and I think I know how," He gazed upward at the weirwood beams overhead. "It appears the three-eyed crow is ready to talk to us. Let's go see what he wants."
"Wait," The Grand Maester rose sharply, a sudden urgency in his voice. "There is something you must know before we speak to this green man… what Jaime and I did to attain the weirwood branches."
Geralt looked at him calmly, even as he felt an unease churn in his stomach once more. Pycelle took a few breaths, looking worried and guilty, awkwardly shifting in place.
"We swore an oath before the heart tree," The words came out in a rush ere he sighed. "Jaime was the first to conceive of the idea. I argued against it, it was all so terrifying I could not bear to stand in this place anymore… and yet, when the time came, I felt compelled to join him. I could not simply do… nothing, not anymore."
This revelation elicited little surprise from Geralt. He suspected something must have happened in attaining those branches. It was only a small, vain hope it amounted to simply chopping them down. All the same, his insides bent again and the stiffness around his shoulders returned.
"I'm sorry it came to that," Geralt said, revealing none of the worries he felt. "I won't lie, this is a serious matter, binding magical contracts like these always are." His hand rested on Pycelle's shoulder. "Whatever comes next, we'll handle it together. I'm not in the habit of abandoning my friends." Especially when I couldn't get the job done faster.
It was enough to calm his friend, Pycelle smiled and nodded, appreciative and put at ease by the gesture. Once Geralt was dressed and ready, they made their way to Kingspyre Tower.
Some changes had come upon Lord Whent's solar since the last visit. Piles upon piles of papers formed a mountainside at one of the desks. The smaller table they sat at when Lady Shella revealed her dreams, was replaced by a larger round one, capable of seating well over a dozen men.
Outside the large windows facing west, twilight was approaching, casting much of the room in shadow despite the torches and oil lamps already lit.
Jaime, Arthur, and Oswell were already there when Geralt and Pycelle arrived, all three wasted no time in rushing toward him. Undisturbed, the Hanse laughed and spoke awhile, as though nothing of import brought them back together.
Of course, it could not last forever.
Lady Whent greeted him next, wearing a fine dress in the Whent colors. Her once gray hair turned black and tied only loosely into a braid. A youthful warmth graced her features. "It gladdens my heart to see you recovered, master witcher."
"Thank you, my lady," He smiled back, kissing her hand. Most of the wrinkles are gone, around her face too. "I'm also quite glad to be out of that bed."
She laughed, her voice a great deal smoother.
"Be glad you've had the chance to sleep at all, Geralt. It is a privilege I fear some of us will not enjoy anytime soon."
The restored Lord Whent stepped forward. His once white and grey hair was almost entirely black, the slight back hunch was gone bringing him to a height of six and a half feet. There was a new strength in his eyes, a youthfulness to his reinvigorated features.
"I doubt that my lord. The way you are now, you could likely wrestle a boar." The firmness of his handshake made it only somewhat of an exaggeration.
While they laughed, Imperceptible footsteps approached their group from the shadows, even Geralt's keen ears didn't hear them until he was closeby. The smell, however, was noticeable before the witcher even stepped into the room. It was exactly like the godswoods.
"Geralt," Lord Whent stepped aside, gesturing to the castle's newest guest. "May I introduce Howland, of House Reed, lord of the crannogmen."
The recent arrival was the shortest person in the room, under five feet tall. He wore a green cloak reaching down to his knees, adorned with deep, green leaves about the shoulders. Fingerless leather gloves wrapped around the weirwood staff he held onto tightly. The top was hollowed out, just big enough to fit a small blade.
Green eyes met the witcher's through strands of unkempt, brown hair. There was fear in them, trepidation, and something old in his otherwise youthful face. Too youthful.
"It is an honor to meet you, master witcher," Howland's voice was respectful, his bow deep. "On behalf of my master and the order which I represent, I wish to express my sincerest gratitude to you and your party for banishing the evil of Harren. Long had it defiled these lands."
"Not long enough for any of you to do anything about it." Oswell brazenly replied. Nearby Whent's along with Arthur gave him a pointed look he ignored entirely. The lad, meanwhile, froze, his breathing stilled.
"Not all who deal with magic have the same knowledge," Geralt replied, trying to ease the sudden tension. Though a part of him agreed with the Kingsguard, this was not an old, set in his ways fart of a druid. Just a boy, not much older than Jaime. "I doubt elvish incantations are a part of it."
"You speak truly, master witcher," Howland rose, gulping under Oswell's gaze. "Those who know of the old ways, their abilities lie more in the roots of the world, its skies and rivers. The domain of raising the dead… belongs to others."
The fear in his voice boded ill. All the same, Geralt just nodded. They sat down around the table, the witcher seated to Lord Whent's left with Shella and Oswell to his right. Cups of and two flagons of Arbor wine were provided for all to drink. Howland and the Kingsguard didn't partake, the rest sipped theirs.
"Now then," Geralt spoke, refreshed by the sweet taste. "I'm certain you haven't come all this way just to thank us, Lord Reed. Not when the three-eyed crow spoke of other matters he needed me for?"
"You or them," Oswell jerked his head in the direction of Pycelle and Jaime. "Either way, the crow gets a witcher, isn't that right, lad?"
"... it is true, ser," Howland said after a moment's hesitation, one that did not leave his voice or face. "When master Geralt slept under the weirwood, much of his history and intentions were laid bare to my master."
"Including the fact I don't intend on staying here forever." Or that some of this is in part to bring Yennefer and Ciri over here.
"Aye, he was worried you would leave upon the arrival of your family. Or that Ser Jaime's words were true, that three of you would perish in your battle against Harren."
"The second point I can understand, truthfully, without those branches, we would have lost. On the first, he should have known better. I don't abandon my friends, ever. He shouldn't have bound them just to get to me."
Geralt's voice was like ice, his steely gaze not on Howland, but at the weirwood staff resting next to the armchair. Do you like prodding around my head? Well, here's something else for you: there better be a damned good reason for this.
"The three-eyed crow's methods aside," Arthur broke the silence, his voice entirely devoid of any anger. "We must get to the heart of why he has chosen to do all this. Tell us, Lord Reed, what must be done to release our companions from their oath?"
"Nothing so small or simple as the curse of Harrenhal, I assure you," The fear was back in the crannogman's voice. Not of the men seated at the table, though. "It is a far older evil of which I have come to warn you. All men know it, stories and legends of their existence have been told to every man across the realm for millennia."
His eyes swept across the room, there was a slight tremble in his hands. "I speak of the Others."
The hush swiftly returned, thick as sewage muck. About the room, almost every exchanged looks, equal parts worried and puzzled. Geralt's gaze was solely on Howland. He had met many liars on matters of monsters and magic. Men and women who lied or exaggerated to stave off boredom or justify their own terrible deeds by concocting evil creatures hiding in the fields.
There was none of that in the young man's face. Only honesty and a palpable fright.
"It is a bold claim to make, I know, even after all that has transpired here. Yet I swear to you, it is the truth, the Others have returned. I have seen them in my dreams."
"Your dreams?" Lady Whent said.
"Yes, though I am no true greenseer, my time among the green men has opened my mind to a great many things," Howland stared past Geralt, past any of them, at something only he could see. "I see a great wildland covered in snow, the night is dark and terrible and never-ending. Men and women flee amongst the trees, death's cold black hands are always at their heels… and its icy masters are never far behind. Always for the same purpose, to bring back a world of always winters."
"These dreams, how long have you had them, Lord Reed?" Pycelle asked, fingers passing over his beard.
"They have been with me all my life, though never so… vivid," He shivered. "It was only last winter when the sky split open and the magic began to return, did they change. It is why I left to seek out the green men-"
"The sky splitting open," Geralt interrupted. "What does that mean?"
"What you've already begun to suspect it does, master witcher," Howland looked apologetic. "A year ago, in the lands far beyond the Wall, the heavens above were changed. Green flames rent it apart like paper and on the other side, there was another world. Dead, save for a lone girl fighting against a storm."
"What does he mean, Geralt?" Lord Whent asked and many more curious looks silently asked the same. "What girl, what… other world?!"
"... there is a magical event of great power called the Conjunction of Spheres," He managed at last. "It's capable of opening doorways to other places, some of them very, very far away. The first happened fifteen hundred years ago, bringing men, monsters and magic to my lands… the second happened just over a year ago.
"An apocalyptic force known as the White Frost was laying waste to countless worlds. Ours was soon going to be destroyed too. Only my daughter had the power to stop it, once and for all. She caused another, smaller Conjunction to occur, opening windows to hundreds of different worlds in the process…"
"And one of them was here…" Pycelle concluded with a harrowing finality. "Returning magic to this place, and the Others."
"Gods." Oswell downed the cup in minutes, reaching for another immediately.
There was no other way. He argued, more against the budding guilt within himself than any accusations yet thrown at him or Ciri. The weariness banished hours ago threatened to return. A shiver ran through him, a twisting sensation around his lower side. His eyes didn't meet anyone else'.
"You couldn't have known, Geralt," Jaime said, trying to sound reassuring even as his own fear was plain to see. "You told us many times that there are forces beyond anyone's control."
"No one here blames him, lad," Arthur said, the unshattered trust equal parts painful and comforting. "We're merely considering what all this entails and how to deal with it."
"He means to say that we have more pressing issues to deal with. One's far closer to where we are now," Oswell pounded the cup atop the table, disgust and fury plain to see. "Once Aerys hears of this, the bastard's obsession with dragons will grow a thousandfold and why not? What better way to kill dead men and ice monsters than with fire-given flesh?"
Jaime was the only one surprised by such a brazen display of disdain towards the king. It increased many times over when Arthur joined in.
"He'll stop at nothing to hatch but a single egg. If he fails at Harrenhal and the Others march on the Wall, there's no telling what else he could try."
"I don't believe the king's madness will present a problem," Howland said not with naivete but with certainty. All eyes were drawn to him again.
"He has been restored to his former self?" Pycelle was the one to ask.
The green man shook his head. "King Aerys is dead."