Vaes Drakarys - The Tour
Geralt - Third Person
The city defied everything Geralt thought he knew about the world.
He had traveled extensively since the Conjunction—across the Seven Kingdoms, through the Reach and the Riverlands, along the coasts of what had once been familiar territories that now bordered lands from his own Continent. He had seen strange things, fought stranger creatures, and adapted to a reality that seemed determined to keep surprising him.
But Vaes Drakarys was something else entirely.
The architecture alone would have been noteworthy—a blend of styles that suggested multiple cultural influences, all unified by a coherent aesthetic that favored both beauty and functionality. Towers rose in elegant curves while fortifications bristled with siege weapons he didn't recognize. The streets were clean, well-maintained, and filled with people going about their daily business with purposeful energy.
And those citizens... his medallion had been vibrating since they'd entered the city proper, and it showed no signs of stopping.
"Magic," he said, not quite a question. "Everywhere. In the buildings, in the people, in the air itself."
Ciri walked beside him, her ashen hair catching the morning light. She hadn't changed as much as Triss—no scales marked her skin, no obvious physical transformation. But there was something different in how she carried herself, a confidence that went beyond the combat training he'd given her years ago.
"The ambient magic here is unlike anything on the Continent," she confirmed. "The Conjunction didn't just merge the worlds—it created new flows of power, new concentrations. Vaes Drakarys sits at one of the strongest convergence points. Angelus chose this location specifically because of it."
"Convenient," Geralt observed, though his tone suggested he found it more suspicious than fortunate.
"Not convenient—strategic. The magical convergence existed before she arrived, but she recognized what it meant and built accordingly." Ciri glanced at him, reading the skepticism in his expression. "I know how it sounds. A dragon who just happens to find the perfect location, who just happens to have the knowledge to exploit it. But I've watched her work, Geralt. She doesn't stumble into advantages. She identifies them, plans around them, and executes with a patience that makes the sorceresses we know look impulsive."
Geralt's eyes tracked a patrol of Dragonborn warriors as they passed—creatures that would have been nightmares in any other context. Their forms were fully draconic, scaled snouts and sharp teeth, bodies that moved with predatory grace despite their bulk. But they nodded respectfully to Ciri as they passed, and one even offered what might have been a smile.
"They're not hostile," Arya observed from his other side. The young Stark had been studying everything with the sharp attention he'd come to expect from her. "They're like an actual army, not just monsters playing at civilization."
"Because they're not monsters." Triss spoke from ahead, her crimson scales catching the light as she turned to face them. "They're people who chose transformation. Soldiers, laborers, merchants, farmers—all of them converted willingly. The scales don't change who they are inside; they just add capabilities they didn't have before."
Brienne's hand had rested on her sword hilt since they'd entered the city, but she hadn't drawn the weapon. "In the Seven Kingdoms, something like this would be called an abomination. The Faith would demand its destruction."
"The Faith isn't here," Yennefer replied, her violet eyes taking in the city. "And even if it were, I suspect it would find itself outmatched. This isn't a cult or a coven—it's an empire. One with military capabilities that would make the Lannisters weep with envy. I know that Tywin would've definitely wished for an army like this one."
Ser Barristan had said little since they'd disembarked, but his eyes missed nothing. The old knight observed everything quietly, and Geralt could see him mentally cataloging defensive positions and chokepoints.
"The fortifications," Barristan said finally. "They're designed for defense in depth. Multiple fallback positions, overlapping fields of fire, walls that channel attackers into kill zones. Whoever planned this understood siege warfare at a level I've rarely encountered."
"Angelus designed most of it herself," Ciri said. "She has... extensive experience with military architecture."
"How extensive?"
Ciri was quiet for a moment, as if considering how to frame her answer. "She's over ten thousand years old, Geralt. She spent most of that time fighting a war against beings that made the Wild Hunt look like a minor nuisance. Siege warfare, defensive fortifications, tactical positioning—she's had centuries to refine her understanding of each concept. When she looked at this city's original layout, she saw vulnerabilities I wouldn't have noticed in a decade of study."
The implications settled over Geralt like a weight. Ten thousand years. He'd met ancient beings before, but the scale of that experience was difficult to comprehend.
The Market District
They moved deeper into the city, passing through districts that demonstrated the Wyrmborne's unusual approach to civilization.
The market district was particularly striking. Stalls and shops lined the streets, offering goods that ranged from the mundane to the magical. Geralt spotted weapons that pulsed with enchantments he couldn't identify, armor that seemed to shift and adapt as he watched, and items that defied easy categorization.
"Those weapons," he said, nodding toward a display of dark-metal blades. "They're not just enchanted. There's something different about them."
"Chaos-Forged," Triss explained, her scholar's enthusiasm evident despite her transformed appearance. "Angelus developed the technique—it uses a combination of draconic fire and magical resonance to create materials with unique properties. The metal itself is partially alive, in a sense. It bonds with its wielder, grows stronger through use, and can be modified based on the magical affinity of the person carrying it."
"Living weapons." Geralt's tone was flat.
"Symbiotic weapons. They're not autonomous—they don't have desires or goals. But they respond to their wielders in ways that conventional enchantments can't match." Triss paused beside a stall selling jewelry, examining a ring that sparked with inner fire. "The applications extend beyond combat. Medical instruments that sense what the body needs. Construction tools that adapt to the material being worked. The technology has transformed almost every aspect of Wyrmborne society."
Arya had drifted toward a weapons stall, her eyes fixed on a display of short swords and daggers. The vendor—a Draconian woman with copper-colored scales visible along her arms and neck—noticed her interest and smiled.
"First time in Vaes Drakarys?" the vendor asked.
"Just arrived." Arya's hand hovered over one of the daggers, not quite touching. "These are beautiful. The balance looks perfect."
"It is perfect. Each blade is crafted specifically for its intended owner—we don't do mass production. If you're interested, I can take your measurements and have something ready within a week." The vendor paused, studying Arya with professional assessment. "You've got a fighter's build. Light blades, quick movements. Water dancer style, unless I miss my guess?"
"Something like that." Arya kept her voice neutral, but her fingers twitched toward where Needle normally rested. Old habits—never confirm too much to strangers, even friendly ones. "I've picked up techniques from a few different sources over the years."
"We can work with that. The Chaos-Forged metal responds well to that kind of technique—it gets faster the more you practice with it, and the edge never needs maintenance."
Geralt watched the exchange with interest. The vendor was treating Arya like a customer, not a potential threat or a foreign curiosity. It suggested a level of social stability that he hadn't expected from a society built on magical transformation and military conquest.
"The economy here," he said to Ciri. "How does it work?"
"Wyrmborne currency—crowns and scales. The materials come from the conversion pools as a byproduct, which means they can't be counterfeited because they require Angelus's magic to create. External trade still uses whatever currency the merchants bring, but internally everything runs on the new system." Ciri shrugged slightly. "She's essentially built an economy from scratch. New currency, new trade networks, new industries. All of it designed to be self-sustaining and growth-oriented."
"That takes time. Infrastructure, education, institutional knowledge."
"It does. And she has time—more than anyone else in this world, probably." Ciri's expression turned thoughtful. "But it's not just longevity. She brought knowledge from her previous existence—memories of economic systems, administrative structures, even concepts like standardized education that this world hasn't developed yet. The first few months were chaotic, honestly. She was trying to implement ideas that no one here had context for, and the communication gaps were constant." A slight smile crossed her face. "She learned to slow down eventually. Started building foundations instead of just dropping finished concepts on people who didn't understand them."
Enoch's Message
The sound came first—a rush of wind and the distinctive beat of massive wings. Geralt's hand went to his silver sword before he consciously processed what he was hearing, his reflexes responding to the approach of something large and potentially dangerous.
But the creature that descended wasn't attacking.
The wyvern landed on a nearby rooftop with surprising grace for something its size. Geralt recognized the body type immediately—two powerful legs, wings that doubled as forelimbs—but this creature was unlike any wyvern he'd encountered on the Continent. Those had been feral, aggressive, barely more intelligent than the cockatrices they sometimes competed with for territory. This one moved with deliberate purpose, and its eyes held an awareness that made his medallion pulse in warning. Deep green scales covered a body built for both aerial and ground combat, with bronze-gold wing membranes that caught the light like polished metal. Yellow-gold spines crowned its back, and those intelligent eyes swept over the group with obvious recognition.
"Enoch." Triss's voice carried warmth and something more—a connection that Geralt could sense even without magic. Her expression had shifted, becoming distant for a moment as if she were listening to something only she could hear.
"He's heading east," she reported after a moment. "A flock of flying creatures—monsters, not anything natural—approaching from the mountains. The patrols spotted them an hour ago, and Enoch volunteered to intercept before they get within sight of the city."
The wyvern's golden eyes met Triss's for a long moment, and something passed between them that required no words. Then he launched himself from the rooftop, wings spreading wide as he climbed into the sky with powerful strokes.
"What in the Seven Hells was that?" Brienne's hand had joined Geralt's on her sword hilt, though she hadn't drawn either.
"That was Enoch." Triss watched him go, her expression carrying obvious affection. "One of the three wyverns that Angelus hatched and raised. Balerion, Mikhail, and Enoch—they're... special. More intelligent than any creature I've encountered, capable of genuine communication and complex thought."
"He talked to you," Arya said. "I saw your face. You were listening to something."
"We share a bond. When I touched him for the first time, something connected us—a rider bond, Angelus calls it. I can feel his emotions, hear his thoughts, and he can hear mine. It's..." Triss paused, searching for words. "It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced. More than any spell or magical working. He's part of me now, and I'm part of him."
Geralt studied her with new attention. The transformation—the scales, the slitted eyes, the overall change in her appearance—suddenly made more sense in context.
"That's why you left the Lodge."
"That's part of it." Triss met his gaze steadily. "The bond required me to undergo conversion—dragon riders need to share the same basic nature as their mounts, or the connection doesn't work properly. But I was already considering leaving before Enoch chose me. The Lodge has been stagnating for decades, Geralt. We spend more time on political maneuvering than actual magical research, more energy on maintaining our status than advancing our knowledge."
"And the Wyrmborne are different?"
"Completely. Angelus treats magic like a science—she wants to understand why things work, not just how to use them. She's opened her archives to me, given me access to research facilities that would make the Ban Ard Academy weep with envy. I've learned more in the past few weeks than I did in years with the Lodge." A slight smile crossed her face. "And I get to ride a dragon. That's not nothing."
Yennefer had been listening without comment, but her expression suggested she was processing Triss's words carefully. The two sorceresses had a complicated history—Geralt knew that better than most—and seeing Triss so obviously content with her new circumstances seemed to affect Yennefer in ways she wasn't entirely comfortable showing.
"The Lodge won't take your departure well," Yennefer said finally.
"The Lodge doesn't have a choice. And honestly, Yen, what were they going to do? Send assassins against a dragon rider? Challenge a nation that can field armies of scaled warriors and sea monsters?" Triss shook her head. "The balance of power has shifted. The Lodge either adapts or becomes irrelevant. I chose not to wait around for them to figure that out."
The Explanation
They found a quiet courtyard where they could talk without being overheard—or at least, without being obviously overheard. Geralt suspected that very little happened in Vaes Drakarys without Angelus knowing about it, but the illusion of privacy was something.
"Start from the beginning," he said, settling onto a stone bench that was clearly designed for creatures larger than humans. "How did you end up here?"
Ciri and Yennefer exchanged glances, and Triss nodded slightly. Some silent communication passed between them.
"Our portal malfunctioned," Yennefer began. "We were trying to reach Novigrad—following rumors about the Conjunction and trying to locate you. But something interfered with the transit. Magical interference unlike anything I'd encountered before."
"We emerged in the middle of a market square," Ciri continued. "Surrounded by Wyrmborne guards within seconds. They weren't hostile—not immediately—but they made it very clear that we weren't going anywhere until their leader assessed us personally."
"Captured," Geralt said flatly.
"Detained," Triss corrected. "They didn't hurt us or threaten us, didn't even confiscate our weapons. They just... held us in a secure location until Angelus could arrive."
"And while we waited," Yennefer's voice carried something that might have been grudging respect, "we watched them destroy an Ironborn fleet."
That got Geralt's attention. "Greyjoys?"
"Sixty ships. The largest Ironborn fleet to venture east in living memory, led by Euron Greyjoy himself." Yennefer's violet eyes held the memory of what she'd witnessed. "The Wyrmborne had perhaps a dozen vessels and a handful of defenders. We thought they were doomed."
"What happened?"
"The Lagiacrus happened." Ciri's voice was quiet but intense. "A sea monster the size of a small island, covered in blue scales and capable of calling lightning from clear skies. It emerged in the center of the enemy formation and destroyed three ships just by surfacing. Then it started hunting."
"Forty-eight ships destroyed," Triss added. "Twelve fled. Zero Wyrmborne casualties. The entire battle lasted less than an hour, and the defenders never even seemed concerned. It was like watching a wolf deal with a flock of sheep—there was never any doubt about the outcome, only how long it would take."
Geralt absorbed this information. The Greyjoys were raiders and reavers, but they weren't incompetent. Sixty ships represented a significant force, one that should have been capable of overwhelming most coastal defenses.
"You're telling me they were annihilated by a single creature."
"Not single. The Lagiacrus was the primary weapon, but the siege engines and mages provided support. And above it all, circling like a crimson shadow, was Angelus herself." Ciri shook her head slightly. "I've seen powerful beings before. I've faced the Wild Hunt and survived encounters with things that shouldn't exist. But watching that battle... it changed my understanding of what power actually means."
"That's when you decided to stay."
"That's when I started considering it seriously." Ciri's green eyes met his. "The offer came later—after we'd had time to learn about the Wyrmborne and to see how they lived, to understand what Angelus was building. She didn't pressure us. She just... showed us what she had, explained what she wanted, and let us make our own choices."
The Relationship
Brienne had been listening with growing confusion, her warrior's mind trying to process information that didn't fit her understanding of the world. "This Angelus," she said finally. "You speak of her as if she's more than just a ruler. What exactly is your relationship with her?"
The three women exchanged another glance—this one carrying something more complicated than shared experience.
"She's our partner," Yennefer said simply. "All three of us. We've accepted positions in her harem."
The silence that followed was profound.
Barristan's expression remained carefully neutral, though his eyebrows had risen slightly. Brienne looked like she was trying to swallow something that wouldn't go down. Arya's face showed the calculating curiosity of someone who was still processing implications.
And Geralt... Geralt felt something in his chest tighten in ways he hadn't expected.
"A dragon's harem," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "You've joined a dragon's harem."
"It's not as strange as it sounds," Triss offered, though her slight blush suggested she knew how strange it actually sounded. "The bond she offers—the Pact—it's different from anything I've experienced. Genuine partnership, not ownership. Shared power, shared longevity, shared purpose."
"Longevity?"
"Those bonded to her share her lifespan. We could live for centuries, Geralt. Millennia, potentially. That's not something any of us had before." Ciri's voice was quiet but certain. "For someone who's spent her entire life being hunted, the promise of safety and time... it's not nothing."
Geralt processed this slowly, his mind working through implications he wasn't sure he wanted to examine. Yennefer—the woman he'd loved, the woman he'd been bound to by magic and choice—had given herself to a dragon. Triss, who had carried feelings for him that he'd never quite known how to address, had done the same. And Ciri, his adopted daughter in all but blood, had apparently followed them.
"Are you moving too fast?" The words came out before he could stop them.
"Probably," Yennefer admitted, and the honesty surprised him. "We've known her for weeks, not years. We've accepted positions that will shape the rest of our very long lives based on limited information and strong emotional reactions."
"But," Ciri continued, "we've also spent decades on romances that didn't work out. Relationships that promised stability and delivered chaos. Connections that should have lasted and didn't." Her green eyes held his. "At some point, you have to stop being cautious and start trusting your instincts. Our instincts say this is right."
"Besides," Triss added, "it's not like we're abandoning rationality entirely. Yennefer is still insisting on more dates before she considers the relationship 'official,' even though she's already committed to the harem."
Yennefer's expression shifted to something that might have been embarrassment. "I enjoy being courted. Is that so unusual? She treats me like I'm precious—like I'm something worth pursuing and keeping. Do you know how rare that is, for someone like me?"
"Because she's a dragon," Ciri said, a slight smile crossing her face. "To her, you probably are treasure. Dragons hoard things they value."
"Ciri."
"I'm just saying. The way she looks at you—at all of us—is not possessive in the ugly sense. It's protective and cherishing. Like she found something valuable and can't quite believe her luck."
Triss nodded. "It's... nice. Being wanted like that."
Geralt looked between the three of them, trying to reconcile what he was hearing with what he knew of their personalities. Yennefer, who had always valued her independence above almost everything else. Triss, who had struggled for years to find a place where she truly belonged. Ciri, who had spent her life running from those who wanted to use her.
All of them had found something in this dragon's harem that they'd been missing elsewhere.
He wasn't sure how to feel about that.
The Meeting
The path to Angelus led through increasingly impressive architecture—towers that seemed to defy conventional engineering, courtyards filled with fountains that flowed with water that sparkled with inner light, gardens where plants he didn't recognize grew in carefully maintained arrangements.
And everywhere, the presence of the Wyrmborne themselves. Dragonborn with their fully draconic features, Draconians with their partial scales and enhanced capabilities, working and trading and living their lives in ways that seemed almost normal despite their inhuman appearances. Children with scales playing in the streets, their laughter carrying the same innocent joy as any human child.
It should have been disturbing. Instead, Geralt found himself oddly impressed.
"She's built something real here," he said quietly.
"That's what I've been trying to tell you." Ciri's hand found his arm, a gesture of reassurance that reminded him of the little girl he'd once known. "It's not just power for its own sake. There's purpose behind it."
The courtyard they entered was larger than the others—large enough to accommodate something far bigger than a human gathering. The stones were scorched in places, the walls reinforced with metal that gleamed with enchantment, and the sky above was open in a way that suggested deliberate design.
And there, in the center of the space, was Angelus.
Geralt had seen dragons before. On the Continent, before the Conjunction, he'd encountered the Gold Dragons—shape-shifters who could take human form and often did so to interact with the world. They had been impressive creatures, ancient and wise, with power that made most mages seem like children playing with fire.
Angelus was something else entirely.
She was massive—easily larger than any Gold Dragon he'd ever encountered, her crimson scales gleaming in the sunlight like polished rubies. Four powerful legs supported a body that radiated contained power, and two wings were folded against her flanks, the membranes shot through with gold-orange veins that pulsed with inner light. Her head was crowned with multiple horns in an elaborate arrangement, and her eyes—golden, ancient, terrifyingly intelligent—fixed on the group with an attention that made Geralt feel like prey for the first time in decades.
Her tail coiled around her like a living thing, the tip glowing with molten gold that cast flickering shadows across the courtyard. And her chest... there was a light there, visible through the scales, pulsing with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat made of fire.
A western dragon. A true dragon, with four legs and two wings, the body configuration from legends and nightmares. Not the wyvern-type creatures he'd seen elsewhere in this world, but something older and more powerful.
"Geralt of Rivia." Her voice was not spoken—it resonated directly in his mind, carrying weight and presence that made his medallion vibrate so intensely it was almost painful. "I've heard much about you. The White Wolf. The Butcher of Blaviken. The man who raised Cirilla and somehow kept her alive through dangers that should have killed them both."
Geralt's hand was on his sword hilt before he could stop himself. Not drawing—he wasn't stupid enough to think a sword would help against something like this—but the gesture was instinctive. Behind him, he heard Brienne and Barristan shift into ready stances, and even Arya had positioned herself for quick movement.
"You've heard stories," he said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Stories aren't always accurate."
"No, they're not. That's why I'm pleased to finally meet you in person." Something that might have been amusement colored her mental voice. "Your companions can relax. I have no intention of harming any of you—quite the opposite, in fact. Ciri has been worried about your safety since she arrived, and I've been looking forward to putting her mind at ease."
"By intimidating us?"
"By being honest about what I am. I could have met you in my Dragonborn form—humanoid, less threatening. But that would have been a deception, however small. You deserve to see me as I truly am before we discuss anything else."
Geralt forced himself to look at her properly, to assess her as he would any other creature. The size alone was staggering—she could have crushed houses with casual movements, could have devastated city blocks with her breath. The magic radiating from her made his medallion feel like it was trying to escape his neck.
But there was intelligence in those golden eyes. Not the cunning of a predator or the madness of a monster, but genuine thought.
"You're not what I expected," he admitted.
"I get that a lot." Something shifted in her expression—a softening, perhaps, or simply a moment of genuine reflection. "Most people expect either a mindless beast or an arrogant tyrant. The idea that a dragon might be thoughtful, might actually care about the people she rules over... it doesn't fit the stories they grew up with. But I lived a long time to learn that raw power without wisdom just creates destruction, and destruction without purpose is waste." Her head lowered slightly, bringing those massive eyes closer to their level. "Now—let's discuss why you're here and what you think of what you've seen so far."
The Discussions
The conversation that followed was unlike any Geralt had experienced.
Angelus spoke of her empire-building in a casual way. She explained the economic systems, the military structures, the social transformations that had turned conquered slaves into loyal citizens. She answered questions about magic and technology and the ambient power that made his medallion constantly buzz.
And she assessed each of them with an attention that suggested she already knew far more than she should.
"Arya Stark," she said, her gaze shifting to the young woman. "I know your story—or at least, a version of it. A girl who lost her father to treachery, her family to war, and found herself alone in a world that wanted to use her or kill her. You've built yourself into something dangerous, something that the people who hurt you would fear if they knew what you've become."
Arya's expression remained carefully neutral, but Geralt saw the tension in her shoulders. "You seem to know a lot about me."
"I know stories. The question is whether the real Arya Stark matches the one I've heard about." Those golden eyes studied her with unsettling intensity. "What do you want, child? What brought you all the way to Essos?"
"I wanted to learn." The answer came quickly, honestly. "Geralt taught me how to fight monsters, how to survive in a world where everything wants to kill you. Ciri told me about becoming a Witcher, but the trials don't work for women. I came here hoping..." She paused, something vulnerable flickering across her face. "I came here hoping there might be another way. Something that could make me strong enough to protect myself. To never be helpless again."
"And if that way required transformation? Leaving behind the human form you were born with?"
"I'd consider it." Arya's chin lifted. "Humanity hasn't done much for me lately."
Angelus made a sound that might have been approval. Then her attention shifted to Brienne.
"Lady Brienne of Tarth. The woman who swore oaths to Catelyn Stark and kept them even when keeping them meant traveling across a continent with nothing but determination and a Valyrian steel sword. You've been looking for a cause worthy of your service since before Renly Baratheon died."
Brienne's hand tightened on Oathkeeper's hilt. "You know about Renly?"
"I know many things. I also know that you've been increasingly frustrated with the oaths you've sworn—not because you want to break them, but because you want to fulfill them and circumstances keep making that impossible." The dragon's head tilted slightly. "Lady Arya seems safe enough here. If you choose to leave her in my care, you'd be free to pursue other obligations. Or other services."
"I've been looking for a lord worthy of my sword," Brienne said slowly. "Someone who actually deserves loyalty, who won't ask me to do dishonorable things or betray the trust I give them." She met those golden eyes with a directness that impressed Geralt. "Are you such a lord?"
"I'm not a lord at all. I'm a dragon. But I understand what you're asking, and I believe I can give you what you need—a cause worth fighting for, enemies worth destroying, and the certainty that your service serves something larger than political maneuvering." Angelus's tail shifted, coiling more tightly around her body. "If you wish to swear your loyalty to me, I will accept it. Your sword would be welcome among the Wyrmborne."
Brienne was silent for a long moment, clearly wrestling with the weight of the decision. Then, slowly, she drew Oathkeeper and knelt, placing the blade across her palms.
"I, Brienne of Tarth, offer my sword and my service to you, Lady Angelus. I swear to defend your interests, obey your commands, and uphold the honor of your realm for as long as I live."
"Then rise, Ser Brienne, and know that your oath is accepted." A note of warmth entered the dragon's mental voice. "We will discuss the terms of your service later. For now, simply know that you are welcome among us."
Barristan had watched this exchange with obvious interest. When Brienne rose and stepped back, he moved forward.
"I have a different request," he said, his voice carrying the formality of someone who had spent decades in royal courts. "I came east seeking Daenerys Targaryen—the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the daughter of the king I failed. I wish to swear my sword to her specifically, to atone for my sins in supporting Robert Baratheon's usurpation."
"Daenerys is my partner," Angelus replied. "My pact-bonded, my lover, my queen in all but official title. Your oath to her would be accepted—she values loyalty and skill, and you possess both in abundance." A pause. "But she is currently in Vaes Meereen, overseeing the integration of that city into our empire. She won't return for another month at least."
"I can wait." Barristan's voice was steady. "I've waited years already—years of serving the wrong king, years of watching the realm crumble under poor leadership. Another month is nothing if it means finally serving someone worthy of loyalty."
"Then wait you shall. In the meantime, consider yourself a guest of the Wyrmborne. You may stay, observe, and decide whether what we're building is worthy of your considerable talents." Angelus paused for a moment. "And I recommend trying one of our restaurants. The Grilled Griffin Tenderloin is to die for." She said.
Yennefer rolls her eyes but doesn't respond.
Geralt's Request
That left Geralt himself.
Angelus's attention shifted to him with a weight that made the air feel heavier. Those golden eyes studied him with an intensity that suggested she was seeing more than just his surface.
"The White Wolf," she said. "The legendary Witcher who has hunted monsters for over a century. I've been curious about you since I learned you existed."
"You seem to know a lot about me."
"I know stories. As I said, stories aren't always accurate." Her head lowered slightly, bringing her face closer to his level. "What do you want, Geralt of Rivia? You've found the people you were searching for—Ciri, Yennefer, Triss. They're safe, healthy, and apparently happy with the choices they've made. What happens now?"
Geralt considered the question carefully. He'd been traveling for over a year, driven by the need to find the people who mattered to him. Now that he'd found them... what did he actually want?
"I don't have an agenda," he admitted. "I came here to make sure they were okay. Now that I know they are..." He shrugged. "I'd like to stay for a while, if you'll have me. Rest. Regroup. Figure out what comes next."
Something shifted in Angelus's expression—a softening, perhaps, or simply a deeper assessment. "You're tired," she observed. "Not just physically. Your soul is weary. I can sense the weight of it—decades of fighting, of loss, of watching the people you care about suffer while you struggle to protect them."
Geralt didn't deny it. He couldn't.
"Vaes Drakarys is perhaps the safest place in this fused world," Angelus continued. "We have defenses that can handle most threats, and the threats we can't handle... well, those would require you to fight regardless of where you were. Stay as long as you like. Rest. Let someone else worry about the monsters for a while."
"And if monsters do show up?"
"The Wyrmborne will handle them. That's what we do." A hint of amusement colored her mental voice. "Though I suspect you'll find it difficult to resist getting involved. Witchers aren't known for sitting idle while others fight."
"Old habits." Geralt shrugged slightly. "Spent too many years being the only one standing between villages and the things that wanted to eat them. Hard to stop watching the shadows, even when someone else is supposed to be handling it."
"I understand that better than you might expect. The instinct to protect what's yours doesn't fade just because you have others to share the burden." Angelus's massive head tilted slightly. "If you want to join patrols or training exercises while you're here, you're welcome to do so. The Wyrmborne can always use experienced monster hunters, even if only for consultation. But the choice is yours—you came here to rest, and I won't force responsibility on you."
Her attention shifted to encompass the whole group. "Now, there's one more matter to address before we continue."
The Conversion
"Yennefer has accepted my courtship and agreed to join my harem. But unlike Triss, she hasn't yet undergone conversion." Angelus's gaze fixed on the dark-haired sorceress. "The time has come to address that, if you're willing."
Yennefer's expression remained composed, but Geralt knew her well enough to see the tension beneath the surface. "I've been considering my options."
"And what have you decided?"
"Draconian." The word came out steady, certain. "For similar reasons as Triss. I've spent most of my life perfecting this body—making it beautiful, powerful and mine. I don't want to give that up entirely." Her violet eyes held Angelus's golden ones. "And Draconians are more magic-oriented than Dragonborn. Given my profession, that seems... appropriate."
"A sound choice. The conversion pools are ready—we can perform the ritual now, if you wish."
"I've spent enough of my life hesitating when I should have been acting." Yennefer's chin lifted with characteristic determination. "Let's do this."
What followed was unlike anything Geralt had expected.
The "conversion pool" turned out to be a chamber filled with liquid that glowed with inner light—not water, but something magical and alive, pulsing with the same power that made his medallion vibrate. Yennefer descended into it naked, her dark hair spreading across the surface as she submerged.
Angelus's involvement was more direct than he'd anticipated. The dragon lowered her head over the pool, and something flowed from her mouth—not fire, but energy, crimson light that merged with the glowing liquid and surrounded Yennefer completely.
The transformation took perhaps an hour. When Yennefer rose from the pool, she was changed.
Scales covered her arms and shoulders—not crimson like Triss's, but midnight-black, so dark they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. And between those scales, violet electricity arced and crackled, lightning that matched her eyes and sparked continuously across her skin. Small horns had emerged from her forehead, shaped like stylized lightning bolts, and her violet eyes now sparked with contained power.
She was still beautiful—perhaps more beautiful than before, in an otherworldly way. But she was also clearly no longer entirely human.
"Shadow," Angelus said, and there was something like surprise in her mental voice. "Shadow and lightning. You've emerged with a dual element."
Yennefer examined her hands, watching the electricity dance between her fingers. "I can feel both. The lightning is sharp, aggressive—it wants to strike and destroy. But the shadow is different. Subtle. It feels like... concealment. Manipulation. The dark spaces between things."
"Chaos magic." Triss's voice carried scholarly fascination. "Your connection to the Chaos—it must have influenced the transformation. Shadow is a new element for the Wyrmborne. No one else has manifested it."
"Then I'm unique." Yennefer's smile was razor-sharp. "How appropriate."
"Abyssal Storms," Angelus said. "That's what I'll call your element. Or Dark Lightning, if you prefer something simpler. Either way, you're the first of your kind—a new variant of Draconian with abilities no one else possesses."
The others were staring at Yennefer with varying degrees of amazement. Brienne's expression suggested she was reconsidering her decision not to request conversion. Barristan was studying Yennefer with the assessment of someone evaluating a new weapon. Arya's eyes were wide with obvious interest.
And Geralt... Geralt watched the woman he'd loved transform into something alien and beautiful, and wasn't sure what he felt.
Then something changed in Yennefer's expression—a slight softening, a blush coloring her cheeks that looked strange against the midnight scales.
"Angelus," she said, her voice carrying a mix of warning and something softer. "That's not... appropriate."
Through the mental link, Ciri explained quietly to Geralt, "Angelus is hugging her. Mentally. And probably kissing her too."
"She does that," Triss added, her own smile suggesting personal experience. "The link lets her be... affectionate. In ways that don't require physical contact."
Ciri and Triss exchanged knowing glances, their smirks suggesting they found Yennefer's reaction entertaining.
She makes even Yennefer act cute, Ciri's mental voice carried amusement—and Geralt realized with a start that he could hear it, faintly, through the link that apparently now connected them all. It's honestly impressive.
I do not act cute, Yennefer's response was sharp, but underlaid with something that wasn't quite denial.
Geralt and Arya exchanged looks. They couldn't hear the full mental conversation, but they could see Yennefer's blush, and they could guess what was happening.
"Dragon romance," Arya muttered. "That's... new."
The Offers
Once Yennefer had dressed and rejoined the group—still occasionally touching her new scales with increasing fascination—Angelus's attention shifted to Ciri and Arya.
"I haven't offered Ciri conversion yet," the dragon said. "And there's a reason for that. Both of you—Ciri and Arya—have expressed interest in becoming Witchers. In gaining the abilities that would let you fight monsters as equals rather than victims."
Ciri nodded slowly. "The Trials of the Grasses don't work on women. The mutations are designed for male bodies."
"That's true of the original process. But I'm not limited to the original process." Angelus's golden eyes held an intensity that suggested she'd been thinking about this for some time. "I have knowledge from many sources—millennia of magical research, fragments of alchemy from worlds that no longer exist, understanding of biology and transformation that exceeds anything your Continent's mages possess. I can modify the Trials."
Arya leaned forward, her attention sharpening. "Modify how?"
"The first option is straightforward: I redesign the mutations to work on both genders instead of just one, and I significantly reduce the mortality rate. The original Trials killed roughly seventy percent of candidates. My version would reduce that to approximately thirty percent—still dangerous, but survivable with proper preparation."
"And the advantages?" Ciri asked.
"Enhanced reflexes, extended lifespan, improved senses, resistance to disease and poison, the ability to use Witcher signs and alchemy. Everything Geralt has, essentially." Angelus paused. "The disadvantages are significant as well. The mutations would increase your libido substantially while rendering you barren—the two effects are connected in ways that would be difficult to separate. I could create potions to temporarily reverse the infertility if you wished to have children, but it would require planning."
"There's another disadvantage," she continued. "The Witcher mutations wouldn't include my blood. You'd remain human, essentially—enhanced humans, but not draconic. That means you couldn't bond with the creatures I create. No drake partnerships, no wyvern connections. You'd be outside that aspect of Wyrmborne society."
Ciri's expression was thoughtful. "And the second option?"
"Draconian conversion, like Yennefer and Triss underwent. You'd keep your human appearance mostly intact, gain partial scales and enhanced magical abilities, and be able to bond with draconic creatures. Your Elder Blood—" she looked at Ciri specifically, "—would likely interact with the transformation in interesting ways. I can't predict exactly how, but the results would probably be significant."
"What about me?" Arya asked. "I don't have Elder Blood or magical training."
"The conversion sometimes grants magical affinity to those who lacked it before. It's not guaranteed, but it's possible. You might emerge with abilities you couldn't access as a normal human."
Both young women were silent, clearly wrestling with the implications.
Then Angelus spoke again, slowly this time. "There is a third option. More ambitious and uncertain. But potentially even more rewarding."
"What?" Ciri's voice was sharp with interest.
"I combine the approaches. Dragon blood, Witcher mutations, and my own magical modifications, all merged into a single transformation. A Dragon Witcher—someone with the combat abilities of a Witcher, the magical enhancement of a Draconian, and the potential to bond with draconic creatures."
The silence that followed was profound.
"Has anyone done that before?" Arya asked.
"No. It would be experimental. The risk would be significant—I estimate roughly forty percent mortality even with my modifications. But if it worked..." Angelus's tail curled around her body thoughtfully. "You could potentially found your own Witcher School. The School of the Dragon. Warriors trained in both Witcher techniques and Wyrmborne combat methods, with access to potions and abilities that no other Witchers possess."
Ciri's eyes had gone wide. "That's... that would be..."
"Revolutionary. Yes." Angelus's gaze shifted to Geralt. "And speaking of revolutionary ideas—I have thoughts about your mutations as well, Witcher."
Geralt felt his medallion pulse against his chest. "My mutations are already complete."
"Complete, perhaps. But not optimized. The School of the Wolf gave you enhanced abilities, but they stopped short of what was theoretically possible. I could potentially enhance your existing mutations—give you actual wolf-like abilities beyond just the metaphor. Heightened senses beyond what you already possess. Perhaps even the ability to transform, to become a true wolf when circumstances require it."
"A werewolf," Geralt said flatly.
"A controlled werewolf. One who retains his mind and can shift at will, not one driven mad by the curse." Angelus's eyes gleamed. "The White Wolf, becoming something more than just a title. And if it works for you, I could adapt the process for Arya—giving her wolf abilities to match her Stark heritage. Direwolf transformation, perhaps. Something that would let her honor her family while becoming something new."
Geralt found himself genuinely considering it. The idea was insane—tampering with mutations that had been stable for decades, risking everything he was for the possibility of something more. But the possibility itself...
"You're offering a lot," he said finally.
"I'm offering options. The choice is yours—all of yours. Take time to consider. Discuss among yourselves. Come back tomorrow and tell me what you've decided." Angelus rose to her full height, her massive form casting shadows across the courtyard. "For now, rest. Explore the city. Let Ciri and the others show you what we've built here."
The Discussion
The accommodations Ciri shared with Yennefer and Triss were larger than Geralt expected—a suite of rooms with comfortable furnishings, magical amenities, and windows that overlooked the city's harbor. They gathered there as evening fell, the conversation continuing from where it had paused in the courtyard.
"She knows things she shouldn't," Geralt said, settling into a chair that was clearly designed for someone larger than him. "About all of us. Details from our past that she couldn't have learned through normal means."
"Metaknowledge," Ciri replied. "She's mentioned it before—information from her previous existence that includes stories about people and events from this world. She knows our histories because, in some sense, she's encountered them before."
"That's convenient." Geralt's tone carried the skepticism of someone who had learned to distrust easy explanations.
Ciri nodded, acknowledging his doubt rather than dismissing it. "I thought so too at first. Knowledge from another existence, conveniently applicable to everything she encounters? It sounds like the kind of story a con artist would tell." She curled up on a couch, her green eyes thoughtful. "But she's been honest about the limitations. The knowledge comes from stories, not reality—and stories are always incomplete. Things have already diverged significantly from what she expected. She knew Daenerys's story, for instance. She used that knowledge to prevent a tragedy that would have happened otherwise."
"What tragedy?"
The three women exchanged glances. Then Ciri explained—the alternate Daenerys, the madness, the burning of cities, the betrayal and death. It sounded like a nightmare, and Geralt found himself grateful that it had been prevented.
"So she's using future knowledge to shape events," he said. "That's a lot of power."
"It's a lot of responsibility." Yennefer's voice was quiet. Her new scales caught the lamplight, electricity still arcing faintly between them. "She takes it seriously. More seriously than anyone I've met."
"What do you think about her offers?" Arya asked, her eyes moving between Ciri and Geralt. "The Dragon Witcher thing?"
"I'm tempted." Ciri's admission was honest. "A Witcher School of my own. The ability to fight monsters the way Geralt does, with the added benefits of draconic magic and creature bonding. It's everything I wanted and more."
"But the risk."
"Yes, the risk." She nodded. "Forty percent mortality. Those aren't good odds."
"They're better than the original Trials," Geralt pointed out. "Seventy percent of candidates died in those."
"You survived." Ciri's voice was quiet. "You went through those original Trials, with that seventy percent mortality rate, and you're still here. Still fighting, protecting people and accepting contracts." She met his eyes. "If anyone can tell me whether the risk is worth taking, it's you."
"I got lucky. And I had preparation that most candidates didn't." He was quiet for a moment, thinking. "If she can really do what she claims—reduce the mortality rate that significantly while adding new capabilities—it would be revolutionary. It would change what Witchers are fundamentally."
"Would that be a good thing?" Triss asked.
"I don't know. Witchers have always been... outsiders. Necessary but feared. If there were more of us—if women could become Witchers, if the process was safer—we might stop being outcasts and start being something else."
"Something integrated," Ciri said softly. "Part of society instead of apart from it."
"Maybe." Geralt leaned back, his eyes on the ceiling. "It's worth considering. All of it."
Arya had been quiet, but her expression suggested intense thought. "I want to try," she said finally. "The Dragon Witcher option. Even with the risk."
The room went silent. Geralt turned to look at her, genuine surprise crossing his usually stoic features.
"The Dragon Witcher?" Yennefer's eyebrows rose. "Not the wolf enhancement? I would have thought, given your family..."
"Everyone expects me to pick the wolf option," Arya said, and there was something sharp in her voice. "The Stark girl, choosing the Stark animal. It's predictable. It's what my family would want." She paused, her jaw tightening. "But my family is scattered. The wolves didn't save us. Being a Stark didn't protect my father when they took his head, didn't keep my family together when the war started, didn't stop the Lannisters from hunting us like animals. Sansa's trapped in King's Landing, Bran and Rickon are... I don't even know where they are. Jon's at the Wall. And I've been running for years."
Geralt studied her carefully. "You're rejecting your heritage?"
"I'm not rejecting it. I'm choosing not to be defined by it." Arya met his gaze steadily. "The Faceless Men tried to make me 'no one.' I refused. I'm Arya Stark, and I always will be. But being Arya Stark doesn't mean I have to follow the path everyone expects. It means I get to choose my own."
"And you're choosing dragons over wolves," Triss said, not unkindly.
"I'm choosing to become something new and that doesn't exist yet." Arya's eyes had taken on a fierce light. "If I take the wolf option, I become an extension of what Geralt already is. Another wolf, following in established tracks. But if I become a Dragon Witcher—if I survive—I'm one of the first. I help define what that means. I'm not walking someone else's path; I'm making my own."
She looked around the room, challenging anyone to argue. "The School of the Wolf already exists. The School of the Dragon doesn't. Not yet. If Ciri and I survive this, we get to build something from nothing. We get to decide what kind of Witchers Dragon Witchers will be." A slight smile crossed her face, sharp as Needle. "That's worth the risk. Worth dying for, if it comes to that."
Geralt was quiet for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded. "That's a better reason than I had when I went through the Trials."
"What was your reason?"
"I didn't have a choice. They took me to Kaer Morhen when I was a child. The Trials happened whether I wanted them or not." His golden eyes held hers. "You're choosing this. That matters."
"Arya—" Ciri started.
"I've spent my whole life preparing to die, Ciri. First I was going to die when the Lannisters caught me. Then I was going to die serving the Many-Faced God. Then I was going to die hunting monsters with Geralt." Her voice was steady, certain. "If I'm going to risk death, I want it to be for something worthwhile. Something that makes me stronger instead of just killing me."
Geralt studied her for a long moment. The girl he'd found in that tavern over a year ago had been broken—trauma and loss and rage compressed into a small frame that wanted to hurt the world that had hurt her. This Arya was different. Still angry and dangerous, but with purpose behind the anger.
"You're sure?"
"I'm very sure."
He nodded slowly. "Then we'll tell Angelus tomorrow. Both of us."
The Decisions
The next morning, they returned to the courtyard. Angelus waited in her true form, with Brienne and Barristan standing nearby—both had apparently requested to witness whatever decisions would be made.
"You've discussed among yourselves," the dragon said. It wasn't a question.
"We have." Geralt stepped forward, speaking for the group. "Arya wants to attempt the Dragon Witcher transformation. She understands the risks and accepts them."
Angelus's massive head tilted slightly, her golden eyes fixing on Arya with renewed interest. "The Dragon Witcher option. Not the wolf enhancement I offered to adapt for you?"
"No."
"I confess, I expected differently." There was no judgment in Angelus's mental voice, only genuine curiosity. "You're a Stark of Winterfell. The direwolf is your family's symbol, your heritage. I designed the wolf option specifically with you in mind—a way to honor that legacy while gaining new capabilities. Most people in your position would have chosen it without hesitation."
Arya stepped forward, meeting those enormous golden eyes without flinching. "I already explained my reasoning to Geralt and the others last night. I'm not going to repeat the whole thing, but the short version is this: I'm tired of being what everyone expects me to be. The Stark girl choosing the Stark animal. It's predictable, and I've spent too much of my life having my path chosen for me by other people's expectations."
"You want to forge your own identity rather than inherit one."
"Yes." Arya's chin lifted. "The School of the Wolf already exists. The School of the Dragon doesn't. If I survive this, I get to help build a new path instead of following in tracks someone else made. That matters more to me than honoring a legacy that couldn't protect my family when it counted."
Angelus was silent for a long moment, and Arya had the unsettling sense that the dragon was seeing more than just her surface. Then something shifted in those golden eyes—approval, perhaps, or recognition.
"I understand that sentiment better than you might expect. I spent centuries fighting a war that others had started, following rules that others had established, serving purposes that others had defined." The dragon's tail curled thoughtfully. "The desire to create rather than inherit, to define rather than be defined—that's not weakness. That's the foundation of everything I've built here."
"So you'll do it? The Dragon Witcher transformation?"
"I'll do it. And I suspect you'll make an excellent first candidate." A hint of warmth colored Angelus's mental voice. "The Wyrmborne could use someone who refuses to be predictable."
She turned her attention to Geralt. "And you? You're choosing the wolf enhancement?"
"I want you to enhance my mutations. The wolf abilities you mentioned—if you can really give me that kind of control, I'm willing to try." He glanced at Arya with something that might have been respect. "Someone has to keep the School of the Wolf relevant while these two are creating a new path."
Angelus's golden eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Bold choices. Both of you." Her attention shifted to Ciri. "And you?"
Ciri took a deep breath. "I want to try the Dragon Witcher option too. My Elder Blood complicates things, but... I've spent my whole life being special because of what I was born with. I want to be special because of what I've chosen to become."
"That will require additional modifications to account for your bloodline. The risk may be slightly higher."
"Nothing new about that. My bloodline always comes with risk." Ciri's voice was steady. "At least this time, I'm choosing to accept it rather than having it forced on me."
"Then it will be done." Angelus's massive form shifted, settling into a more comfortable position. "The preparations will take several days. The transformations themselves will take longer—weeks, potentially, for the more complex modifications. Are you prepared for that commitment?"
All three of them nodded.
"Good." Something that might have been a smile crossed the dragon's scaled features. "Welcome to the Wyrmborne, then. By the time I'm done with you, the world won't know what hit it."
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End of Chapter Twenty-Six