"Easy lad, we'll get there shortly. From the way you keep stirring about in that saddle, you'd think the Red Keep was about to flee from us."

"My apologies, Lord Crakehall... I'm merely..."

"Bursting with excitement? Aye, I know the feeling well, you should've seen how I shook on the sail over to the Stepstones. Like a septon trying to hold it in during an overlong prayer."

Jaime laughed alongside Lord Crakehall and his fellow squire Merrett Frey as they rode with the retinue from Crakehall, through the Lion's Gate where the Goldroad to Lannisport began. Visenya's Hill rose to greet them, the Great Sept of Baelor serving as its seven-pointed, crystal crown. Farther to the north loomed the husk of the abandoned Dragonpit, its blackened walls, and split dome appearing like the largest lump of coal in the world. The stench was foul then as it was when he and Cersei visited the city as children, during simpler, happier days and its streets just as crowded. Jaime, however, cared not for most of it, his eyes were saved only for the Red Keep and what awaited him inside. Or rather who.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Ser Barristan the Bold. Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull. Ser Oswell Whent. Ser Lewyn Martell, and all the other members of the Kinsguard, some of the finest men to ever earn their way to this elite group of knights. Spoken of in the same breath as many other warriors such as Ser Duncan the Tall and Aemon the Dragonknight. Men with whom he would spend the next few weeks training under to hone his already impressive skills with sword and lance. Father had made the arrangements some months ago, and his intent was clear: impress these gods among men and earn yourself a proper knighthood, for the prestige of House Lannister. Jaime would've done it for nothing at all.

He was eager to see Father as well, the great lion of House Lannister, who made their family a force to be reckoned with. Cersei would be there as well, earning her place in Kings Landing two years earlier, to Jaime's eternal shame and wroth. They hadn't seen each other since they were both children, what with Jaime serving as a squire for Lord Crakehall, and Cersei, a lady in waiting for Princess Elia. They never missed the chance to send letters to one another. No doubt by now she'd grown to be one of, if not the, most beautiful ladies in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Still, Father and Cersei, though beloved, could not replace the Kingsguard in his mind. Or the Kingswood Knight.

In the past weeks, news of the Kingswood Brotherhood's crimes reached as far as the westerlands. Murder, robbery, taking nobility as hostages for coin. Numbering among them was the Smiling Knight, a man whose repute for madness, plundering, and mastery of the sword already preceded him. A man who's skill were said to equal even the finest of the Kingsguard. Jaime wondered, even dared to hope, that their invitation to King's Landing would coincide with a possible hunt for the Brotherhood. To cross swords with the Smiling Knight, it was terrifying and magnificent to even consider. Little did they know but, a few hours ago, someone already had and won.

The night before, their party took shelter in an inn called the Golden Horn, some leagues away from Kings Landing. After handsomely paying the owner for a fine meal and decent enough ale, Lord Crakehall asked -with more gold in hand- about the Brotherhood. When the man said they were all but wiped out, including the Smiling Knight, Jaime stared as though his own mother had returned from the dead to slap him in the cheek. A week past, Princess Elia ventured into the Kingswood alongside Ser Gerold Hightower and a group of soldiers when the Brotherhood came upon them. They were very nearly captured themselves until a man appeared and singlehandedly ended them, slaying the Smiling Knight in single combat.

When Lord Crakehall offered more coin, the innkeeper said he'd not seen the man personally, though some of his friends in King's Landing purportedly did. He spoke of a pale man with strange eyes, white hair, and two swords across his back, ridding alongside Ser Gerold Hightower himself on the way to the Red Keep. From there, rumors spread about the city and soon beyond it of a monster slayer from faraway lands, dining with King Aerys. Some even called him a sorcerer though neither Jaime nor Lord Crakehall paid heed to this. What was certain, however, was his victory over the Brotherhood. The singers and bards took but a day to proclaim him the Kingswood Knight.

Could his skill match the tales? Jaime wished for it to be so yet doubted it all the same. Even Barristan the Bold and Ser Arthur Dayne could not hope to destroy all of the Brotherhood alone. No doubt, this stranger merely arrived in time to aid the princess and Lord Commander, joining their ranks and defeating the brigands together, reaping the glory and prestige thereafter. All the same, a man who could defeat the Smiling Knight was one to look out for. And they'd heard nothing of him leaving Kings Landing...

Soon enough, the Red Keep came into sight, its many battlements and red domed towers creating a striking imagine now as they did during his first visit. It was no Casterly Rock, not even close, yet for the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms, home of the Iron Throne, Jaime decided the second place was respectable enough. The main gate opened to them, and the moment Jaime spotted the Gold Cloaks sparring in the first yard, his own sword hand itched for battle. A welcome host waited for them as well, servants and stableboys helping them with their belongings, putting their horses away.

Lord Crakehall dismounted first and was approached by a messenger. Jaime did not hear what they said, yet the older man's wolfish grin was to his liking.

"Lord Tywin will not be meeting with us till tonight, too much work to be done. We'll have to find other ways to occupy ourselves."

"As you say, my lord," Jaime smiled back, bowing his head. Once Merrett Frey, clumsy oaf that he was, accomplished the daunting task of removing himself from his saddle, Lord Crakehall led them through the Red Keep, regaling them of the great tourney held after the War of Ninepenny Kings. It was the last great war of Westeros, over twenty years past. Lord Crakehall fought against the final Blackfyre pretender on the Stepstones as a young man barely older than Jaime was now. He'd earned his knighthood upon witnessing and promptly avenging the death of Lord Jason Lannister, killing all seven men responsible for unhorsing and butchering the westerlands commander. Lord Jason was Jaime's grandfather through his mother, and Lord Crakehall's act was never forgotten by Father. Elsewise, his son would've found another knighted lord to squire for.

Jaime knew of Lord Crakehall's achievements at the tourney and so only paid half as much attention to this retelling, focusing instead on the White Sword Tower growing larger by the moment. Merrett Frey, who also knew the tale, played lickspittle gloriously and feigned more interest than he honestly had. Crossing through the second courtyard and down the winding, serpentine staircase, the sound of battle grew louder, Jaime's excitement intensifying with every distinct clash of steel against steel. His lips and throat were dry, his heart thumping like a war drum. When he laid eyes upon who was sparring, it most definitely stopped dead for a moment.

Two men stood in a large, thirty-foot wide sparring ring. The first was younger than his adversary, even younger than Father. His hair was short and black, his greatsword blunted and sparring attire simple. Jaime knew it was Ser Arthur Dayne immediately, not from his looks but from the way he moved. His greatsword weaved in ways that should have been impossible, an endless dervish of motion so easily and quickly done one would assume he exerted no effort at all. Even more impressive given how Ser Arthur's body did not betray his strength. None in Seven Kingdoms could wield a greatsword like him.

His opponent was the Kingswood Knight, without question. His white, shoulder-length hair was tied back halfway into a tail. Two swords were on his back, yet he used a blunted longsword regardless. He did not wear the training garb of Ser Arthur, instead using a queer leather jacket with chainmail built into its shoulders, stomach, and arms. None of this stunned Jaime, the fact he was matching Ser Arthur blow for blow did.

The Sword of the Morning, thanks to his long blade, naturally enjoyed far greater reach, yet the Kingswood Knight seemed impervious to this. His blade moving in such confusing, intricate yet random motions Jaime had never seen before in his life, never thought possible. If Ser Arthur spun his blade into an intricate weave of motion, the Kingswood Knight moved in such a way as to give the impression of having an extra pair of arms, successfully darting to and from the Kingsguard, breaking his attack pattern and forcing him to retreat or defend himself.

"Somner! You old boar! Is that you?"

"Barristan!" Lord Crakehall shouted, diverting Jaime's attention away from the duel to another of the approaching Kingsguard, making his heart stop all over again. There he was, Barristan the Bold. The hero of the War of Ninepenny Kings, he who personally brought an end to Maelys the Monstrous and all future Blackfyre rebellions. Even twenty years removed from that legendary battle, Ser Barristan was every bit the knight Jaime imagined. Tall, slender, with a commanding but not domineering presence, the streaks of grey and silver adding to his appearance rather than betraying the weakness of age.

He and Lord Crakehall smiled, laughed, and shook hands. The two of them met decades ago, lance to lance, fighting it out for the coveted title of tourney winner. Ser Barristan, naturally, won yet, there was no ill-feeling between the two men, that much was clear. For a while, it seemed as though they'd forgotten about the squires, and Jaime dared to look back to the fight until he noticed Ser Barristan walking toward him.

"These are my squires," Lord Crakehall said, waving at them. "Merrett Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey."

"S-Ser," The oaf managed to bow halfway decently. "It is an honor to meet you."

"Likewise, lad," Ser Barristan said with a smile so genuine Jaime could not help but be astounded by his sincerity at meeting a Frey. "And you are Tywin's son, Jaime, as I recall?"

"Y-Yes, Ser Barristan," Jaime bowed, cursing his tongue for being tied in the worst possible moment. "I'm honored that you remember me..."

"Had to forget when we all knew you were all to arrive today."

"O-Of course... How foolish-"

"Don't worry, lad," Ser Barristan smiled, giving him a pat on the shoulder. "I was nervous as well when I was your age and faced Ser Duncan the Tall of all people, in a tourney no less. I'm certain that in a few years, you'll be the cause of many a stammering squire and young knight as well."

Jaime, quite worried he'd say something stupid for a change, simply nodded.

"I see we've come at a most opportune moment," Lord Crakehall nodded to the ongoing battle. "Ser Arthur... Gods, I'd heard of his prowess but to see it... Gods. And the other one, is that the Kingswood Knight?"

"Just so, though he is no anointed knight. He is Geralt of Rivia, a Witcher."

"A Wicker?" Merrett Frey asked, earning a laugh from Ser Barristan.

"A Witcher, lad. In his lands, far away from either Westeros or Essos, he is a professional monster slayer. He came to the Seven Kingdoms in pursuit of a horrible beast, one who feasts on the blood of people. And no, Somner, I do not jest. We've a head to prove it."

A monster? In Westeros? There was naught to be found but bears, wolves, and perhaps lion-lizard if one despised themselves enough to drudge through the Neck. The last creatures one could call true monsters died out over a century ago. Though were Tyrion here and Jaime dearly wished he was, he would no doubt ask a thousand more questions concerning this beast. His interests always lied in the oddities of the world, Jaime's legends and tales skewed closer to men with swords in their hands and the skills to wield them.

"I-Is it true," Jaime almost cursed his tied tongue to the seven fucking hells. "Is it true he defeated the Smiling Knight, Ser Barristan?"

"He defeated near the whole Brotherhood," The Kinsguard replied, stunning Jaime a third time. "Six of the eight fell to his sword, including the Smiling Knight. Simon Toyne surrendered and is already well on his way to the Wall. Only Wenda the White Fawn is unaccounted for."

"Seven fucking hells," Lord Crakehall muttered, watching the battle with renewed interest. "With the way he moves... I can believe it. He's even giving Ser Arthur a challenge."

"He is the superior swordsman, without question."

Merrett Frey adopted a signature look of his, eyes wide, mouth agape and head slouched forward. A look that had earned him many a jest, this time, Jaime could not fault him for it, his own expression must have been equally ridiculous.

"Come off it Barristan. Aye, I can tell he's good but better than Ser Arthur? Or you? Or the White Bull?"

"You know me, Somner, I would not say such a thing were it not true. For the past seven days, the Witcher has resided in the Red Keep and spent half that time sparring with us from dawn to midday. He has defeated every single one of us, several times over, in single combat. He's faster than Ser Lewyn, stronger than Ser Oswell, his bladework is superior to mine or Arthur's. Were someone to proclaim him the finest warrior in the realm, I'd not dispute it."

Jaime turned away from the legendary hero, etiquette be damned, and looked back to the battle. It could not be true, some foreigner calling himself by some strange name better than the Sword of the Morning? Or the Bold? It was absurd, it was impossible...

"I see your squires share your doubt," Ser Barristan said with a smile. "Pay close attention to what is happening, lads, and you'll see the truth."

Jaime did so, scrutinizing everything to the best of his ability. Even as the maddening twists and twirls of their blades made his head spin. He did not see it at first, thinking the two were merely caught in a stalemate of sorts. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Though Ser Arthur fought valiantly, the tells of his defeat were there. His bladework became slower, his footwork sloppy, his black hair was drenched with sweat, and his mouth parted to breathe. The Witcher was the opposite. There was no sign of fatigue or exertion from him, every move was a fast, deadly, and precise as the one preceding it. He neither panted nor was drenched in sweat, his scarred face as immovable as fathers.

The end came soon after. Ser Arthur, attempting a complex feint, tried to mask his thrust with a swing. The Witcher saw it coming and dodged... In a way, Jaime had never seen before. Spinning out of the way, the Witcher held his blade over his head and performed a pirouette. For an instant, he seemed to almost float in-mid air, his body spinning on and on without end. Mid-spin, his struck Ser Arthur's back with the fuller of his sword, sending the Sword of the Morning tumbling down... All before his feet even touched the ground.

"Gods be good..." Merrett Frey muttered, and for once, Jaime agreed with him.

"As I said, the far superior swordsman. Thankfully, we've forbidden anyone from using anything but blunted weapons and heavy training equipment against Geralt."

"Forbidden?" Lord Crakehall asked with worry in his voice.

"Aye, he'd be too dangerous elsewise. Last time they used live steel, Ser Lewyn's armor was left in tatters."

Numbly, Jaime followed Ser Barristan along with Lord Carekhall and Merret Frey to the two men. Ser Arthur, as expected of him, took his defeat with grace, smiling, and accepted the Witcher's hand up. The two left the arena, leaving their blunted weapons at a nearby stand, no doubt discussing one another's methods to battle. Merrett quickened his pace to arrive first, only succeeding it halting first when the Witcher's eyes fell upon him. These were no ordinary eyes, not even the purple found among the blood of old Valyria or House Dayne. Snake eyes who's yellow color only became more chilling when accompanied by his pale skin and scars.

"My lords," Ser Arthur said, bowing to all three while offering his hand to Lord Crakehall. "It gladdens my heart to see you here, I apologize for not being present to greet you alongside Ser Barristan."

"No offense is taken, Ser Arthur," Lord Crakehall smiled. "I believe all of us here know how quickly time passes when one focuses so intently on the sword."

"Aye, and with Geralt about, one must focus or lose even more quickly."

"I'm sure one of these days the roles will reverse," The Kingswood Knight said, his voice hoarse and accent, unlike any Jaime had heard before. Lord Crakehall shook his hand as well. "Geralt of Rivia, Witcher, though I'm sure Ser Barristan told you all of this already."

"That he has, I am Somner Crakehall, Lord of House Crakehall."

"From the westerlands, your coat of arms is of a brindled, white boar on a brownfield. None So Fierce are your Houses words."

"Aye..." Lord Crakehall spoke, his wariness of the Witcher overcome by surprise. Perhaps even a hint of approval. "You are well informed,..?"

"Just Geralt is fine, though Master Witcher works too if you're one for formality."

"On the contrary, my wife ever complains to my lack of it," Lord Crakehall laughed. "These are my squires, Merrett of House Frey and Jaime of House Lannister."

"Greetings to you as well, my lords."

"G-Greetings, Master Wi-Witcher..." Jaime and Merrett replied, the former almost gulping under the strangers snake-like gaze.

"Yes, the resemblance between you and Lord Tywin is strong indeed."

"You know my father?" Jaime asked, almost striking himself across the face for his foolishness. The man had been in the Red Keep for a week. Of course, he'd know the Hand of the King!

"Lord Tywin has been Geralt's host since he arrived," Ser Arthur answered, causing Jaime to go numb all-over again. "Ah, my manners remain poor, welcome lads, to the Red Keep! Are you well-rested? Hungry? Thirsty?"

"Thirsty for battle, I would say," Ser Barritan answered for them with a knowing grin. "With Lord Crakehall's permission, we can begin your training right now if you'd like."

Father riding the Black Dread reborn could not stop Jaime from accepting such an offer. Yet a stone appeared in his throat when a messenger approached them. Already, he feared something had changed again. Perhaps the Lord Hand wished to see his son immediately after all? It disappeared as quickly as it came when the message was only for the Witcher who stepped away to receive it. When he returned, there was uncertainty in his face.

"It seems the Grand Maester and I won't be exchanging information today. Some business with the Citadel will otherwise take up his afternoon."

"That may work in our favor," Ser Arthur. "I am quite a bit spent after our match. If you've nothing else to do, Geralt, could you aid Ser Barristan with the squires? I'm certain there is much they could learn from you. You've some experience as an instructor, as I recall you mentioning."

"For my daughter, yes," The Rivian confirmed, taking a moment to consider it, not that Jaime could understand his hesitation. To instruct a Lord Paramount's son, even for but an hour, was an honor no warrior would refuse. Particularly with Father's reputation. "Very well, my work is not so urgent that I can't help two aspiring knights along in their journey."

Again, Jaime wondered what work this man could have, was there another creature like the one which brought him to Westeros? He still doubted its existence... And yet, if there was, there could be some glory to be found there. Simply by the way this stranger moved and fought, his prey would have to be fearsome indeed. In fact, fighting against this Geralt of Rivia and proving his worth against him alone could be enough by itself for Jaime to earn his knighthood. Boys of his age had defeated great warriors thought unbeatable before. One of them was a man grown right next to him.

"Teach these lads how to fight half as well as you and they'll not aspire to knighthood for long," Lord Crakehall chortled, the Witcher only smiled faintly.

"I'll certainly try my best."

"If I may," Jaime said, stepping forward. "I would ask Master Geralt the honor of fighting me first."

"What a coincidence," The Witcher smiled wider, for a moment, Jaime's confidence wavered. "I was going to suggest that myself."