Author's Notes: Still goin' strong. This chapter is notably more fun than the previous ones (though not necessarily happier). We're approaching the end of this arc (notably the shortest one in this story) before we get to the real kicker. Before it starts, I want to address some reviews.

For starters, to Dyliokhan, I sincerely hate that your review made me laugh, but it did. On another note, someone called this the best Berserk+GOT/ASOIAF crossover they've ever read, which implies it's the best among (get this) all 9 fics (shits and giggles aside, I'm grateful for this compliment).

On the same review, there's an interesting angle he/she discusses, which is the idea of a no-Behelit fic because it would cause major imbalance in the worldbuilding and levels of power. I disagree wholeheartedly. Considering the unique and unexplored magic in Mundus, there may be ways to deal with Behelits and their Apostles. That's without counting the medieval nukes that dragons are, and the equivalent of the zombie apocalypse with superhumans leading them which is the threat of the Others. Granted, if said Berserk were introduced, then perhaps they would be introduced over a lengthy period of time in a gradual manner. Can't discuss more than that, I'm afraid.

Last thing worth discussing would be, ironically, the cussing in discussing. There was a review saying that it took them out of the chapter reading the abrassive dialogue between Geralt and the others, whether it translates into a lot of cursing or a lot of screaming. I understand this on the one hand. On the other, Geralt is the reincarnation of Guts that gets to live a better life. He's still as rowdy as a sailor and, above all, he's just now becoming a teenager. Lyanna is also notably rowdy and she takes after Geralt, her idol. And the situations they've been haven't been normal. I've literally cherrypicked the extraordinary moments in Winterfell precisely because of this. A day in the life would be much less excessive (for a lack of better words) when it comes to behaviors and communications.

Now, without further ado, enjoy the next chapter.

Truth, Mercy and Regret

Geralt walked across the halls. They were dark enough as they could be, in the dead of the night, in the middle of an erratic winter. Few were the torches spared to keep the halls moderately dim, but Geralt had walked them all his life, he may have just as well walked them blind. He was moderately coated when he made it out of the halls. He had to sneak past some guards, no doubt placed by his father, to ensure he'd be well and safe in his room. But he knew Winterfell by heart, and he knew the heart of Winterfell. When there were a few too many posted at one gateway, all he'd need was stick to the shadows and toss a small stone far across another hall. It fooled them every time. Outside of the great castle, he felt a terribly sharp gust cutting at his cheeks. It was about the only part of him that was exposed. The black cloak helped him hide out through the night, and so he moved by heart towards the Godswood.

The nightmares had been relentless since the wildling raid. They'd grown crueler, which he had thought impossible prior. What made them macabre was the worst of the monsters, the new hellish figure in every one of his dreams now. He was the monster. With black claws he'd strangle the ginger wildling child, long enough for the boy to cough up blood. Those were on the better nights. In others, he was hacking at him with an ungodly sword, cleaving him the way a butcher would skin game and strip its meat. All that would be left would be a pile of limbs and body parts, but the head would always glare at him from the top of the mound, with naught but pain and fear and hate. In some of the dreams, the boy would be blonde and dressed proper. In others, he was a blonde girl, dressed in commoner's clothes, standing by a wagon that her priest father drove. All ended the same way. Slaughter.

It wasn't your fault, Geralt. That seemed to be the new phrase all his family seemed to like telling him since the incident with the 'freefolk'. As if those words would magically change the outcome and save the ginger wildling's life. As if they were even right in the first place. The only time he hadn't blatantly ignored the person that said that was, of all people, Brandon. He was in his room the night after the event, having not left it for food nor people. His father had tried to open the door from the other side multiple time but Geralt left the key in so he could not turn the lock. It wasn't until Brandon came drunkenly pounding the door that Geralt snapped from his trance. He'd had half a mind to stay silent and wait for him to grow tired and leave, but the way his eldest brother kept moaning 'please, let me in' had him curious.

The biggest surprise to opening the door was the Wild Wolf sluggishly and heavily wrapping his arms around him and putting his head on Geralt's shoulder. I'm sorry, Ger. It was my fault. I shouldn't have… the chieftain died at my hands. I should've looked for her son. I failed and put it on you. I'm sorry, Ger. It was my fault. My fault. The last thing he had guessed he'd be doing was comforting Brandon, but that's how the night had gone and the morning come. It took half an hour to get him to stop weeping, but soon after the brothers simply sat in silence, watching the stars and the moon continue their voyage through the midnight sky. By the time the sun began to rise, Brandon's bottleache began to settle in. Their parting was far more silent than their meeting, but it ended as it did as it had started, only Geralt was crying on Brandon's shoulder by the end of it. It was simple, but… comforting. There was a strange sense of understanding in Brandon and Geralt since then, an unspoken solidarity that overpowered any rivalry they might have had before.

Though Geralt had left his room thanks to Brandon's arrival, the nightmares hadn't ceased. His sleep had worsened, and his father had noticed. He even tried to sneak Essence of Nightshade into his dinner's drink, but that had only ended in Geralt spitting it out and throwing the goblet against the wall. The only thing worse than having nightmares was not being able to wake from them. He went through the dark, finally making his way to the Heart Tree. The solemn face was one he had long since gotten used to, the red sap leaking from its eyes taking on a frostier hue. He jumped when he turned to see one of its great roots. With fewer sleep, Geralt found himself seeing things that weren't there more often, and making out dragons out of snakes. The root itself resembled the body of a great pale snake, the like of which he heard could only be found in the cruelest swamps of the neck, hunting men and lizard-lions alike.

He took a deep breath, realizing it was only an extension of the great warden of the Godswood. He blinked a few times before he realized he had his sword in hand. 'Orphan's Tears', he almost called it. His father had forbidden him from carrying that out. He moved his gloved hand along the great root, the blanket of white frost falling to the pale floor. He sat and sighed, facing the Heart tree's face with his sword at his lap. He frowned as he looked at it closer. Some days it looked sad, weeping. This time, the shadows made its face angrier, tears of fury escaping broken eyes. Geralt felt judged. Geralt felt broken. I'm sorry. I… I didn't know. I didn't want to. I just wanted to protect my brother. I didn't want to kill a child. Please, help me. Rest is all I ask for. No, not rest. Some way to right my wrongs. I wanted to help. I want to help.

His tears froze on his cheeks. With a shivering hand, he wiped them off. He took a deep breath. Meekness won't help. I'm not a weakling. All I need is a chance. Something I can do to make things right. If it costs me my life, so be it. But I need this. If it takes giving my life for someone worth saving, I'll do it, just show me the way. But his greater resolve was only answered in a gale that blew his hood back. His ears pained from the frostiness biting into them at the night's coldest. He immediately put it back over his head and grit his teeth at the great white pillar. Then at least help me name my fucking sword. This time, there was no wind, no running water, no leaves to listen to. The Gods gave him naught but silence, but at least they robbed the thoughts of monsters and demons from his mind.

Geralt shook his head and looked back at Lord Mormont's gift. Every great sword has a name. Brandon said that. Lyanna said that, as did Benjen. He wasn't so sure about it, but he figured he'd respect Lord Jeor by giving it a worthy name. A sword shouldn't be named until it is blooded, he remembered Rickard say once. He wondered how long ago Ice had been blooded. He looked at the fine steel, about as good as it could get without rising to the like of its Valyrian cousins. My first kill was a wildling, a wildling boy that came south of the Wall just to survive. Is that right? The Umbers would be like to say I did a service, killing one before it could grow into a savage. But that Arla just wanted her son to live. The wildling women and children that survived haven't done anything to betray us. They've kept their heads low, sure, I'm sure they loathe us. But they're northmen, aren't they? Am I supposed to help the wildlings, the 'free folk', then? Or am I to put an end to them?

Rustling of the leaves caught his attention. His mind went through the mysterious rider, and the blue rose that followed him. His sword was immediately in his hands again, ready to strike out against the invader. He jumped when he found a black wolf coming from the woods. It took him a moment to realize the wolf wasn't coming towards him. For all he knew, the beast hadn't even seen him. It was a little shorter than the average, and it was limping. Blood dripped from its legs and its hide, and all he could hear were short cries. It stopped for a moment when it came upon Geralt, and Geralt found himself looking at a black mass of fur and two piercing blue eyes staring back at him. Neither moved. Then a great white shadow rammed the wolf, the snow bear snarling, mouth covered in gore. A swipe of its great paw winded the wolf, leaving it whimpering on the floor. Fuck, I have to run.

But Geralt found himself locked in place, watching the wolf do nothing as the snow bear laid its leg on its body, the weight of it trapping the wolf in place. Fight, you idiot. You'll die like that. For a moment, it was as if the wolf listened and it snarled at the snow bear. A roar from its greater left it submissive. Geralt felt his teeth grinding together. Don't just lay there! Kick, move, fight, bite that bastard! Don't let him help itself to you! The bear's head slowly lowered towards the body. Damn it, do something! The maw opened, teeth slowly coming towards the fur. MOVE! Geralt's breath hitched, and suddenly he was in pain.

He could hardly breathe, his legs were scratched and bloody, his fur sticky. The great weight on his chest was powerful, and the white queen claimed victory, mouth about to bite his gut. The fear was strong, the scents of the forest overpowered by the white beast's musk, but a presence rebelled against that fear. Rage and hate warmed his body, a presence he could not recognize taking over his body. Foreign, fierce, its spirit walked the line between a pack leader and the rouges amongst his kin. He himself was a rogue, his pack had been slaughtered in the woods. He was young, still, but greater than his cousins. They loathed him, however, feared him. Only he and his sister had survived, hunting when they could, scavenging more often. His sister had found a carcass, but it had belonged to the great white one. He attacked her so his sister could escape. He felt her life, alive, the survivor of the pack, but she was far from his scent. She was far from the white queen.

He'd submitted. His greater had attacked him, and his corpse would suffice to quell her belly so his sister would roam free. But the presence within him was angry, spiteful, unruly. It did not recognize the white queen's power in her domain, it snarled at her strength, it howled at her reign. And at the end of his life, the presence took a hold of his mind. Foaming at the mouth, snarling in a rage foreign to his temper, he bit the queen's jaw, sinking teeth through bone and tongue. The blood tasted warm and sweet in his mouth, feeding more the raging beast in his mind than his aching belly. The queen roared and lifted her great paw, and the presence moved his legs, running from the beast with newfound strength and anger. The scars she branded him with were still bleeding, but his soul remained free.

His scent guided him until he met the presence. He had smelled men before, their shining grey claws and red flowers spreading fear into his cousins. This male had a great claw, extending outwards, locked in a prowling stance. One look at his eyes and he knew he had found the presence. And with a third eye, the black wolf gazed into the man as he had gazed into him. This man had a pack still, though his silent brother was far south, just as the black wolf's sister had run. And, like the black wolf, he was still mostly a pup. He was more grown than the black wolf, but not by much. But where the black wolf had only known fear and loneliness, the man-pup only recognized pain and rage. The man-pup barked into his mind, and the black wolf stood to his side, primed for the hunt.

Geralt took a deep breath, coughing and placing a hand on his head. What in all Seven hells was that?! I… I warged. I warged into the wolf. Nan's tales were true. I… I don't have time to think. Not now. Not with a damn snow bear coming to us. The snow bear had since regained its control, and with it, newfound fury at her wounded jaw. Geralt gripped his sword with both hands, and the black wolf at his side growled in anger. She began to charge at them, and Geralt's breath slowed. This… this is what I needed. Sword in hand, fighting against men and beasts… this is my home. And for a moment his nightmares were forgotten, along with his name and his memories. He was just another predator in the woods, fighting for his grounds. The snow bear was upon them, and they attacked as a pack.

When she jumped at them, Geralt rolled to his left while the black wolf hopped to the right. She missed both, and in a fluid motion, Geralt swung his sword at her front-right leg and the wolf bit her at the heel of her other. The bear roared in pain, swinging her arm to free herself of the wounded pup. He was tossed in the way a petulant child would throw his toy, but Geralt could taste blood in his mouth. The black wolf spat a large chunk of fur and meat, and the snow bear was limping with her front-left paw. Geralt's own swing had cut deep, previously white fur being stained by her blood. We can do this, we can win. But the snow bear leapt at Geralt, and this time he didn't dodge in time. She was upon him, and the only thing keeping her from gnawing his face off was his sword. He held it at its side in her mouth, cutting at her mouth the more he drove it forwards. He flinched at his bloody left hand. He held his sword by the hilt in his right, but he could only hold it by the blade at the left.

The black wolf was winded, Geralt knew. I even felt that. He'd be up soon, but not soon enough. I can't die here, not now. When he saw her raise her wounded left paw, his mind raced, and his right arm moved. He let go of the left hand, and used all his strength to slide the blade across her mouth, cutting deep into her cheeks. Before she could strike him with her paw, the movement of the blade scratched deeply at its underside. Geralt rolled from beneath her, wincing as he used both hands to get himself up. He looked at his left palm briefly. Fuck, that cut way too deep. The black wolf had returned to his side, and Geralt gripped his blade with both hands. The snow bear's front-left paw was useless now, he could see her struggling to keep herself standing on her right one. He bit his tongue. Come now, if you keep at this, we'll have to kill you. We don't want to. Go your way and we'll go ours. Her roar disheartened him, and she lunged at them again, her limp greatly impairing her previous speed. We have no choice. We can only make this quick. Painless.

His mind linked to the wolf's, and they ran as well, a last plan in mind to defeat the rabid beast. If we fail, we die. But if we win, we survive. We'll just have to win. The black wolf trailed a little behind Geralt, and Geralt made for a great swing at the snow bear's front-right leg. She jumped over it, and his breath hitched in surprise. It was too fast, but he reacted just as quick. He wrapped his right arm in his thick cloak and placed it in her mouth. She bit down hard. He could feel teeth tearing through skin and muscle, but not down to the bone. If it weren't for the black wolf's bite, her grip would have like been strong enough to break his bones. Even them, he could still feel them cracking. He bit the insides of his cheeks until he tasted his blood, and in a brief escape, went into the mind of the wolf's. On four pained but working legs, he ran faster than he ever could on two. He bit at the left leg where he had previously, until he tore an even greater chunk of muscle out.

Geralt snapped back into his own head, and the great beast roared in pain, collapsing to the floor. The black wolf hopped back, having left her crippled in her leg. Geralt had no time to think, only move his agonizing arms together to wield his sword in a two-handed grip. With one fell swoop, Geralt cleaved into her skull with a roar of his own. The sword stopped halfway through her head, and she fell to her side, limp and cold. He was panting by the end of it. They both were. The only thing he felt warm against his body was the blood running down his hands. He coughed for a moment. He'd been winded when the she-bear had knocked him into the snow. And with the fight leaving his blood, he dropped his sword when he felt his arms' wounds. He wasted no time stuffing his bleeding left palm into the snow, and he tried his best to roll his right forearm in it just as well. The black wolf fell on his haunches before laying his head on the snow, breath coming hardly to his lungs. Geralt could see him licking his own wounds, but even ten feet away, his figure only became blurrier. Hells, I didn't think I was this wounded.

He made himself get up, walk up back to where the Heart Tree had witnessed the encounter. Is it laughing now? I'm losing blood. Too much blood. Looking at the black wolf and then himself, he clenched his teeth. There's no other way, not anymore. He walked towards the black wolf, who raised his head to look at him. He made a gesture with his head, and nodded at the castle. Let's go. He immediately felt the black wolf's fear. His mind was taken to the smell of men and their great stone caves, of his half-kin hunted and skinned and turned into the fur the beasts of two legs would wear. Geralt sighed. It's stay here and die or come with me and live. He was probably exaggerating, and he didn't know how the stray would interpret his thoughts, but he seemed intelligent enough to understand.

The two walked back, only ever guided by the watchful moon, the only other witness to the battle at the Godswood. He could feel the black wolf hesitating when they were within the North's capital, where few trees grew and men had raised their homes. He had to strongarm him a lot of the way, but when Geralt briefly blinked out of consciousness, the black wolf was at his side. The pup allowed him to put his arm over it, helping him walk as the back of his mind guided the two. Raising flowers, befriending wolves, I'm more wildling than Northman at this point. When they were at the great gates of Winterfell, the wolf whined and stopped. Geralt knew he refused to enter the grandest and most dangerous of the man-caves, but he took pity on the pup when he saw his bloody legs. I'll bring her here. That should be enough… she can't use all her leaves. Not even for us.

Geralt felt ghostly as he walked back in. It hadn't been all that long since he'd left, but the guards were nowhere to be found. The dripping sound of his blood meeting the stone floor was the only sound in the halls, and he only just retained enough of his mind to silence his footsteps. Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself in a different hall, and every breath he took, he found himself leaning onto a wall to keep himself standing. Under torchlight, he looked at his arms. His left palm had been cut so deep he could see bones beneath. His right forearm was a mangled mess covered in his gore. He didn't even know what kind of wound he was looking at, and he refused to dwell on it too long. I was still able to wield a sword in spite of that. The damage isn't overwhelming. But the next time he blinked, he was at the foot of Lyanna's bedroom. He looked at it for a minute, cursing everyone and everything as he used his arms to prop himself back up.

The pain was the only thing keeping him awake now, an agony he'd only ever glimpsed at in his dreams. This won't end here. I'm no god. I'm mortal. But I sure as hell won't die here. Walking in his sister's room had been nothing short of his most masterful stealth work. He ensured the opening and closing of her door was silent in spite of the wood's weight. His steps made less sound than the wind. He kept his arms wrapped in his cloak to not leave bloody evidence. The blue rose waited on her window, almost shining as brightly as the moon. Geralt could see a second stem growing halfway from the first one, faster than he had seen any other flower ever grow. It would likely take the rest of the month for it to be complete, and yet… Doesn't matter. I'm sorry Chitch, but I need you. He grabbed the pot with his hands and spared his snoring sister a single look. A faint line of drool made its way out from the corner of her mouth, maintaining a peaceful expression she rarely ever had in her waking hours. He left when he was sure she was sleeping.

If the way into the heart of Winterfell was mostly awake with bouts of unconsciousness, the way out was the other way around. He resorted to pain to keep himself standing, but he felt more blood trickling out as he meant to keep himself. I can't fall asleep, and I can't die. Not yet. I have a partner that can't die just yet. Neither can I. When he made it to the front gates, he almost fell over from the terrible wind. His body was shivering now. There was no anger, no fear, no fight in his body keeping him warm. Almost there. He was looking for the pup until he found him laying on his side, shivering at the winter's unforgiving bite. The snow around him had since become pink and crimson. I'm here. I've made it. He sat against the wall just outside of the gates, near where the wolf was. They sat closely together, fooling themselves into conjuring warmth in their minds. He looked at the blue rose and, with all his remaining drive, made himself count all of the leaves upon its stem. …Twenty-one, twenty-two, and… twenty-three… Eight for me… eight for the wolf, seven for Chitch. She… she can grow them back…

"Chitch, if you can hear me… I need you. We need you. Please." For a moment he thought his whispers had been drowned out by the gale, but in the fog of his vision, he saw a shining little girl come out. She looked drowsy, and spent a longer time looking at him than she normally would have. At some point, she must have seen his hands, because she shrieked and cried. "Ger Friend! Are you alright! You're hurt! You're–"

"Chitch, I… I need you to listen. I don't have much time. My arms are hurt, just like that wolf's legs are… I need you to heal us, Chitch. But you can't use all your leaves, only… use six on me, eight on him. Nine are yours, nine you don't touch." He laid the pot between his legs and showed her his arms, mangled and bruised, before pointing at his circumstantial partner. Chitch fumbled some when she witnessed the injuries, but in a moment, her face was filled with determination. She immediately set to picking out leaves, so eagerly that Geralt winced. "Chitch… pick only–"

"Six on Ger Friend and eight on woof-woof!" He didn't have the mind or the strength to tell her she was talking about a wolf, cousin of the sigil of House Stark. What he did feel was two leaves on his left palm glowing greatly before sealing the deep wound. The four on his arms worked wonders as well. He could feel them, he knew they'd bruise deeply, but he wasn't about to lose his life nor his limbs. I'll be good to train tomorrow… or is it already today? Opening and closing his hands, he was relieved to feel no blood gushing out, and the pain was manageable. He had too little strength to get up or truly test his arms, but he did manage to turn his neck to see Chitch jogging up to the black wolf, unphased by the creature nor the snow. Two leaves glowed on his front-right paw, then two more on his left. The last four were split between his hind legs, and the wolf was breathing much more evenly. Chitch was back on her pot, and Geralt held her close, protecting her rose with his bloody cloak.

He blinked and the moon was by the horizon, escaping from the edging pink at the other end of the world. The wolf was still there, but Geralt's heart pounded. He was shivering, and he was sure his companion's warmth was what had kept him from freezing through the cruel night. He shuffled as best as his muscles could allow, and the pup slowly raised his head. With two drowsy blue eyes, he blinked at Geralt. You need to go, now. The men will be awake soon. They'll hunt you down. The wolf stayed in place before standing up. He faced the direction where the Godswood had been, but turned back to look at Geralt and whined. He nuzzled his snout to Geralt's head. He sighed. "I'm not your pack, boy. I'll be fine, I've got my pack right here. My den's just inside. Your sister's out there. Follow her. Find her. I'll be fine."

The black wolf remained close to him, licking his hands clean of some of his blood. When the two heard movement in one of the houses nearby, they shared a look. The moment the insides lit up with torchlight and heating up with fireplaces, Geralt grabbed him by the snout. He looked into his eyes, and with the last of his strength, forced himself into the pup's mind. Go, now. Smell the men in their caves. Smell their red flowers. Smell their steel. Leave now or they'll follow you. The wolf whined some more, but Geralt was having none of it. Defeated, his strange partner gave him a few licks across his face before running off. Geralt could feel sleep overtaking him again, but ensured his mind guided the black runt back to the woods before he did. And for the first time since the incident, Geralt had had a dreamless night.

By the time he awoke, he had to rub sleep from his eyes. The sun was almost at noon's height, and he groaned in his mind. Fuck. Father will hang me once he finds me. Getting up, he found himself comfortable, without the weight of his clothes or the nuisance of his blood sticking to him. He immediately tossed the thick blanket he had over him to find both his arms were full of bandages. On his bed, he found himself clean and mostly naked. Wait, they found me. His arms were sore, but nothing like they had been when he confronted the snow bear. He could only think back to the black wolf he had for a companion and hope he got away. I was in his mind. I warged into him. I'm a warg. And he was a pup the size of a wolf… was he a direwolf?! There haven't been any south of the Wall for centuries. But then he remembered his arms wrapped in tight white cloths. He remembered how he healed. FUCK, CHITCH!

He wasted no time dressing himself in new, cleaner clothes. As he left, he found a pair of guards outside his door, waiting for him. "My lord Geralt, Lord Rickard wishes to see you in his solar. He's said it's a matter of–"

Geralt ran between the two, diving low in between them where they couldn't reach. The two fumbled about and ran after him, but Geralt's heart was beating faster than his feet were moving. No, no, no, NO. Hells, TAKE ME. LEAVE CHITCH OUT OF THIS. But his internal cry to the gods was left unanswered. He ran hall through hall, two guards becoming four, four guards becoming ten, until he nearly had a platoon at his heels. They didn't matter. Geralt had spent long enough working his way around Winterfell that he knew the shortcuts, where he could run that they couldn't reach. Their armors weighed them down, and Geralt's renewed vigor left them dusted. When he made it to the front gate, he looked at the place where he had laid hours before, where he'd taken Chitch and healed himself and the wolf. The bloody mess was still there, but the rose was not. They, no, they couldn't have thrown it away. They must have taken it elsewhere in the castle.

Running back in, he found the place he came from blocked entirely by a flood of guards. GET OUT OF MY WAY. He ran to another hall to his left. The detour cost him time, but even with the ever-increasing number of soldiers, he managed to outrun them. It wasn't until he got to the courtyard that he heard Lyanna screaming. "GIVE IT BACK, BRANDON! YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. SHE– IT DOESN'T BELONG TO YOU! GIVE IT BACK, YOU'VE ALREADY RIPPED OFF LEAVES OF IT YOU DOLT!"

"I said calm down, will you?! I haven't done a damn thing to this flower! Hells, it was freezing when I found it! I've been safekeeping it for whenever Geralt wakes from his–" He was in the courtyard now, and he found Brandon holding the pot high over his head with an outstretched arm and Lyanna back with the other. Above, the blue rose looked no worse for wear than how he'd left it. He could even see the leaves growing back from where Chitch had taken them. The two stopped when they found him, likely no better than a mad hound, sweating profusely and face strained. "Brandon… Bran, I need that rose back. I need it now."

"Geralt, I'll give this flower back when– NOW JUST A DAMN MINUTE." The moment Lyanna had taken to scratching his other hand, he angrily pushed her to the ground. She yelped, and the growl he gave was enough to keep her from pouncing on him again. He lowered the hand with which he held the pot and gave a good look at the rose. Chitch was sitting with her knees to her chest, a worried face trying to hold back tears. Geralt had half a mind to fight Brandon until he dropped it, but he knew that wouldn't do, not when the soldiers were moments away. Brandon scowled when he looked at the flower and shook his head. "What happened before– what happened with the wildlings shook us all. It was terrible, it was a tragedy. Father's always said so, but now's the time we stick together. We're a pack, we're family. And I'm worried about you Ger, we've all been since that day. But neither you, nor Lya, nor anyone will convince me to release this fucking flower when it was the only thing you held on to in a pool of your own blood! You're going to tell me, here and now, what's the meaning of this!"

For those brief few moments, Brandon had shown more of Rickard than Geralt had seen in his life. He frowned. He can't see her. He didn't know if that was better or worse. Geralt swallowed the lump in his throat, forgetting the soldiers almost upon him, breathing deep to keep a calm demeanor. "Bran… I can't explain it, not in a way that you would understand. I know that's not what you'd like to hear right now, but it's the truth. That flower, that rose, means everything to me. More than my life, and I don't care how stupid that sounds, because that's also the truth. I need it back, please."

Something in Bran's expression changed when he spoke. He remembered his giant of a brother coming to his room and begging for forgiveness. Geralt guessed it was what made him sensible. Maybe it's what made me choose words over fists just now. There was a look the two shared, the look of understanding they now had. Bran rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Ger, do you have any idea what it was like to find you outside of Winterfell's gates covered in blood? Hells, what did you even do to end up like that? You know how I found you? Your blood left a trail leading to you. And that's within the castle, never mind if there's more buried out there beneath the snow. The only thing that made me realize you weren't dead was your shivering. And all you had, all you held on to as if it were something worth more than all the Lannisters' gold was this rose. Damn you Geralt, don't tell me you can't explain it. Don't tell me you can't explain it to the brother that brought you to your bed, wiped you clean, properly wrapped up arms with more scars than Ser Rodrik's and saved the damn flower in the first place."

Geralt bit his lip. He had half a mind to tell his brother the truth, but that could just be worse than keeping silent. By the time he opened his mouth, half of Winterfell's guards made it to the courtyard, panting and puffing. The only one that wasn't was Rickard, who shoved his way past half of the guards. He looked worse than Brandon, the bags under his eyes deeper, darker. Benjen was at his side, afraid and unsure at the situation. Geralt could hear the occasional gust, a mere breeze compared to the previous night's monstrous gales, and it was about the only thing making a sound. "Benjen, Lyanna, back to your lessons. Brandon, give your brother the rose. Geralt, to my solar, now. Bring the rose."

The soldiers looked at each other before Rickard gave a dismissive wave. Geralt and his siblings took longer to react, but Rickard's look brokered no argument. Benjen and Lyanna went their way, though not before the latter gave him and the rose a look. Brandon looked at the pot, inspected it at all sides, and carefully gave it to Geralt. It was all he could do to mouth 'sorry' to his older brother. Brandon sighed, but nodded back at him and left for the training yard. Only Rickard remained, waiting patiently for the unruly Stark to follow him. Once he did, he kept a brisk pace without stopping to look back at his son, which Geralt took for the opportunity to keep Chitch and her rose as discretely out of sight as he could.

The solar was tall enough to overlook all of Winterfell and several leagues beyond. It wasn't quite at the top of the Great Keep, but it was tall enough to overlook everything else beyond the windows. Rickard moved a set of parchments and books from his desk, making sure to neatly and carefully stash them away in one of his chests. Geralt would have wondered what they were for, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew Chitch was looking up at him from the flower, though she knew to say nothing. She's alive and well. That's all that matters. His father pulled a humbler chair on the other side of the desk and gestured Geralt there. He was still for a moment. He sat on the chair, pot still in hands, while his father walked around to take his seat. The two gazed at one another, Rickard awaiting his son's initiative while Geralt hesitated.

"You can place it on the desk, Geralt. It won't die because it left your hands." Geralt's lips thinned to a fine line, almost protectively wrapping his arms around it. He caved, placing the pot as close as he could to his side of the table. Rickard took a deep breath. "Brandon told me a rather unique story this morning. That he found you, bloody and wounded, holding on to a strange blue rose. And yet, the blood washed away to show… no wounds. Meaning that you were never hurt and that was something else's blood, or you cast some grand magical spell to heal yourself. I think we both can agree the latter's impossible, so what I do want to know is the source of your bruises and your torn clothes."

"I fought against a snow bear and won." Geralt replied simply. Rickard blinked owlishly at his statement before uttering out. "And why did you fight against a snow bear."

"There was a wounded black wolf in the Godswood. I think it was a direwolf. The snow bear was going to kill it if I stood by and watched." Rickard nodded. He breathed in deep and nodded again. "So, you were in the Godswood again, in the dead of the night, I'm assuming by the Heart Tree as well. And in this time, you happened upon a wolf, perhaps a direwolf, wounded from a fight with a bear, and your first thought was… to fight it?"

"It was, father. I only ever go to the Heart Tree because I can't sleep. I haven't slept as well as today since… since the mission. I had to do it father." When Geralt responded, Rickard buried his face deep into his hands. His hands were shaking, and beneath that, he could see his father's face going from red to purple. Another resonating sigh, and the face Geralt saw was as collected as it had ever been. "The Heart Tree, that's right… does it give you peace, Geralt, truly? Is that why this past year that's all you've been doing? Is there anything beyond this? Could you not have said this to me? I couldn't count the number of times I'd have rested easier if you acted the same way as you have all this time if you'd let me, convinced me to continue this with armed guards. Did it ever occur to you, Geralt? That you did not have to go at it alone?"

"It wouldn't have been the same father, not if I had others with me. I… it's when I'm alone that I feel at peace. I don't– I can't pray, I don't know how. But when I'm alone, with the Heart Tree, I no longer have nightmares. It's strange, it's not that the gods answer, it's that they're no longer there." Rickard nodded at that, looking at the desk. He didn't meet his gaze for a minute. When he did, they seemed to see far past his own eyes. "Did you get this flower today or before? Brandon said it's the first time he's seen it, but when Benjen told me the fuss Lyanna was making over him having it, I'm assuming she knew too. And while I could believe that you found the rose in the wilderness, I doubt you find flowerpots in the wild."

"Before." Geralt replied evenly. His heart pounded, but he remained as unwavering as his father. Rickard nodded and remained silent some more. "Was it on your nameday? Your thirteenth nameday?"

"…It was." How did he know? He didn't have time to ask Lyanna, and Brandon and Benjen didn't know about it. His father seemed to have caught on to his mind's workings. "You were rebellious before, and you had been at this for some time, but there's a fine line between waking early before the morn and spending the entire night at the Godswood. You weren't as bold before your thirteenth nameday. And if you've been looking after that flower, then it would explain why you were as stubborn to stay as you were after I proposed to send you to Starfall."

Geralt remained silent at that. The two looked at one another for another moment before Rickard nodded his head. "Very well then, let's see this rose. To be so valuable, there must be something to it."

"I…" His words died in his throat when he saw his father's look. He looked at the rose, and Chitch who lay on the ground, making herself as hidden as possible. Geralt sighed and nodded at her. She blinked several times before sitting up. He carefully slid the rose's container closer to his father, almost as if it would break if he pushed it too hard. In his mind, he was content to find ten leaves on the rose instead of nine. His heart near stopped when Rickard stopped to look closely at the flower. The moments were long and his face betrayed nothing. Then, with a delicacy Geralt knew not he had, Rickard caressed the petals of the rose with the back of his fingers. "…It's a beautiful rose, I'll grant you that. I've never even heard of a blue rose."

"You… father, you don't believe in the gods, do you? The old gods?" At that, Rickard raised his head to look directly at him. His glare was intense, and he spoke evenly. "I'll answer you that question only if you tell me why this rose is so important. Why one flower made you forsake the betterment of your future, of House Stark's, and throw yourself in danger's way."

Geralt looked down. I can't lie. Not now, he'll smell it right away. But I can't tell the whole truth either. The words began forming in his mind, and though he kept his father waiting, he spoke when he was sure of the story he would tell. "That flower, that rose… it was given to me. No, not given to me. I found it, on my nameday. She was young, maybe half of Benjen's age. A stupid little girl who never stopped to think of herself, she–"

Geralt stopped. He grit his teeth and frowned hard at the floor. He made his eyes dry before he lost control. It already happened and it happened in a dream, why the hell is this affecting me? Rickard didn't rush him, instead folding his hands together and waiting patiently. "Who was 'she', Geralt?"

"Some poor girl, probably a commoner, probably an orphan. She said her first memory was hearing rats, so she called herself 'Chitch'. Chitch… she had a flower with her, and food she must have gotten from others. She… had starved, in the Godswood, by the time I found her. All her food, she'd given to a miserable black runt of a dog. A cruel cunt of a hound that only ever took, only ever liked to kill, and he took all her food. She gave it all to him, and he took it all. All she had let was that stupid flower." By the time he finished, he felt milky tears making their way to his chin. His hands were fists, and all he could think of was a field flower, small and broken, left in a field of its soulless brethren. A hand placed itself firmly on his shoulder, and he found his father to bear a subtle, compassionate look. "And that rose was all she left behind. I'm sorry, Geralt. I know you. I know you well enough you wouldn't care for a flower if it didn't mean something that much greater than you. If it helps, I'll see to it that Winterfell watches out for orphans on the street, make sure this doesn't happen again. We have few of them as it is."

Geralt nodded, inhaling deep and furiously brushing the tears away. It took some coughing to make the lump in his throat go away, and he felt a headache when he refused his body the need to mourn. "Actually… I have just the place for this. The decision on what you do with the rose is yours, but I'm sure you'll agree to it once you see it. Come on, lad. Follow me."

His father gave him a comforting hug and held his head to his chest before leading him out of there. Geralt spared a brief look at Chitch, who looked at him worriedly. With no one around and his father's back turned to him, he took a moment to rub her head with his finger. She hugged the finger, and he left it there as he walked to where his father led him. If he turns around, he'll just see me holding the pot strangely anyways. Once they made it through a select number of corridors, they came upon a unique door, one Geralt hardly ever remembered seeing. His father showed him a silver key, putting it in the lock and twisting it until it clicked open.

At first, Geralt thought they were leaving the Great Keep or returning to the courtyard, but this one had ten-foot walls all around with no windows on any side of the tower surrounding it. At the foot of the tower, in the middle of the open area, there was a glass building the size of an inn, which looked green inside. His father showed him a small smile as he took a golden key this time and opened it. Inside, there were more kinds of plants and flowers and bushes than Geralt had ever seen in his journeys in the North. Flowers of every color painted the ground and the walls while a fresh green alien to the north coated the floor. There were white stone pathways laid out as to not step on any of the growths, all elegantly made. Geralt stepped in and his father closed the door behind him.

He followed his father deeper until he found a marble bench in a circle around a large mound of untouched soil. While all other patches of earth in the building were taken, this one had been left virgin. Rickard motioned to it. "Help me out, would you, Ger? We'll be finding a new home for your rose right here."

Geralt did not stop to question his father on the beauty of the hidden garden, nor of its origins nor his intentions. Instead, the two dug out a hole fairly quickly. Geralt was especially careful to pull the blue rose from the pot, along with Chitch hanging on to its stem, before filling it in the mound. The height of it reached his thigh, and he found Chitch to be glowing once her flower was planted properly. He did his best to ignore it, but his father's eyes never left it, a light twinkling in his eyes while wearing a proud smile. "Aye, that should do it. This seems like the type that ought to be the garden's centerpiece."

"Father, since when has this garden been here?" There was melancholy in his eyes when he answered. "Your mother loved flowers. When we were wed, I was sure to gift her buds from all the places I could find. The North, the Reach, even some from the Westerlands and Dorne. Not all survived, of course. The springs beneath the Great Keep can only do so much in a land where the winters are so long. But the ones that lived grew stronger. Just like the Tyrell words, wouldn't you know. But we left this place for something special, something we wouldn't find anywhere else in the world. That flower… your rose reminds me of her, of Lyarra. No one is allowed into this garden, her garden, not without my consent. Only bees can make their way through the holes. For us men, we'd need both keys, and there's only two sets of them. I have one, your mother had the others. I… I meant to give some to you and your brothers and sister, but to tell you the truth, I've been saving this for myself. It's where I go when I need to find peace."

Geralt nodded at that. The two sat on opposite sides of the circular bench, the only thing between them being the mound with the single rose at its top. Geralt thought on his father's last words. "I answered your question, father. You still haven't answered mine."

"No, no I haven't." He observed the rose again, though his eyes may have very well been looking into the horizon from the depth of his gaze. There was a solemnity in the air now, a weight that made Rickard Stark look far older than his years would suggest. He didn't speak immediately, opening and closing his mouth in what Geralt could only guess was him looking for the best way to answer his question. "It's not that I don't believe in them, Geralt. I do believe they exist, that the Children of the Forest once walked through Westeros, along with Giants and the First Men. I believe there was a time where magic truly fermented the land, no, the world, and that remnants are still out there. I believe the Heart Tree does have something sacred to it, something no man or beast can take away. I just believe that if I went to it, I would not find peace, only torment. And deservingly so."

"What do you mean?" Rickard closed his eyes. He looked to his son again, and for a moment, Geralt would have thought he was older than Walys. "I was taught the way, our way of prayer and belief when I was younger than Ben. Your mother and I were careful to teach you all as much, even if I'd lost my own way. I was young when the War of the Ninepenny Kings was ongoing. It was a nasty business, from start to finish, but it was perhaps the greatest moment of unison in Westeros's history. I met Jon Arryn and Steffon Baratheon during that time, good men both. Dorne fought as well, along with the Lannisters and Tullys and Greyjoys and Targaryens. Only the Reach had no part in it, I suppose out of distance and lack of need, but the rest of the kingdoms answered the call. It was a simple but important cause, to root out the pretenders and stand by our king.

"It was the birthing grounds of heroics and songs and glory, or at least I believed as much. I was eighteen and still half a fool when the fighting began. I made my way south, and we kept fighting… At one point, I remember being at a camp in the Riverlands, an enemy camp. It was a contingent filled with Spotted Tom's butchers and mercenaries. We fell upon them hard. They'd been pillaging and raping the land, and we'd found the corpses and scars they left behind. We'd been furious. They were fighters to be sure, but in lands they didn't belong to against the might and fury of Westeros, what hope could they have?

"And I went with a select number of men and found all the stragglers and the runaways. In my mind, I had righteous fury on my side, that I was not only facing animals instead of men, but cowardly animals who ran away with their tails between their legs. What mercy did they deserve? They ran far, but we ran faster, into a little village of no more than three dozen people. We found the Essosi and we slaughtered them. Of that, we had no regrets. Then one of the older men in the village spoke, thanking us for our duty. Something in the look I gave him must've scared the truth out of him, even when I wasn't looking for it." Rickard paused, a lost look in his eyes. For a moment, Geralt believed his father was seeing phantoms.

"They had been looking out for their young, he said, that the mercenaries had captured the men and had their way with the women. That they only harbored the mercenaries and told them of the land so they would not suffer more. I was furious, furious to think we had fought so hard and buried so many because of the mercenaries' luck, only to find it was their fellow countrymen's betrayal that killed them." Rickard shook his head, a hollow look on his face. "We killed the old men and the young men, for letting themselves be captured, we said. For turning on their own, we said. The village wept for them, but we didn't care. After all, what right had they to weep when they sentenced so many others to die? It was the boys that were the worst, though. Kicking and screaming viciously. All I could think was of the danger there was to leave them alive, to grow old and foster that hatred for us and their countrymen, for all the lives that would be lost once they grew into men."

Rickard looked aghast now, and Geralt felt the pit in his stomach deepen. "I meant to save you from those horrors, Geralt. Killing armed men is one thing, yes, and even that is a burden that once you gain, you can never lose. Murdering innocents is a stain you'll never wash for your name. I know the horror you felt after dealing with the wildling invaders because I felt it after that day. Only I was worse. You were defending your brother, and I know you didn't know it was a child. I did. I dragged fifteen children kicking and screaming and did it myself. In front of their mothers. Those poor, brutalized mothers. Their crime had been to be born as commoners in a simple village, away from any lord's city. To look after their own, to protect their children. And I murdered them in front of them. I can still hear their screams."

Rickard paused. He looked horrified, as if he were witnessing what he narrated. Geralt didn't have it in him to pressure him for more, but he wanted to know what came after. For a moment, he thought that was the end of the story. Rickard sighed and continued. "They haunt me to this day, and it's the least I deserve. In looking to find and kill animals, I became a butcher myself. I came home to Lyarra with no song, no gold and no glory, only a dozen mothers' agonizing screams. That was the only thing that truly remained after the war. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink, I couldn't piss nor shit, and I certainly couldn't sleep. One time I dared to go to the Godswood, and the face I saw that day may have very well been the same one made by the mothers. I haven't been able to return to it since. It's not that I don't believe in the gods, it's that the gods had no faith in me, and with every reason."

"That was years ago, father, you've been just ever since." His words of comfort were hollow. He may as well have tossed a stone into a dark sky and expected the storm to yield. Rickard laughed bitterly. "You have no children, Geralt, not yet. You will not understand that horror, that fear, that pain until you do, to see something that's yours, something that came from you and the person you love be taken from you. And what's worse, who are they to oppose me? If they took you, any of you away from me, I have the strength of the North itself to follow me. What could some poor woman in some backwater village do to avenge her own, to rebuild what she lost? It's an injustice, Geralt, what they inherit. We have all that we need, and they are at the mercy of our whims and wishes. In peacetime, perhaps, can they live a better life.

"I know what my fellow kinsmen think of me, say about me. They believe themselves discreet, but I know my halls too damn well for someone to hide their thoughts from me. They think me overly ambitious, almost a southron in the way I carry my plans. If I were to do it the way of my father and those that came before, I'd have all of you married to Manderlys, Karstarks, Boltons and even Starks to cement our northern roots. After the war, I've been looking south, at Walys's suggestions. People believe that I'm after power, out to make as much a name of myself as any of the legendary Brandons of House Stark. The truth is simple, and my purpose simpler. The truth is I'm looking for peace, and my purpose is the safety and happiness of my children. Most lords do this without considering the commoners, or worse, to use them for their betterment. I've been trying, Geralt, to make it so my children are safe at the cost of no one and the good of everyone.

"The Drowned God lies in the Iron Island, and the Seven span from the Riverlands and the Vale all the way down to the Foot. But no matter whether men pray to the Heart Trees or the Septs or the Grey King beneath the waves, all men are bound by one law that all gods enforce. No man is ever so cursed as a kinslayer. So what could be a more powerful deterrent for war than a union between all kingdoms, marriages that intertwine ancient and powerful bloodlines? Wars could not be half so cruel or ruthless when blood is involved, no one wants to repeat the War of the Ninepenny Kings. This, Geralt, this is my legacy. This is my obsession with finding bonds for all of you to seal in marriage. If we've raised you right, and you raise your children the same way, they could never turn their swords against their cousins. I believe in the gods, Geralt, but I believe I'll earn an audience with them when I accomplish this. And if all goes well, then the day I die and the maggots feast on my eyes, I can beg forgiveness of those mothers and their children and earn it. I can show them an end to unnecessary suffering."

Geralt was silent after that. He'd expected the truth, but nothing so deep and intricate as what his father had revealed. Years of planning and arrangements, it's all he's been thinking of. No wonder he's focused on that after mother's death. She was the only one who comforted him through his grief. He wants redemption above all else. He'd never felt half as guilty as he was now that he understood his father's truth. "I didn't know."

"I never told, and I'd ask you not to tell either. The others will know in due time, when they mature some more. You're an unbelievably unruly child, Geralt, which makes your incredible maturity that much more conflicting when it comes to defining you." He nodded absentmindedly at that. In the back of his mind, he noticed Chitch wiping tears from her eyes. Is this what it takes? For blood to run to change the world? "Father, could you make a key for me and the others? I'd like them to come and see the rose. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to show Ben myself. Ned too, if he comes."

"I… yes Geralt, I'll speak to the silversmith about it." He nodded. If Benjen can see Chitch, Lyanna and I will have to reign him in with the secret. He'll need to learn how to keep it. Ned… Ned won't be back for some time, but between me and Lyanna, I'm sure we'll convince him to be silent about it. And that's if he sees it. Bran didn't. But his thoughts returned to his father, who looked at the rose with an air of melancholy and nostalgia that hadn't left him since he spoke of the darker days of his past. Geralt clenched his teeth. Damn it. "…Father, let me look for where I can find a match myself. I promise I'll find one and help you accomplish your dream. If I don't, I'll settle for the Night's Watch."

Author's Notes: So, as you can guess, Geralt is coming to a crossroads on what to do with his teenage years and what to do with them. House Stark has been an exceptionally fun (and a little challenging) experiment for me. All you'll ever know about Rickard and Lyarra Stark is this: they were cousins, they got married, Rickard fought in the Ninepenny Kings war, and Rickard tried to wed all his children to Southron marriages. A lot could be taken from this, and I'm sure there's several different interpretations to what the character could have potentially been.

My goal was simple: make the antithesis of Tywin Lannister. Tywin is an amazing character because he represents Machiavellianism made flesh (with a few notable exceptions (like his treatement of Tyrion)). Rickard Stark, by comparison, is hindered by excessive empathy, but I tried to make it so that he's not one of the typical "oh, he's a good/honorable character, therefor he's stupid". He understands the way the world works, he understands how people work, and he himself has done heinous things (again, strongly inspired by Ian McShane's septon character in the show). He's far from perfect, and he still tries to do the best he can for as many people as he can in spite of how hard that is.

Beyond that, I'd had the idea for a while that Geralt would encounter a 'unique' black wolf, but I did not think about having him warg into it until I started writing this chapter. The scene with the snow bear (GOT lingo for polar bear but with a long tail) was fun to write, especially with how the lines are blurred between Geralt's and the wolf's mind, especially in how they see the world. And, what happened with Chitch was, for a lack of better words, necessary. The rose couldn't be hidden forever, and it needed safekeeping for Chitch's sake.

And, final fun fact, the title of this chapter is inspired by the names of the High Prophets in the original Halo trilogy (although that's really the only thing inspired from it). All things said and done, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, and be ready for the Arc finale.

The Almighty Afroduck,

All Hail