Chapter 342 - My CO Stash #42 - Wayward Wolf by ekrolo2 (WitcherXASongofIce&Fire)

-I'm just thankful that there'll be no law of surprise following Geralt to Westeros~

Synopsis: The year following the end of the war was the best he'd had in nearly a decade. Ciri was no longer hounded by men and elves, Yennefer's reputation was restored and Geralt was back to doing what he did best: simple Witcher's work. Kill the monster and get paid. No more conspiracies or prophecies to ensnare him. He should've known it wouldn't last. Post-Witcher 3 & Hearts of Stone, pre-Blood & Wine.

Rated: M

Words: 24K

Posted on: forums.spacebattles.com/threads/wayward-wolf-asoiaf-x-witcher.863942/ (ekrolo2)

PS: If you're not able to copy/paste the link, you have everything in here to find it, by simply searching the author and the story title. It sucks that you can't copy links on mobile (´ー｀)

-I'll be putting the chapter ones of all the fanfics mentioned, to give you guys a sample if you wan't more please do go to the website and support the author! (And maybe even convince them to start uploading chapters in here as well!)

Chapter 1-3 (exceptional)

A welcoming breeze swept through the pine forest of Groundcherry, not too warm or too cold. Perfect for the retreating winter, whose snowfall had already melted away and a sign of the spring to come. The healthy trees rose dozens of feet into the air, letting just enough of the comfortable early morning sunlight to slip through the cracks and pleasantly shine down. The migrating bird species already began their reclamation, singing cheerfully in every possible direction. The predators who could threaten or kill man were elsewhere, giving off the impression of a vast but safe forest.

Geralt knew better than to believe that. He'd spent most of his life traversing through such places, living there, sleeping, eating, and hunting. He knew full well of the dangers man, monster, and mother nature alike could prepare for any poor unsuspecting fool willing to lower his guard. In this case, it was a monster keeping him tense. Taking in his surroundings, examining their most minute details. Such as torn branches, stamped over grass, claw or boot prints, and most tellingly of all in this instance: droplets of blood. All of which were present in abundance.

Though, the Katakan had little reason to mask the trail back to its lair when one took account of all the facts. The nearby village of Zrinski, home to just under one hundred people, was not only situated along the northernmost edge of the former kingdom of Sodden and the Groundcherry forest but also very close to a long-abandoned mine of the same name. According to the village's alderman, the Zrinki Mine was built over a century past. For the first twenty years of its existence, it served as a lucrative source of iron deposits. That was when the village came very close to growing into a key trading post. Until the deposits ran out and with it, most interest in Groundcherry forest.

Occasionally, some entrepreneurs seeking to rekindle the mine would arrive, boast of having a surefire means of letting the iron run again only to quit weeks into the endeavor and never to return. The Nilfgaardians were, as far as the village people knew, the last force to attempt this and quickly realized there was naught to be found in the mine and promptly left the Zrinski people alone.

Yet as Geralt walked on foot, having already left Roche behind in the village lest the Katakan tries something to it, the closer he came to the entrance of the mine, the more he knew it recently acquired some other residence along with the vampire. Alongside the occasional claw marks standing prominently out, tracks belonging to people were present as well. A score of grown men wearing boots of varying quality and one of whom probably had a hole judging by how malformed his tracks were in contrast to his comrades.

These tracks were far older than the Katakan's, more worn out by time and exposure to the elements. According to the alderman, none from the village bothered to go to the mine. Venture far enough only to hunt game. Even when disaster and tragedy struck them, Geralt had arrived quickly by happenstance before any angry and foolish search party mob went into the forest to find the culprit.

The boot tracks in-question did not reach the village or come from it. Instead, they came from the direction of the mine, southeast of the only residence for miles and miles. Judging by the lack of horse hooves or cart tracks, Geralt doubted they were merchants. There were no women or children present with the party, he would've spotted their trails already. If Dandelion were present, the Witcher would no doubt hear of some extravagant, implausible, and vaguely amusing explanation to their identity.

Geralt guessed they were brigands, most likely fleeing from the Yaruga down south and whatever punishment the Nilfgaardian's were ready to impose upon them. And it mattered little anyway, for they were most assuredly dead. The scant but prominent droplets of blood, which went to the same place the boot prints came to and from left little room to interpret this band of strangers' fate differently. Katakan's, particularly long slumbering and recently awoken one's weren't about to pass over a meal. Even if their preference, in this case, skewed younger.

Like the gaping maw of a lumbering beast, the Zrinski Mine came to the view, the small clearing which once surrounded its entrance mostly reclaimed by nature with lumps of thick, healthy-looking grass scattered about it. The path connecting it to the village proper was barely identifiable, the remnants of its iron gate hung loosely to the side, croaking miserably from its rusted hinges left and right in the breeze.

It was also the spot where Geralt found the largest puddle of blood thus far. Just fifteen feet from the entrance, the substance most definitely came from a grown man, no child was abducted from the village. No child could bleed such an amount. From the crushed grass, finger-like trails clawed into the ground, the Witcher guessed one of the party managed to flee from the mine only for the Katakan to attack him from behind and drag him kicking and screaming back into its depths.

Geralt ascertained the sun's position and was pleased to see it was not yet noon. He had time to prepare still and promptly went about doing so. First, he rechecked the Moon Dust bombs hanging off his leather belt, within reach at all times, and capable of removing the vampire's invisibility. He didn't have any bombs to neutralize its regenerative properties or oil for his Cat School blade to carve its flesh away. However, the midday sun was fast approaching its zenith. Even a vampire hiding away in the depths of the Earth was weakened.

The blade itself would serve him well, as it had already. Hatori had outdone himself with the steel and silver sword pair, calling it a parting gift once Geralt and Ciri set out on the Path almost a year ago. For two weeks, the swordsmith poured all of his knowledge and skill into the blades, and for any warrior, nevermind a Witcher, they were an achievement. Strong enough to weather a strike from a sledgehammer yet light and perfectly balanced, they both cleaved through flesh, hide and armor with next to no resistance. Their already potent cutting power was intensified by a series of Dwarven runes that glowed and dimly pulsated when Geralt took hold of them.

Next was his crossbow, capable of firing two shots before reloading and with a series of specially ordered, silver-tipped bolts also crafted by Hatori. The projectiles were capable of going in and out of a smaller monster with relative ease. A Katakan was made of sturdier stuff, which did not work to its advantage. The bolts would doubtlessly remain inside whatever body part Geralt fired them into, and the vampire would have to claw its own flesh to pieces just to remove them. Still, given the speed of his prey, reloading it wouldn't be possible. It was fortunate then that Geralt also had some silver, throwing daggers on hand.

Then came the more unpleasant part of his preparation: the Black Blood. Unlike many others, this one did not serve to enhance a Witcher's existing abilities. It was made to ensure that if a blood-sucking fiend won the battle, their next meal would be the last, poisoning them so severely death was certain.

Geralt had no intention of dying, of course, but he wasn't about to let this monstrosity terrorize the people of Zrinski any more than it already did. Perhaps it was finally getting Ciri and Yennefer back, though they were separated again for now, which made him empathize with the plight of the parents. The distraught mothers and wrathful fathers who went to sleep, thinking their sons and daughters were safe only to find them pale, cold, and drained of their blood the following morning.

Yes, he would enjoy killing this particular monster. If he couldn't accomplish that, get some satisfaction of making the bastard choke on his leftovers. The Black Blood left a sour, nauseating taste in his mouth. The effects of the second potion, the Blizzard, were far more potent. Though it tasted sweeter, it also left Geralt dazed for a few moments as though someone punched him hard across the face.

A steady series of deep, controlled breaths did away with the sensation, his heartbeat slowing down almost as much as his sensory perception did. All about, the world seemed to almost halt before his very eyes. The rustling of a single grass taking ages worth of time to sway in the wind, the shadows cast by the overhead sun freezing in place. To fight against a blindingly swift creature like the Katakan, with claws capable of carving through even the finest of armors in a single swipe, there was no better potion for a Witcher.

The Cat potion was the last he drank, dilating his pupils to such a degree his eyes resembled nothing but thick, black sockets. The world around Geralt changed again, becoming a grating, overly bright pestilence on his eyesight. Until he entered the cave that was, one hand wielding the silver blade and the other pulsating with the faintest of magical energy, ready to expel an Igni at a moment's notice.

Stepping into the cave with measured, quiet steps, Geralt took a moment to enjoy the welcoming pitch blackness inside and began his downward trek to the Katakan's lair. The unmistakable claw marks left behind by the poor sods it slaughtered were proof it was. All about, through the minutes upon minutes spent in the darkness, Geralt spotted bits of fresh, human flesh littering the ground. Weapons of decent enough craft lying abandoned on the floor, along with digging equipment which was not rotten from decades of abandonment and disuse.

Evidently, the bandits came for the cave, perhaps hoping to find some leftover means of earning coin. And if that didn't work, put the village to the sword. Fate had other plans for them. The settlement of Zrinski rarely saw anything worse than a bear or wolf pack come near it, so the Katakan was not an ever-present threat but a recent arrival. Or more likely, the beast arrived long ago. The new arrivals disturbed its lair, thus sealing their fate and of several children.

Their disturbance must have been quite egregious indeed. Katakan's do not mutilate their victims, preferring to target specific spots in the body and are even known to frequently let their weakened victims live. More than likely the men dug their way into the vampire's lair and began prodding around its inevitable treasure trove, laughing like idiots, grabbing any coin, jewel, or other trinkets to bolster their pockets. In so doing delivering a deadly insult to its owner.

Katakan's greed and love for all things shiny rivaled their desire for blood. Once, during his early years, Geralt managed to gain the upper hand against his first by slicing off its beard, adorned with countless jiggling, blindingly dazzling rubes, sapphires, and expensive earrings. The vampire was so stunned it let its guard down and in so doing, lost its head moments after.

The brief reminiscing of days gone halted the instant Geralt's eyes spotted something just fifteen feet ahead. The mine's ceiling gradually shrunk, and he resorted to moving in a half-crouch because of it. It didn't matter, because soon enough his available room to maneuver would grow substantially. On the other side of a freshly dug hole at the tail end of the mine, was an Elven ruin.

Even squinting from a distance, Geralt recognized the stonework inside. Still looking strong and sturdy, defiant to the encroachment of nature as it was to man's centuries ago. Pillars, standing and broken, stood out prominently against the floor, as it did the chests of riches collected by the Katakan before it went into hibernation. Much of the loot was, annoyingly, scattered about the ground. What caught Geralt's attention the most was at the center of the lair: a portal.

Or rather, a construction about what must've been the place for a portal. He'd seen enough of those during the trip across worlds with Avalla'ach to spot one right away. The chance of it turning on was relatively small, Ciri already performed a smaller, second Conjunction in her bid to disperse the White Frost. Even so, just being close to a remotely possible spot for a portal to appear got on Geralt's nerves worse than a broken tooth.

Putting his distaste aside, he carefully and slowly crouched down, passing under the recently formed hole and felt his mood substantially improve when not so much as a single pebble resounded through the seemingly empty room. What betrayed the Katakan's location wasn't sound or poor concealment from the creature. It was the faintest but distinct odor of blood coming from the ceiling.

Peering upward, his free hand reaching for the crossbow attached to his left side belt, Geralt squinted and spotted the creature sleeping amongst a slew of man-sized stalactites adorning the ceiling by the dozens if not hundreds. It did not so much as move the faintest muscle, nor did it let out a single sound. But as it was so often the case, the beast's nature betrayed it.

Geralt would have to act swiftly. If he aimed true and the beast's instincts were too slow, a single bolt through its head could end the fight in a moment. And so he prepared to do just that. Slowly, agonizingly, the Witcher took the crossbow off his belt and gently pressed against the trigger. His knees were bent, his sword hand clutching the hilt and ready to attack.

With the distinct thump, the crossbows mechanisms cut through the silence. The bolt flew through the air and for a moment, it seemed as though the fight was already done. A fraction of an instant before the bolt fired, a pair of black, predatory eyes snapped open and the Katakan tried to flee. Unsuccessfully. The bolt didn't pierce its head, but there was an unmistakable crunching sound of steel piercing metal and the blood-freezing chill of a monster renowned for feeding on it.

The beast landed about twenty feet north of Geralt, the impact reverberating through the ground and sending chests worth of gold and other riches to scatter about all over the place. While it was busy trying to claw out the bolt, Geralt was already on the move, anticipating its landing spot and slashing at it with a swift, overhead blow.

The Katakan abandoned its attempt of ridding itself of the bolt and darted to left. Another deafening screech came from it as it tried clawing at Geralt instead, hitting nothing but air when the Witcher leaped gracefully to the side and opened fire before his feet even touched the ground again. It missed, hitting some far off wall while the Katakan's body shimmered then vanished into nothingness.

Geralt dropped the crossbow, the Katakan would disembowel him before he could get another bolt ready anyhow. Instead, he took his sword with both hands and kept to one place. His blade moving in constant, circular motions, a constant steady swirl of motion ready to divert itself in whatever direction the Witcher needed it to.

Not that he didn't know where the beast was. The Katakan's blood stood out most prominently against that of men and children, and since he hadn't heard any more flesh being rent or a bolt clanking against the floor, Geralt knew it was choosing to suffer the pain in silence. There, over to the western side of the room, where the portal construct stood between them.

The Witcher decided not to let the beast know what he knew. Instead, he did something sure to anger it. With a few furtive steps to his right, Geralt spotted a golden goblet adorned with sparkling white jewels and other stones. It was fit for any king or queen. It was probably worth more than the last three dozen contracts he'd taken up combined.

Without hesitation, Geralt's foot stomped on the goblet and though his foot already hurt, the gold bent with a satisfying, metallic whine. The Katakan was on him almost immediately and this time, the Witcher saw its claws flash mere inches from his face as he leaped backward. His arms moved on pure instinct and struck back, rewarding him with a clash across the Katakan's right abdomen.

It yelled again, unquestionably feeling the searing of silver carving it and the oil acting as the cherry on top, as Dandelion was fond of saying. Geralt pressed his advantage, delivering two more cuts, one to its knee and another cutting off its smallest claw. Then he purposefully stopped and diverted all his energies into a pirouette, avoiding a returning claw strike which would've carved his chest into two pieces, at least.

He tried to use the momentum to perhaps cut into the back of the Katakan's neck but the beast leaped forward, avoiding death for the time being. They circled one another for a few, tense heartbeats, the vampire too wounded or bloody furious to bother turning invisible again and the Witcher, glaring back with his black pits for eyes and smiling nastily.

That was when it happened. When the tense silence was broken not by the snarl of the beast or the blow of a mutant, but by the activation of a portal. One connecting this place to who knew where or what and the vampire wasted not a moment going for it. With a dramatic series of leaps betraying how much strength the monster still possessed, it went for it.

And as was so frequently the case, Geralt's mind told him to let it go, that there was no knowing what awaited either of them on the other side. A wasteland where they would burn or freeze in moments, a strange alien world as the ones Ciri spoke to him off where both would be even less welcome than the world they called home. And as was so frequently the case, Geralt did not let it go.

With a snarl from the very deepest recess' of his throat that he would come to regret the morning after, if he lived that long, the Witcher leaped as well and drove his blade right through the Katakan's chest, his other hand gripping tightly to its left horn. For a moment, the two stood there, on the precipice of the portal and Geralt almost thought he'd stopped the disaster. Until the vampire lurched forward, then he felt the distinct, horrifying nothingness of every portal crossing.

Then, there was the suffocation of water, of being deep, deep underwater in what was likely some lake or sea. Neither Geralt nor the Katakan was prepared for it, the two of them awkwardly shouting and swaying left, right and then spinning in circles like some mad, drunk Dwarves tumbling in the middle of a tavern brawl. Every so often, Geralt's eyes caught sight of the portal and it's remaining active gave him hope. Hope that if he killed the beast quickly, he could still make it back home from wherever the Hell he was then.

Until the swaying Katakan, even less used to swimming than Geralt was, swung its powerful claws and in a single motion, carved the portal construct clean in two. Before Geralt could curse it or even better, make the child-murdering sc.u.m pay, the discharge of destabilized magical energy exploded merely a handful of feet away, propelling them upward in another dizzying spin.

Despite his arms already aching from the exertion and wanting to let go, Geralt managed to hold on to the vampire even as their spinning grew worse and worse. Somehow, in this calamity of madness and drowning, the Witcher removed a silver blade from his belt and wildly, like a man completely lost of his senses, began stabbing the Katakan. Over, and over again in and eventually through the throat.

In its last moments, the vampire managed to reach the surface of the water, letting out a pained, gurgling screech which prematurely ended when Geralt's own snarl overtook it and the knife removed the monsters head. It floated on the surface, almost comically bobbing up and down against the light swaying waves of the darkening pool of blood and water about it.

Geralt ignored it for the time being, instead, letting his body go limb and rest against the Katakan's body, using it as a disgusting raft of flesh and bone. The battle frenzy took a while to abate, leaving him already feeling tired and beaten when he was quite certain there was nary a scratch on him. Though, a flesh wound was preferable to what was already clear.

It wasn't simply the fact Geralt and his contract ended up in the middle of the ocean, at night when it was midday before. It wasn't merely that Geralt spun the corpse about and spotted a massive city off in the distance, the likes of which he'd never seen before with a monstrous fortress of a dozen towers looming over it atop a nearby hill. No, the detail that told the Witcher he'd gone somewhere very far away came from the stars.

He couldn't recognize a single constellation.

A single curse came out of him, quiet and snarling. Then it was accompanied by a score, then two scores of others. Each louder and more blasphemous than the last. It wasn't until his throat became sore that Geralt finally stopped and let some good sense dictate his next course of action. Well, good sense and a desire to vent his frustrations in another way: by removing every useful thing the Katakan had to offer him then setting the bastards leftovers on fire.

---

Chapter 2

The next difference between home and this other world became clear to Geralt while he still swam. Getting the corpse out to shore was to be a difficult task. The Katakan was over a head taller than him. Its body mass was several pounds greater than the Witchers. The vampire had caused him enough trouble, and the sooner it ended, the sooner he could focus on other matters.

His bad luck made itself known again when the Aard, which was supposed to blast the body and head faster to shore, amounted to almost nothing. The water barely rippled, as though a child slapped it. A belch from Zoltan would've done more.

"What the devil...?" He said, staring at his left hand. Again, he thrust, and the result was no better. His potions had yet to run out, nor had he exerted himself by casting too many signs beforehand. Therefore the problem was elsewhere.

Though he was no great sorcerer, to use even a simple sign required a fundamental understanding of how magic functioned. To wield it, one must focus the force around oneself through concentration and varying exertions of their own will. Through said will and no small amount of practice, one could perform many incredible feats.

And so Geralt closed his eyes, nearly halting his own slowed heartbeat and enjoyed the cooling feel of the ocean about him. Letting his senses perceive the force as best he could. It was a practice many young Witchers did early in their sign training. One only tolerated for a short while.

It was here Geralt found the root cause of his diminished sign power: the force of this world was weak. This ocean alone held less of it than a small lake back home. Each scrap was like trying to grab a spilled water between his fingers. Was this world always so starved, or did something weaken it?

Whatever the cause, the effect on Geralt's sign strength remained even after spending up to a minute concentrating. The Aard, though more powerful than before, still nudged the Katakan half the distance it should have.

About fifteen minutes later, the corpse and Witcher finally reached the shore. First, Geralt removed his sword still inside the vampire's body, meeting little resistance. With more force than necessary, he kicked the corpse so that its chest faced the sky.

He stared at it, wondering whether or not to bother removing its bones, heart, and any other useful parts. Just carrying the head around with no horse was troublesome given its size and weight. Yet the vampire owed him much for the misfortune it wrought. If this world lacked some ingredients required for Witcher potions, Geralt would rob himself of a useful, finite resource. He could not afford it, not with his diminished signs.

His practicality won out. Kneeling at the beast's left side, Geralt put his sword onto the ground. With the silver dagger in-hand, he began carving off the Katakan's claws. Ordinarily, taking off their limbs and extracting from them wholesale was the wiser option. Without Roach around and the saddlebag to place all of those bones in, this would have to suffice.

Luckily, the flesh about the claws showed little resistance. In a few minutes, most of them were off. Through the next hour, there were eight useful bones for alchemy. Geralt wrapped them in a cloth and placed them inside one of the two leather bags of his bandolier. Inside the other, he put the heart after cleaning it in the ocean and wrapping a cloth around it as well.

Knowing he couldn't burn the corpse with a single Igni, Geralt decided a more inventive approach. With a series of sword swings, he removed the vampire's limbs and stuffed them inside its open chest cavity. Next, oil got applied to the lump of blood, mutilated flesh. Even the weakened fire blast found ample fuel with its flame resembling the inside of a furnace.

He remained by the body, watching its flesh peel away, crack and turn black. Though Geralt was tired from the battle, the shock of being on another world and riping the body to pieces, he was mostly satisfied. Though they did not know it, and likely thought him dead, the families of Magdalena, Zvone, Igor, and Petar had received justice. No more sons or daughters of Zrinski would die to the blood-sucking fiend.

The shred of bitterness dulling his sense of accomplishment came from the fact he could not tell them so, not yet. Then there was the fact he took the small bits of jewelry adorning the Katakan. Two golden bracelets, a single ruby ring and some earrings from the head.

Though he had a coin purse, it was unlikely the sentient creatures inhabiting the castle would take them. Ciri and Yennefer would find him, that was beyond question, but how soon wasn't. So, he would have to sell the Katakan's treasures to acquire whatever passed for currency.

It was hard to say who or what inhabited the city looming so distinctly against the moonlight. Save for the seven-massive drum towers, little else besides its impressive size was certain. It didn't help his Cat's potion was wearing off, leaving his Nightvision dulled. Earlier, he spotted lights there, perhaps torches or whatever else they used for illumination.

Perhaps he would encounter humans, from what Ciri told him, they were present in other worlds. The Elves and Dwarves certainly liked to say they arrived back home with the Conjunction. Perhaps this was a domain of the Elves, judging by one of their ruins being present. Or the native species was something else entirely, closer to the Vodyanoy. One of his great regrets from all of the Salamandra business was never visiting their city.

Much as he liked to complain about Dandelion's curiosity, on account of him being unable to control it, Geralt shared it. As often as it led him to danger, it also provided him with many unforgettable experiences. Unlike the places he'd visited during his trip with Avalla'ach, this world wasn't immediately hostile to him either.

Should a great danger present itself, it might hasten his return home more than anything. The bond between Geralt and Ciri was strong, for when one fell into peril, the other became aware of it through dreams and nightmares.

His mind made up, Geralt grabbed the hook he'd ran through the Katakan's head, hoisted it off the ground over a shoulder and made his way into the forest. Lunch or rather, a late-night snack, was due. Keeping an ear out, Geralt already recognized a slew of familiar noises.

From the branches of the tall trees came the distinct hoots of owls, and the screeching of bats. Crickets were abuzz everywhere, chirping unceasingly in a chorus numbering in the dozens or hundreds. Fireflies buzzed through the air, providing illumination the deeper he ventured.

On the ground, Geralt detected the soft rustling of leaves and bushes from mice, hedgehogs, and even foxes. Though he heard no bears prowling the area, the Witcher picked up the distinct huffing of a wolf pack some ways off. What had already picked up his scent, or the Katakan's was a wild boar.

Geralt unsheathed his steel blade with the slow softness of a lovers caress. His lunch to be rumbled and hastened its step, each one reverberating through the ground with increasing frequency. Imperceptibly, Geralt bent his knees and tensed the fingers about the hilt. A few heartbeats later, he leaped to the right just as the boar came at him. The sword flashed, blood spurt across the nearby bushes, the boar slammed headfirst into the nearest tree. A moment later, the top of its skull finally landed.

Putting the vampire head down, Geralt grabbed hold of the boars back leg, dragging it away from the tree with some effort. Luckily, they'd run into one another in a small clearing, just big enough for him to set a fire without burning the whole forest down.

The Witcher gathered branches and other pieces of wood lying about in the clearing center. Once they were set aflame from a diminutive Igni, he went about sharping one of the longer, sturdier branches with his dagger. Lastly, came skinning the board. It was an impressive beast at full height, nearly reaching Geralt's thighs. Its weight was well over thirty stones, at least. He couldn't hope to eat it all, however. The forest would have to take care of his leftovers.

Judging by its teeth, the animal was perhaps two or three years old. That meant good meat from it. Carving about its necks, Geralt removed a few good-sized chunks and pierced them through with the sharpened stick. Now he simply had to wait a while until it was good and ready to eat. In his youth, the process was a slog Geralt made tolerable through sword fighting practice. Now, with nearly a century of life at his back, there was a mundane pleasure from preparing a meal. It was a practice in its own right.

So he watched and listened as the minutes passed by, the forest life continued despite his presence. One group he noticed earlier and fully expected to visit him did so eventually. They numbered five pack members, quietly they prowled through the forest, sniffing and salivating the smell of cooked and uncooked meat. Geralt watched them without moving, taking note of their yellow eyes watching him at the edges of the campfire.

He didn't feel like fighting anymore for today. So, Geralt rose slowly to his feet, grabbing the boar with both hands, heaving it off into the forest where three of the wolves stood. They snarled and bared their fangs at him but made no move to attack. Their free dinner was waiting. By the time Geralt sat back down, his meal was ready as well.

And so for a while, the six wolves ate together.

Eventually, the pack left, devouring a sizable portion of the boar and with enough left over for later. Geralt listened to them go, sitting down with his back pressed against the nearest tree. Under one arm was the Katakan head, in another the steel sword.

He chose neither to travel further into the forest or sleep. Instead, Geralt closed his eyes, let his breathing fall into a practiced pattern, slowing his heartbeat. The meditation left him relaxed and alert, capable of resting and springing into action at a moment's notice. Unmovingly, he laid there, still as a corpse until hours later, when the early morning sunshine warmed his face.

Wiping away the caterpillar which decided to crawl across his brow, Geralt let out a long m.o.a.n, stretching the muscles of his neck then shoulders. Just as with his world, the sun was bright orange, piercing the retreating night, turning the sky into a collection of purple and blue hues. Assuming it functioned positionally the same, Geralt could finally discern where east and west were.

The large city he spotted was, relative to his position, further west. It would no doubt take him perhaps another day or so to get there. Without delay, he did so. The owls and bats of the woods gave way to seagulls and chirping morning birds. Squirrels and rabbits abandoned their domains to begin foraging for food. They were indistinguishable from the species of his world. As did the trees with many of the plants he came across as well, Mistletoes, Allspice, White Mertle, Fools Parsley to name but a few.

Other he did not see, perhaps because they did not grow there or did not exist at all. He would not use the recognizable herbs for potions without testing them first. Just because they looked and smelled the same didn't mean there weren't differences. Ones he couldn't know of and could turn even a simple Cat potion into an alchemical bomb ready to backfire on him.

Some hours later, Geralt stopped walking. Firstly to let his feet rest for a bit and secondly to spot any water around. Besides seawater, he hadn't drunk a thing since the day before, the thirst was beginning to annoy him. After a few minutes of listening, the Witcher heard a creek flowing.

The firstly faint rush of water grew as he traversed the forest southward. Yet his attention on it gave away to another sound Geralt was all too familiar with: the pounding of horse hooves. Several, moving at a leisure pace, accompanied by the creaking and swaying of what seemed a large, heavy wooden carriage.

Moving toward the sound, hastening his speed in turn, Geralt hoped his presence wouldn't elicit violence to erupt. Still, the Witcher would take a long, hard look at whoever rode those horses before revealing himself. The closer he got to the horses, the more it became clear he was not the only one to converge on their location.

As all violence did, it happened suddenly and without warning to the recipient. The distinctive cry of a man in pain echoed through the woods soon joined by the neighing of horses, the shouting of commands, and the steel pounding against steel.

Geralt's blade was out in an instant, his body rushing past the trees as fast as his legs could manage. The noise of battle grew stronger: men were dying, a woman screamed, a burst of bone-chilling laughter drowned it all out.

Soon enough, he came upon what was a road, the site of the battle. Before he could join it, Geralt took spotted one of the ambushers keeping a safe distance, striking his targets with a bow and arrow. From a glance, he was an older man with white hair tied into a ponytail, wearing a green jerkin, moving with a precision Milva would've found impressive.

He was also alert, for when Geralt snapped a twig on the ground, the brigand spun around, unleashing an arrow intended for someone else the intruder. Geralt deflected it with a circular motion of his sword. The archer stared, opening his mouth to curse before his head came off following another swing.

Reaching for a silver dagger, Geralt emerged from the forest to the carriages right. Inside it, a woman screamed, trying to fight off another archer clad in black at the door, her tan arms vainly keeping him at bay.

A bit further away, two of his companions fought against a pair of men in black armor adorned with golden cloaks.

With a single knife toss, Geralt attacked the archer harassing the woman, driving the blade clear through the back of his head. The brigand to the Witcher's left, wearing a distinct red scarf around his neck, took notice of his fallen comrade first. He even managed to spot Geralt himself a moment before he was beheaded as well.

"Oswyn!" The largest of them so far, a bearded bear of a man with a head wrapped in chainmail, wielding a Warhammer roared. With a single backhand, he knocked the gold cloak to the ground, charging at Geralt.

With an impressive grace and speed to his technique, the bearded bear swung, intending to take Geralt's head off. He struck nothing for the Witcher ducked, already launching his counter-attack. With an upward sword swing, the steel blade split the bandits head in two from chin to brow.

A momentary lull fell over the battle, Geralt staring at the dead man falling to his feet, the gold cloaks staring at the Witcher as though he were some phantasm. But only for a moment, until the laughter from before came back. From the front of the carriage, clad in black armor, a round shield and fresh blood dripping down his blade, came the ugliest man Geralt had ever seen.

He was without question uglier than Vilgerfortz. His receding hairline exposed a ghastly pale skin rivaling Geralt's own. His eyes had red bags under them, emphasizing the tiny black hateful orbs in their sockets. His teeth were jagged, rotten yellow, eternally fixed into a smile capable of making a drowner piss itself.

With slow, powerful steps, the smiling brigand dressed in a dark perversion of a knight came at Geralt.

"A most welcome surprise," He laughed again. "Perhaps you'll satisfy me now that Hightower cannot!"

Geralt wasted no time on banter, opting to strike him down quickly then move on to the rest. Yet when his blade moved to sever another throat, the smiling brigand demonstrated a speed much greater than one would expect, deflecting the stab.

He tried to bash Geralt with a shield, but the Witcher already moved aside, swinging back before his feet even touched the ground. Hatori's swordcraft made itself known immediately, carving through the right shoulder plate. The smiling brigand laughed, pressing forward, unleashing a series of quick yet powerful slashes and thrusts.

Geralt either met or darted around them, thankful that the two gold cloaks opted to flee instead of getting in his way. With a pirouette, the Witcher avoided another thrust, scoring two hits of his own. The first cutting into the right forearm while another slashed the bandit diagonally across his back.

Once again, the brigand laughed, spinning around to strike with even greater ferocity than before. Perhaps he was some strange monster from this world, capable of feeding off the pain of his injuries. Or he was just a man who knew death was close at hand and wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.

Whichever was true, Geralt would end it in a way he knew to work with any man or beast. Leaning to the right, the Witcher evaded another swing, pulled his arm back, and thrust it through the brigand's right knee. Even this mad dog howled from the pain, stumbling into a kneeling position.

Pulling the blade out, Geralt intended to cut his head off as well when he picked up a noise. Their battle had moved them past the back of the carriage, out in the open. A third archer awaited them there. Geralt just barely jerked his head back, letting the arrow pass mere inches from his face.

With grit teeth, Geralt grabbed hold of another throwing knife when the smiling brigand shouted. Ripping his round shield away, he roared and tossed it in the direction of the forest.

From there, a woman's yelp came out. "Bloody mad whoreson!"

"Stay out of this Wenda," He took hold of his sword, pointing at Geralt. "I'll suffer no interference in this battle!"

Geralt kept an ear out for her regardless, though by the sound of things Wenda would do as ordered.

"My apologies," The smiling one said with a mocking tone it was hard to gauge the sincerity of it. "A duel like ours should remain ours only."

The Witcher stared at him for a moment, then bowed his head in acknowledgment. In the next moment, they were back at it. With an impressive strength of will power, the smiling brigand launched back to his feet, his blade meeting Geralt's in a lock.

The two stared at one another, faces inches apart, one with a forceful grin, the other of a cold professional. The Witcher's demeanor broke first with the next strike. With a snarl, Geralt pushed the bandit away, bringing his sword back down with an overhead blow.

His adversary, determined as he was, could not defeat a knee. It gave out from the force of Geralt's blow and the weight of his own armored body. Pressing his advantage, the Witcher raised his blade overhead again.

When it came back down, it did so in the company of a coarse, bestial roar from the depths of Geralt's throat. Such was its strength the sound drowned out the sound of a sword snapping, armor giving away to an enemy blow, and finally, flesh being rent.

Blinking, Geralt stared at the right side of the smiling brigand's chest. With a slow-motion, one part of it went to the right, while the rest of him leaned to the left. His sword hand went limp, dropping the snapped blade at Geralt's feet. Blood poured from the massive wound, forming a puddle around them.

Yet the smiling brigand's expression was not one of pain. Instead, the ghastly grin gained a touch of warmth to it, of genuine happiness and humanity before the light dimmed from his eyes forever.

Geralt stood there, observing the corpse even as he heard Wenda curse, fleeing into the woods. Again and again, she shouted, "The Smiling Knight is dead!".

Her companion from the front of the carriage, a man Geralt did not see, tossed his sword to the ground, saying he was surrendering. An older man, wearing a dirtied set of white armor and a bleeding right hand came from the front then halted.

He stared at Geralt, then the Smiling Knight's corpse before returning his gaze to the Witcher. There was apprehension there, uncertainty even a bit of fear. There was no disgust or revulsion, however. The look many adopted whenever one of his kind was within sight.

Eventually, the knight ripped his gaze away and moved to the carriage door. The girl from inside came out. She was a frail-looking young woman, no more than two, perhaps three years older than Ciri. Her yellow gown and headband complemented her tan skin. Though she was shaken by what transpired, she managed a warm smile to the knight regardless.

"Princess Elia! Are you alright, your grace?"

"Yes, Ser Gerold," She confirmed, taking a deep breath. "Though, it would not be so if not for this man."

Just as the knight did, there was uncertainty present in her gaze. As though neither one could fully comprehend what this strange, viper-eyed man before them was. Yet, Geralt could not help notice and appreciate the gratitude there as well.

"I only did what anyone else would, your majesty," Geralt bowed, remembering the court courtesies hammered into him by Dandelion, Yennefer, and Triss.

Surprisingly, it was the knight who laughed. Though not mockingly. "Not just anyone could kill the Smiling Knight. Nevermind half of the Kingswood Brotherhood."

"Please, ser, rise," The princess asked, Geralt did so. "I wish to know the name of the man who has done us all such a service today."

"Geralt of Rivia, your highness. I'm a Witcher."

---

Chapter 3

"I see you've finally taken notice of Kings Landing's welcoming gift to one and all."

"Whatever gave you that impression, Ser Gerold? The watering of my eyes, the constant wrinkling of my nose, the ever-present curl of my lips? Perhaps my new horse-like, head-shaking tic?"

The Kingsguard riding at the forefront of the party to Geralt's right took no offense to the Witcher's tone. Instead, he adopted a cheeky smile.

"Aye."

The city in-question finally became plain to see as they reached the final stretch of the Kingswood. Though he'd already guessed its considerable size from a distance earlier, only now did Geralt realize it was the largest city he'd ever seen. Oxenfurt, Novigrad, Vizima, Vengeberg, and many others he could list off were nothing in comparison. Accounting for the smaller, cobbled together miniature towns present that Geralt could see from this side, Kings Landing very likely stretched several square miles. The population must've been in the hundreds of thousands. It was highly likely there were more people in this capital city than in many leagues of the Northern Kingdoms. So many people packed together, it was little wonder the stench was foul and wide-spreading.

"Care for a piece of advice?"

"Certainly."

"Think of flowers. Yes, you heard me right. Nothing defeats the smell of Kings Landing as reminiscing about more pleasant scents. In the Reach, the only thing held in higher esteem than chivalry is the nurturing of the land. Melons, peaches, apples, gr.a.p.es, the finest of wines, and yes, flower gardens grow as far as the eye can see. You'll find no more fertile a place in all of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Sounds like a place I've been to back home."

"There is no place like the Reach," Ser Gerold said, exhibiting a measure of the puffed-up pride Geralt had come to know from knights. Even this, however, held more than a trace of the Kingsguard's good humor. If this Reach was as similar to Touissant as Geralt thought it to be, then it made sense why a stranger such as him received such courtesy. One's Martial skill was a proven way for even the lowest of commoners to rise in society, Geralt had made his debut almost wiping out a notorious group of thieves and cutthroats. Indeed, the survivors of the battle showed rare gratitude, untainted by scorn and prejudice for Witchers.

It probably helped they had no notion as to what a Witcher was. They'd never seen or heard of one before. Geralt kept his explanation simple, to the point: he was a monster hunter. One such beast was responsible for bringing him this far from home. The vampire whose head hung from the side of the saddle, wrapped in a sack Geralt took from the Brotherhood. The people of Westeros showed interest in seeing the creature, but back in the safety of court. The Princess' initial desire for the outdoors evaporated following the battle, a sentiment shared by all accompanying her.

Before the left, however, Geralt was able to endear himself even more to the Westerosi. Using salves and ointments given to him and Ciri by Nenneke during a recent visit to Ellander, he played the role of battlefield healer. Ser Gerold's hand, pierced by an arrow, was already back in use while a young Gold Cloak named Alyn bled no more from his brow cut. Though he did voice disappointment when Geralt said he'd have no scar to impress women.

"If it's not too much of a bother, I'd rather talk the rest of the way to, what did you call it? The Red Keep?"

"Aye, you'd be hard-pressed to miss it," Ser Gerold pointed to one of the three massive hills within King's Landing. With the midday sun overhead, its pale red stone seemed to glow prominently against its surroundings.

"Therein lies the court of King Aerys Targaryen the second, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Ruler of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms."

"An impressive collection of titles, I assume the Seven Kingdoms stretch across the whole continent?"

"An astute assumption, master Witcher. From the deserts of Dorne to the south to the Wall of the north, rules House Targaryen. So it has been for nearly the past three hundred years. Gods willing, it shall continue for many centuries thereafter."

"This city is only three hundred years old?" Geralt said, surprised by the fact. "I had thought it was much older, given its size and importance."

"The Seven Kingdoms have existed for thousands of years. The task of uniting them was only begun and with great success, by the first king of Westeros. Aegon Targaryen, the founder of the dynasty. Together with his sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys, and their three dragons, they united much of Westeros."

Geralt noticed and pointedly avoided questioning the sister-wives portion of the story. "Westeros is home to dragons?"

"Once," Ser Gerold said, his enthusiasm faltering. "Over a century has passed since the death of the last dragon. The world has not seen one since."

"No doubt a sad fact for many a boy to hear throughout the realm."

"Like you wouldn't believe," The Kingsguard said with a rueful smile this time. "After all, who would not want to merely lay eyes upon such a creature? I am not ashamed to admit that the boy within me would swoon at such a sight."

"Do dragons hold religious significance here?" Geralt said, choosing to gain a greater understanding of their views on the creatures. "In a land far from even Rivia, they are revered as gods."

"The Faith of the Seven rules here," Ser Gerold pointed next to the second hill of King's Landing. This one was situated closer to its center in contrast to the Red Keep. Again, Geralt noticed seven towers that sparkled against the sunlight. Possibly made of some crystal substance. The towers surrounded a massive, marble dome. "The Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maid, the Smith, the Crone, and finally, the Stranger. The greatest place of worship for them is atop Visenya's hill there. The Great Sept of Baelor."

"Seven gods pertaining to forms of justice, craft, healing, nurturing, death, and so forth. Simple enough to grasp and quite similar in some respects to the faiths of my own lands."

"There are other Gods as well, though their presence in Kings Landing is far lesser. In the northern lands of Westeros reign the old gods. They number more than the Seven, though their names are few. I know little else of them, save they are beings of forests, streams, and stone. There is also the Drowned God of the Iron Islands, though I know and care little to know of him."

"I'd wager the Iron Islands people aren't popular here?"

"The Ironborn," Ser Gerold corrected. "And no, far from it. Though I served with and even met a few decent ones in battle, the rest are but reavers and cutthroats. Eternally bitter for the end of their glory days yet too foolish to understand they are passed."

"And what lies on the third hill, Ser Gerold?"

"That is the Dragon Pit, naught but a blackened ruin," He pointed to the farthest hill, revealing a split open domed building resembling the maw of a great beast. "Once it served as home to the dragons, until their decline and final death. No one goes there now. No one has for well over a century..."

Just as Ser Gerold trailed off, they reached the outskirts of King's Landing. For half a mile alone, their part rode past inns, stalls, taverns, storehouses, small markets, and of course, brothels. What stood out most to Geralt was how utterly unremarkable the sight was. It was the kind of place one could encounter outside any larger city in the Northern Kingdoms. Almost distractingly so. A guard upon the gates noticed the royal banners adorning the carriage and swiftly opened them, allowing passage.

Inside, Geralt bore witness the sea of people within the walls. Like a never-ending horde, tightly packed together, almost shuffling from place to place instead of walking. There were peasants, merchants, soldiers, women of ill repute, women of better repute, holy men, and a thousand other occupants present within any large settlement. Even traversing through or passed them on horseback must be a nightmare. Geralt could not imagine it being anything other than an agonizing process.

Unless one in the presence of nobility. As though a spell was cast upon the entire populace, all halted. Then, all split in two, allowing the group passage inside the city. Geralt observed them, they returned the gesture. From the fainted whispers, some quieter than others, he heard the gossip-mongering begin in earnest.

"The Lord Commander is wounded!"

"Is that the prince?"

"Why's he wearin' two swords?"

"They were attacked!"

"Seven f.u.c.kin' ells! That's Simon Toyne!"

A similar concoction of wonderment, curiosity, fear, and speculation followed them all throughout the city. No small part of it concerning Geralt himself. Several more confused him with the crown prince, others stared in wonder as to who he was. A handful reacted with a wariness of his clear otherworldliness which he'd long since accepted. They passed through districts of the city primarily connected to the nearby harbor. Fishmongers of all sorts praised their wears in any number of fanciful ways. Men off galleys sang and reveled in being shit faced drunk. The local whores waved many a time to the party.

Soon enough, their journey came to an end. The Red Keep was no longer a far off curiosity but a very close, looming structure. It's massive curtain walls were even more impressive than those of King's Landing itself, reaching dozens of feet into the sky. Nests for archers were ever-present, thick stone par.a.p.ets protected the outer wall ramparts. No heads were placed upon them, a curious thing.

Again, sentries positioned atop the walls signaled the return of the Princess and Lord Commander, accompanied by a horn. The main entrance, a pair of bronze doors split open, allowing passage into the Red Keep proper. This was but one section of it, as inner walls further served to separate it into multiple portions. The yard within this section was vast enough to allow hundreds, possibly even thousands of men inside. Several buildings were scattered about, chambers to house the servants, men and government officials. Geralt could not begin to guess which was which, except the one to the immediate right of the bronze gates. Reaching well over two hundred feet in height, there was no doubt as to where the throne room of Westeros was situated.

Dozens more Gold Cloaks, servants and even two more members of the Kingsguard, who'd been practicing, converged on the group. They'd barely crossed inside when the whole place seemed abuzz with activity.

Ser Gerold dismounted first, reaching for the door of the carriage and assisting Princess Elia outside. Her complexion had improved from the rest she'd taken, her tan skin a far healthier brown. With a grateful smile, she allowed the Lord Commander to guide her out. Though some cast a glance or two at Geralt, everyone's focus was expectedly elsewhere.

"Elia! Elia!" One of the Kingsguard, with short brown hair and tanned skin cut through the assembled mob as a man possessed. From a glance, Geralt was able to spot the familial resemblance. Princess and warrior shared the same eyes, nose, and even mouth shape. Too old to be her brother, an uncle, or cousin by Geralt's estimate.

Whatever they were, neither the Princess nor anyone else prevented the man from wrapping Elia in a tight hug. Her smile widened as she returned it.

"What happened?" He asked, observing the dress torn at the feet along with the bandage on Ser Gerold's hand. "Who did this?"

"The Kingswood Brotherhood," The Lord Commander answered in a clear, decisive voice. A near collective gasp of disbelief came from the crowd, many already whispering amongst themselves. "Bold have they grown these past moons, bold enough to try and attack even the Princess of Westeros!"

"I knew this would come to pass," The man who embraced Elia said with fury. The crowd voicing their agreement with equal fervor. Some of it genuine, some painfully artificial. "We should have cut those animals down to the last man long ago! Dammit... I should've been there by your side!"

"Uncle," The Princess's warm voice had an immediate effect on the man, wrapping her hands around his shaking fist. "I understand your anger but it is unnecessary. For I am alive, as is Ser Gerold. And the Kingswood Brotherhood shall bother no one else ever again."

"You managed to defeat them, Lord Commander?" The other Kingsguard spoke, a younger man with short, chestnut-colored hair and blue eyes. "The Brotherhood is no more?"

"The Brother is all but destroyed yes, though I lay no claim to the honor of doing so. That belongs to someone else who came to our aid when we most desperately needed it."

Ser Gerold turned his head and smiled. It was then the group noticed Geralt, hanging about behind them, running a hand across his horse's neck. Much of the same reaction from the ordinary citizens was present amongst the guards, servants, and nobles around. Wonder. Curiosity. Apprehension. Some fear. Respect.

"Ser Gerold speaks true," Princess Elia said, speaking loudly for all those to hear. With a gesture, she commanded Geralt to approach. He did so. "For none of us would be here were it not for the selfless bravery of this man. A man from distant lands yet has earned his place in Westeros. I present to you, Geralt, the Witcher of Rivia."

The Witcher bowed his head in acknowledgment of the praise and to greet those present. Everyone was looking at him, though Geralt primarily kept his gaze onto the Kingsguard. It was easier that way.

"You defeated the Brotherhood?" The Princess's uncle said as though Geralt had moved the sun back to the east.

"Singlehandedly," The Princess confirmed, giving Geralt a smile as the excitement grew with even an greater intensity. "I saw witnessed much of it myself, no less than six members of the Brotherhood are dead thanks to Master Geralt."

"Even the Smiling Knight?" The younger Kingsguard said, stepping forward.

"Slain in single combat by Geralt as well. Though, cleaved in half would be a more accurate way of putting it."

The younger one's jaw almost dropped in a plain display of bad etiquette. Not that much of it was left. Each statement from the Lord Commander and Princess seemed to intensify the fervor of the assembled welcoming party. They must've been so loud the entire keep could hear them by now.

"Master Witcher," The Princess' uncle stepped forward, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, he bowed deeply. "On my honor as a knight and member of the Kingsguard, on behalf of myself, House Martell, and all of Dorne, I give you my most sincere thanks! We are all in your debt, say your wish, and we shall make it so!"

Geralt stared, unaccustomed to this much attention. Nothing since his knighting and time spent amongst Queen Meve's rebel army compared to this. Men clapped, cheered his name. He was a hero, not a freak or mutant. Still unsure of what to do, Geralt smiled and acknowledged the gesture with a nod of his head.

"There will be plenty of time for rewards and such later, first," Ser Gerold moved to one of the horses at the back of the group and with a single tug of his hand, tossed Simon Toyne onto the ground. "Get him in a cell, a dark, miserable one."

Several of the soldiers remembered their duty and did precisely this, dragging the brigand away until Geralt could no longer see him. Then, the young Kingsguard stepped forward. The wonder and surprise in his eyes vanished, he leaned close to his colleagues and the Princess.

"We must tell the king of this, immediately. No doubt rumors and hearsay already spread across the castle. We must put a stop to them without delay."

"Aye," Ser Gerold said, sounding grimmer than Geralt had ever heard him. They all were, including the group of people still hanging about. The excitement evaporated almost instantly. Replaced by apprehension, and fear. Fear so palpable it might have been a noose tied around all of their necks.

"I shall speak to him first, then you Ser Gerold."

"Aye, we shall do so, your grace," Then he looked at Geralt, his mouth a thin line. There was pity in his grey eyes. Pity and a silent apology. "As will you, Master Witcher."

Geralt, as before, nodded in acknowledgment without a word. Though every one of his instincts told him something very foul was afoot, he would not truly understand why that is. Not for another hour. Not until he came face to face with Aerys Targaryen the second, known to many but not to him as the Mad King.

---