The Riverlands - Eighteen Months Earlier
Geralt - Third Person
The tavern was called the Broken Wheel, though Geralt suspected it had been called something else before whatever war had swept through this region and left half its villages burned.
He sat alone at a corner table, nursing an ale that tasted like someone had filtered river water through old socks and called it beer. His white hair drew stares—it always did—and the two swords strapped to his back had prompted the usual whispered speculation. In Rivia, people knew what a Witcher was. In these Seven Kingdoms, as the locals called their continent, he was just another strange sellsword with unusual equipment.
He'd been dealing with the aftermath of the Conjunction for three months now.
The worlds had merged without warning—one day he'd been tracking a fiend through the forests near Novigrad, the next he'd woken to find the landscape itself had changed. New mountains where there had been plains. Coastlines that led to continents no one had ever mapped. The Continent was still there, but it had fused with other lands, other kingdoms, creating something vast and strange and filled with dangers both familiar and unknown. The magic felt different in some regions, thinner somehow, but the monsters were consistent enough. Drowners in the streams. Ghouls in the graveyards. Griffins nesting in the hills.
And nobody to hire him to kill them, because nobody understood what a Witcher was.
He'd adapted, as he always did. Taken bounties on "demons" and "creatures from hell," collected coin from terrified villagers, moved on before anyone could ask too many questions. The work was steady enough to keep him fed and supplied, and the constant travel gave him time to piece together information about this strange new land.
Information like: the ruling family had just lost its king to a hunting accident. The North had declared independence. And somewhere across the ocean, a silver-haired woman had risen to power with an army of scaled warriors and actual dragons.
That last part had caught his attention.
The tavern door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a figure that made Geralt's Witcher senses prickle with interest.
She was young—thirteen, maybe fourteen—dressed in practical clothes that had seen hard travel. Her face was thin, her eyes too old for her age, and she moved with careful awareness. A thin sword hung at her hip, the kind of blade that dancers and duelists preferred.
She scanned the room with the paranoia of a hunted animal, and her gaze stopped on Geralt.
For a long moment, they simply looked at each other. Then the girl walked to his table and sat down across from him without asking permission.
"You're a Witcher," she said. It wasn't a question.
Geralt raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know what a Witcher is?"
"I met one before. Years ago, back home. He was tracking a monster through our lands—something that killed sheep and scared the smallfolk. He had white hair like yours, two swords on his back like yours, and eyes that looked like..." She trailed off, studying his face. "Like yours. Cat's eyes."
"There are other Witchers in these lands?"
"I don't know if he was from here. He talked about places I'd never heard of, and he left after the monster was dead." The girl's expression remained carefully neutral. "But I remember what he looked like. I remember how he moved. You move the same way."
So the Conjunction likely happened before in this world. Good to know. Geralt mused internally.
Then Geralt leaned back, intrigued despite himself. "You're observant for someone your age. And you're running from something."
A flicker of surprise crossed her face before she controlled it. "What makes you say that?"
"You checked every exit when you walked in. You sat with your back to the wall. And you've been watching the door since you sat down." Geralt took a sip of his terrible ale. "I'm not asking who's chasing you. I'm just noting that you are being chased."
The girl was quiet for a moment, clearly deciding how much to reveal. Finally, she said, "My name is Arya Stark. And yes, there are people who want me dead."
Geralt recognized the name—one of the Northern houses in rebellion, the family whose patriarch had been executed for treason. If this girl was who she claimed to be, she was a valuable hostage worth her weight in gold to the wrong people.
"Geralt of Rivia," he replied. "And I have no interest in politics."
"Good." Arya leaned forward slightly. "I'm going to Braavos. There's a ship leaving from a port two days' walk from here. But the roads have... problems. Monsters that weren't there a few months ago. I saw a contract posted for something called a ghoul infestation near my route."
"And you want me to clear them out so you can pass safely."
"No." Her eyes met his with surprising intensity. "I want to come with you and watch you do it. I want to learn how to fight things that aren't human."
Two Weeks Later
Geralt had told himself he wasn't going to get attached.
It was the same promise he made every time someone decided to follow him—a promise that had been broken by Ciri, by Yennefer, by half a dozen others who had wormed their way past his defenses and made themselves impossible to abandon.
Arya was making it very difficult to keep that promise.
She was quick, smart, and utterly fearless in ways that bordered on recklessness. She'd watched him disembowel a ghoul from three feet away and hadn't flinched. She'd taken notes on his pre-combat preparations—the oils, the potions, the signs—with focused attention. And when a drowner had surprised them at a river crossing, she'd put her thin sword through its eye before Geralt could react.
"That was stupid," he told her afterward, cleaning the ichor from her blade while she sat on the riverbank, processing her first monster kill. "You should have run."
"Running gets you killed." Her voice was flat, the tone of someone who had learned that lesson the hard way. "Besides, you were busy with the other two. If I hadn't taken that one, it would have flanked you."
"I've fought drowners before. I can handle three at once."
"Now you know you can handle two while someone covers your back." She looked up at him, her expression serious. "You're not used to fighting with a partner, are you?"
Geralt paused. She wasn't wrong. Witchers worked alone—it was tradition, practicality, and necessity rolled into one. The few times he'd fought alongside others, he'd constantly had to worry about them being in the way, about friendly fire and dumb allies doing stupid things and getting themselves killed.
Arya was not dumb or inexperienced. Whatever had happened to her since leaving Winterfell, it had made her capable in ways that most adults never achieved.
"Who trained you?" he asked.
"Syrio Forel. First Sword of Braavos." A shadow crossed her face. "He died protecting me when the Lannisters came for my father. After that... I've had other teachers. Some of them aren't the kind you mention in polite company."
Geralt caught the evasion but didn't press. Everyone had secrets, and Arya's were her own business as long as they didn't get him killed.
"The style you use—water dancing, you called it—it's fast and precise, but it lacks power. Good against humans who rely on brute force. Problematic against monsters with thick hides or supernatural durability."
"I know." Arya accepted the criticism. "That's why I want to learn. If I'm going to survive in a world with drowners and ghouls and whatever else is out there, I need to know how to fight them."
"The Trials of the Grasses," Geralt said slowly. "That's what makes Witchers. Mutations that enhance strength, speed, senses. Without them, fighting monsters is exponentially more dangerous."
"Can I undergo these trials?"
"No." The word came out harder than he intended. "The trials kill most who attempt them. Even among boys specifically selected for their potential, the mortality rate is over seventy percent. They don't work on girls at all—the mutations are specifically calibrated for male physiology. The few women who've tried... none survived."
Arya's expression tightened with disappointment, but she didn't argue. "Then I'll have to find another way. Someone who can fight monsters without Witcher mutations."
Geralt thought of Ciri—not a Witcher, but trained by them, capable of holding her own against creatures that would kill most humans. "It's possible. Difficult, but possible. You'd need years of training and access to resources that most people can't afford."
"I have time." Arya's voice carried a cold determination that Geralt recognized. "And I learn fast."
Four Months Later - A Village in the Reach
"I SAID I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK!"
The woman facing Arya across the village square was tall, blonde, and armored head to toe in expensive plate mail. She held a sword that Geralt immediately recognized as Valyrian steel—the local equivalent of what his silver sword was designed to do.
"Lady Arya, I swore an oath to your mother—"
"My father is dead!" Arya's voice cracked on the word. "My mother is with Robb fighting a war she might not survive, my sister is a hostage in King's Landing, and everyone I trusted is dead or gone or working for the people who killed my father. You come here with your oaths and your honor and your sword, but where were you when my father was being executed? Where were you when my sister was being paraded around King's Landing like a prize dog?"
Geralt stepped forward before the confrontation could escalate further. "Perhaps we should discuss this calmly."
The armored woman turned to face him, her hand tightening on her sword hilt. "And who are you?"
"Someone who's been traveling with the Stark girl for the past few months. Geralt of Rivia." He kept his hands visible and his stance non-threatening. "I have no stake in your politics. I'm simply noting that having a shouting match in the middle of a village square draws attention you probably don't want."
The woman—Brienne, he'd later learn—studied him with the sharp assessment of a trained warrior. "You're the Witcher. I've heard stories about a white-haired monster hunter traveling these lands."
"Some of them might even be true." Geralt gestured toward the tavern. "Can we take this somewhere less public?"
The conversation that followed took most of the evening.
Brienne of Tarth had been searching for the Stark girls since Catelyn Stark had charged her with that duty. She'd been tracking Arya's movements for weeks, following the trail of unusual monster deaths and whispered reports of a girl traveling with a strange swordsman.
Arya, for her part, had initially refused to even consider going with Brienne. The trauma of losing everyone she'd trusted had left deep scars, and the idea of placing herself in yet another protector's care was clearly terrifying.
But Geralt had watched the exchange carefully, and what he'd seen was not a threat. Brienne was honorable to a fault—possibly to the point of stupidity, but that was her problem. She genuinely wanted to protect Arya, not use her as a political pawn.
"Here's what I see," he said finally, cutting through the argument that had been circling for an hour. "Brienne wants to keep her oath. The Stark girl doesn't want to be controlled. And I want to continue hunting monsters without getting involved in your civil war."
"Then stay out of it," Arya snapped.
"I've been trying to. But you attached yourself to me, remember?" Geralt shrugged. "I'm not your keeper, and I'm not going to force you to do anything. But if Brienne is willing to travel with us rather than drag you back to some castle, you'd have two trained fighters watching your back instead of one."
Arya stared at him, clearly not expecting that suggestion. "You want her to come with us?"
"I don't particularly want anything. I'm just pointing out that an extra sword might be useful, especially with the kinds of contracts I've been taking lately." Geralt turned to Brienne. "Can you fight monsters? Real ones, not political opponents with fancy titles?"
Brienne hesitated. "I've never... the creatures you hunt aren't something I've trained for."
"Then you'll learn." Geralt stood, dropping a few coins on the table for their drinks. "Same deal I made with Arya—you follow my lead in combat, you learn the preparations, and you don't do anything stupid. In exchange, I won't charge you for the training that would cost a fortune from any other Witcher."
"Why?" Brienne asked, her voice carrying genuine confusion. "Why help either of us?"
Geralt paused at the door, considering the question. He thought of Ciri, of the endless search to find her, along with all the times he'd sworn not to get involved in someone else's problems only to dive in headfirst when it mattered.
"Because I've seen what happens when people worth protecting don't have anyone watching their backs." He glanced at Arya, who was trying very hard to pretend she wasn't affected by the statement. "And because the monsters in this world don't care about politics. They'll kill nobles and smallfolk alike. Having more people who can fight them is better for everyone."
Seven Months Later - The Stormlands
They'd been ambushed twice by Lannister soldiers, attacked once by a pack of ghouls, and nearly eaten by a griffin before they reached the coastal regions.
Arya had killed her first human since leaving her family—a sellsword who'd tried to rape a farmer's daughter while his companions were looting. She'd been quiet for three days afterward, processing the difference between killing monsters and killing men.
Brienne had adapted to fighting supernatural threats faster than Geralt expected. Her strength and reach made her effective against larger creatures, and her armor—reinforced now with griffin feathers and monster hide—gave her protection that Arya's speed-focused style couldn't match.
They made an effective team. Geralt hated admitting it, but it was true.
It was in a port town that they encountered Ser Barristan Selmy.
The old knight was traveling incognito, trying not to draw attention, but Arya recognized him immediately.
"Ser Barristan?" She stepped forward, her hand on Needle's hilt. "What are you doing here? I thought you were serving the Lannisters."
"I was dismissed from the Kingsguard." Barristan's voice carried old bitterness. "Joffrey decided I was too old to be useful, and Cersei decided I knew too many secrets to leave alive. I've been running ever since."
"Running to where?"
"Essos." The old knight's eyes held a spark of something like hope. "There are rumors—stories of a Targaryen princess who commands dragons and an army of warriors with scales for skin. If even half of what I've heard is true, she may be the rightful heir to the throne that Robert stole."
Geralt listened with growing interest. He'd heard the same rumors—everyone had. The Wyrmborne, they called themselves. A new power in the east that had conquered four cities in three years and showed no signs of stopping.
"I've been planning to head that direction myself," he admitted. "Not for political reasons—I have people I'm looking for. But Essos seems like the place where answers might be found."
Barristan studied him with his assessing gaze of a warrior. "You're the Witcher. I've heard tales of your work in the Riverlands—monsters killed, villages saved. You fight like nothing I've ever seen."
"Decades of training and magical mutations." Geralt shrugged. "I've been doing this for a very long time."
"Would you object to company? The seas are dangerous, and I'm... not as young as I once was. Having capable fighters to share the journey would improve my chances of arriving alive."
Geralt looked at his current companions—a teenage assassin-in-training, a knight bound by oaths that might not survive contact with reality, and now an old Kingsguard running from his past mistakes. It was exactly the kind of entanglement he'd always tried to avoid.
"Fine," he heard himself say. "But when we get there, we go our separate ways. I have my own business to handle, and it doesn't include playing politics."
The Present Day - A Camp South of the Free Cities
Arya - First Person
The fire crackled between us, casting dancing shadows across faces that had become familiar over months of travel.
Geralt sat on a log, maintaining his silver sword with his usual mechanical precision. Brienne was checking her armor straps, her movements just as practiced. Barristan had taken the watch position on the ridge above our camp, his aging eyes still sharp enough to spot threats in the darkness.
I stared into the flames, thinking about how much had changed since I'd first approached that white-haired stranger in a Riverlands tavern.
I was stronger now. Faster. My water dancing had evolved into something hybrid—Syrio's grace combined with Geralt's practicality, supported by techniques I'd learned from the Faceless Men that neither of my current companions knew about. I could read people better than before, detect lies before they were fully formed, and move through shadows with a silence that had saved my life more than once.
I still wasn't a Witcher. I never would be. But I'd proven that a human could learn to fight monsters—could become something that the creatures of darkness had reason to fear.
"You're thinking loudly," Geralt observed without looking up from his work.
"Thinking about what we'll find in Essos." I poked the fire with a stick, watching sparks spiral upward. "The stories keep getting stranger. Dragons the size of buildings. Warriors who breathe fire. A queen who can transform into something not quite human."
"You nervous?"
"Curious." I set the stick aside. "Everyone who talks about the Wyrmborne has a different story. Some say they're liberators, freeing slaves and building a better world. Others say they're conquerors, forcing people to transform against their will. The truth is probably somewhere in between."
"Usually is." Geralt finished with his silver sword and started on the steel. "I'm more interested in finding the people I'm looking for. If they're in Essos, the Wyrmborne might know where."
"Ciri," I said. He'd mentioned her a few times—a girl with unusual abilities who had been like a daughter to him. "You think she went there?"
"I think wherever there's powerful magic and dangerous situations, Ciri tends to end up nearby. It's practically a law of nature." A rare smile crossed his face. "She's trouble like that."
"Sounds familiar," Brienne called from across the camp.
"Yes, thank you for that observation." Geralt's voice was dry, but I caught the hint of amusement underneath. He'd become more comfortable around us over the months—less guarded, more willing to let his personality show through the professional Witcher exterior.
"The ship leaves at dawn," Barristan said from his position above. "I suggest we get what sleep we can. The crossing to Essos takes several days, and the captain warned of unusual currents near the Wyrmborne territories."
I settled onto my bedroll, staring up at stars that looked the same whether you were in Westeros or the lands beyond. Somewhere out there, dragons flew and an empire was being built from the ashes of slave cities.
Whatever we found when we arrived, I had a feeling it would change everything.
End of Chapter Twenty-Four