A WITCHER IN WESTEROS.

"Geralt, help me, they're coming for me, he's coming for me!" screamed Ciri as the King of the Wild Hunt advanced on her, sword in hand and eyes flashing lightning blue. The silver of his steel glowing dully in the light of the storm as thunder cracked and lightning sparked.

"Step away from her" Geralt of Rivia, the legendary witcher, the white wolf of Kaer Morhen stood atop the tower of Thanned, staring down the spectral cavalcade, silver sword in hand. The warriors of the wild hunt turned and stared him down, barring the way between him, the king, Ciri and Benavents portal.

Geralt paced back and forth in the dank little cell he had been thrown into on his landing. As prisons went this one was not altogether that bad, he had seen far worse in the dungeons of the royal castle in Temeria. Here there was a view of the sea, no smell but the salt air and a nice subtle breeze that was both warm and cooling at the same time, some clean soft straw had been laid out for him to sleep on, the jailer had come twice with a plate of fresh bread and a cup of water, so far all Geralt felt he needed was a woman and a flagon of ale and he might as well be bedding down in a tavern for the night.

The witcher continued his pacing, rolling his aching left shoulder as he walked. The landing had been heavy but the ocean broke his fall, yet the weight of his swords threatened to pull him down underneath the waves and fill his lungs with salt water. Depending on the view of the individual his landing had not been so deep but instead had landed him in shallow waters, knocking his shoulder heavily and causing him a deal of discomfort.

Geralt had been lucky when the currents washed him on the shores of an unknown island, when he washed the salt and sand from his eyes he saw the great castle that stood tall and proud on top of the hill. At first he thought he had washed up on the shores of Ard Skellig in the Skellig isles but the smoking heat of the water, coupled with the glassy black rocks that lined the beach let the witcher know for certain that he was a stranger in a strange land.

When the troops came for him their banners were foreign and unknown to him, not the boars head coupled with the galleon and crown of the Skellig Isles. This one was a stags head inside a burning heart. At first they had been wary of him, they saw his white hair and pale complexion and immediately grew fearful, one pike man dropped his weapon, pointed his finger and screamed the word "Targaryan" at him.

Geralt had been befuddled by the whole set of circumstances, but discretion had been the better part of valour when he saw that he was outnumbered by roughly thirty to one so decided to unclasp his swords from his back and surrendered amiably.

For a day and a night he had sat in here, his thoughts plagued by one constant worry: Where were they, where were his friends. They had followed him through Benavents portal as the spectral king of the wild hunt chased Ciri, his Ciri, through the black vortex. Dandelion, Triss, Yarpen and Yennefer, his beloved, had not hesitated, not questioned, not thought twice as they followed him into the blackness and the unknown.

He emerged from the void, alone and falling.

The sounds of locks opening and footsteps marching down the corridor toward his cell were followed promptly by torch flames. Several heavily armed soldiers marched to his cell, in a few moments the door was opened and in they marched, clasping iron manacles around his wrists and forcing him out into the corridor.

"King Stannis wishes to see you" the lead soldier said as he marched

"Stennis, but we're nowhere near Aedirn; Aedirn doesn't even sit along the coast?"

"Does anyone know what the Targaryan is talking about?" said the lead soldier, looking at the witcher in utter confusion.

"What's a Targaryan, why the hell do you keep calling me a Targaryan?"

"Shut up!" the lead soldier shouted before clouting Geralt around the back of the head, the witcher knew better than to argue with a man who carried a long sword on his waist while he had nothing more to defend himself with than sarcasm. They lead him through the black corridors of Dragonstone, rising, always rising, up short flights of stairs then along long stretches of flat stone then up along more steps until they came to a pair of oak doors. Geralt could hear the winds of the ocean whipping fiercely against the stones of the old fortress , a lesser made castle rattle and rock from the force of the sea gale but this one held strong and firm.

The lead guard hammered the door fiercely then waited momentarily before the doors were pulled open. The guards lead Geralt into a large open chamber that had a most beautiful view of the sea, a balcony of three pillars left the chamber open to the elements, in the centre stood a table, carved into the likeness of a map of a world he had not seen before, now he knew that he was truly far from home.

His swords lay unsheathed, cold and naked on the table, ready for just the right moment, for just the right hand to wield them. Geralt was smarter than to allow arrogance override good sense, if they had left his swords bare to world then either wanted him to reach for his blades, giving them an excuse to cut him down or they were certain he would not lay a finger on them till he was permitted.

A slight man of middle years with thinning grey hair and a brown beard peppered with grey stood left of an unseen man sat in a throne like chair with his back to Geralt. The woman who stood to the right of the chair was a true beauty clad in red, her fire kissed hair shone bright almost glowing in the grey light of day that beamed through the pillars.

"Is he what they say he is?" asked the unseen man. The older man approached Geralt, arms folded and looking him up and down with a pragmatic glare, sizing the witcher up and down. There was something in the man's eyes that reminded Geralt of Crach an Craite, the sea boar of the Skellig isles, that same nobility seemed to resonate through the man, giving the witcher a sense of security.

"He certainly has the bearing your grace, but…"

"But what?" the man asked sternly.

"His eyes your grace, they aren't typical of the Targaryan look" Geralt looked away, if his eyes were some sort of sign to these people then it would be best to keep them as unnoticeable as possible. Not that he could.

"What's your name stranger?" asked the unseen man.

"Geralt, Geralt of Rivia"

"What sort of a place is Rivia, eh? Some festering, shit filled, dung heap, littered with thieves and whores in the arse end of the North?" the man in the chair was clearly trying to goad the witcher but was entirely unaware of who he was dealing with.

"I've never been there, so I wouldn't know"

"But your name's Geralt of Rivia" the older man said incredulously, "why would you take the name of a place you've never been?"

"Everyone has to be from somewhere? Even a castle has a name" Geralt said spitefully, the older man smiled at the witcher's veiled question.

"You're on the island of Dragonstone, seat of King Stannis of westeros, King of the Andals and the first men" Geralt stared blankly at the older man as he made his masters introduction. The older man shook his head and reached for Geralt's silver sword lying dormant on the table, he gave a few expert swings and felt out the balance, measuring the weight and feeling its poise in his grip. "What does a man need a silver sword for?"

Geralt looked first to the chair, where not a movement was made before he looked to the red woman. The crimson beauty stood and stared at him, her tight dress rippling as the sea wind blew through the circular chamber, her eyes seemed as though they wished to pierce straight through into his heart, to read him, to measure him but they were restrained. Geralt knew of sorcery such as this, he had seen it first hand, in the eyes of that bastard Vilgefortz, right before he killed him.

"Killing monsters" he said sternly. The older man laughed as he felt the blades edge before he slammed it back down on the table.

"And what monsters do you plan on killing with your silver sword ser?" King Stannis asked from his chair.

"Any I'm paid to kill"

"So you're nothing but a common sellsword?" Stannis said derisively. Geralt had never heard the term before but if it was anything like it sounded then he did not like the implication that he was a simple mercenary.

"I'm not paid to fight in armies your highness; I'm paid to kill monsters"

"Does that mean you don't kill men?" the older man asked almost in disbelief.

"Only when they try to kill me" Geralt replied. King Stannis finally rose from his seat and turned to face the Witcher, he was an older man of approximately forty years. His eyes were deep blue, stern and unforgiving, he possessed a broad shouldered physique that clearly came from swinging a sword. He had a dark beard that lined his jaw matching a thinning head grey black hair. Stannis turned to the red woman and tilted his toward Geralt.

Her movements were lithe and graceful as she walked toward him, the red and gold choker sat neatly around her neck and accentuated the beauty of her bust. Her figure was wrapped perfectly in a beautiful red silk dress that fit in all the right places. She raised her porcelain skinned hands and cupped his face as she stared intently into his catlike eyes.

Geralt did not know what she was doing but if his experiences with Yennefer where anything to go by then it was possible she was performing some kind of magic on him. After a moment she backed away, her face was a mix; there was confusion and slight terror as her hands went to her temple, a searing pain spiking through her brain as she leant against the table, her hands shaking from the horror of what she had just seen.

"Ser Davos…" Stannis said gesturing toward the red woman. Hesitantly the older man walked over to the red and sat her down on a large chair.

"What did you see?" Stannis asked standing over her and crossing his arms expectantly. The red woman looked up at the king, her eyes hard, cruel and unyielding.

"He's not of this world" her voice was like silk even as it trembled, it was sonorous and wholly exotic. There was an accent there that was enticing and set Geralt entirely on edge. It reminded him too much of Yennefer and his concern for her whereabouts was growing, just as his concern for his other friends grew; Dandelion, Triss, Yarpen even the scarred elf Iorveth, he was worried about them all, where they were and if they were safe. But it was Ciri, the child of destiny that he was most concerned for; if she was highly sought after back in lands he knew, then who knew what strangers in this strange land would want from her.

Fighting enemies you knew was one thing, fighting ones you did not was another.

"He's a beast slayer, a monster slayer, ghost slayer…" she took in a sharp breath and looked up at the Witcher, her eyes wide and disbelieving, "Dragon Slayer!"

Both King Stannis and Ser Davos turned and stared at Geralt with as much disbelief as the red woman, they could not believe what they were hearing but they knew better than to question the seer. Stannis walked over to Geralt and looked him up and down, his face never losing its sternness, his jaw locked in what looked like a scowl trying to turn itself into a smile.

"Not that I believe this Dragon slayer nonsense but…" he said as he scratched his beard, "how would you like a chance to earn your freedom?"