Skellige
Ard Skellig
He hit the ground like a meteor. He decided against letting Obelisk land. The islanders couldn’t harm him, but they could make excuses. So it was best to keep him out of sight.
He walked out of the crater through the dust. The Skellige jarls and their new queen, Cerys, only saw two glowing eyes in the dust first.
Several warriors took a step back. The inhumanely tall wall of dark steel became clearer as the dragonlord approached. Once he was in the clear, there was only silence. He stood there, a crystal of flames shaped like a sword at his side.
The rumors couldn’t do him justice.
“Lord Robert, welcome to Skellige,” Geralt said, breaking the silence.
“Geralt,” he simply replied, patting the Witcher on the shoulder. “Heard the isles finally elected a new ruler?”
“Yes,” he said, gesturing to the red-haired woman draped in furs and, of course, a golden circlet.
“I am Cerys an Craite, Queen of the Skellige Isles,” she introduced herself, standing straight, voice steady.
Robert nodded slightly, flames taking his armor away. He focused on himself, becoming shorter, still towering over everyone. “Robert Baratheon, a pleasure.”
“No titles?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“Honestly, I have too many, and saying all of them is tiring,” he said.
“Your challenge has been accepted, Lord Robert. Each jarl will confront you on their own,” she said. The idea of accepting the challenge in the first place was stupid. They only did it because no one knew how they were supposed to defeat two dragons. Even the greatest Witcher on the Continent had said he wouldn’t take that commission.
This was the only way they could save face.
“Then let’s not wait. I am sure everyone's time is valuable,” he said, stretching his arms.
—
The first to challenge him was Madman Lugos. Madman he may be called, but he was smart enough to realize he couldn’t defeat Robert in a physical contest. So he had chosen a contest based on luck. He would be considered unfortunate at most if he lost.
They gathered in the Citadel of Ard Skellig. A grand occasion like this demanded a proper setting. Spectators, mainly warriors and nobles of the islands, had arrived to watch the challenge.
“Five dice. The lowest number wins,” Lugos said, handing him a cup. “May the gods favor the bold.” He put the dice in his cup, showing it to Robert as a sign that there was no tempering. Robert nodded, the small breeze he created with his hand going unseen among the crowd.
Lugos rolled the dice in the cup for a few seconds, slamming it on the table. He waited, watching Robert with an expressionless face.
He showed the metal cup to his opponent while memorizing the positions of the dice. A little bit of wind would help him with the winning numbers. Once Lugos was satisfied, Robert shook the cup and slammed it on the table.
They both pulled the cups back at the same time. Lugos had two ones, one three, one four, and one three, totaling twelve. Robert had four ones and two threes, ending up at ten. Lugos groaned, throwing his head back. His men did the same, and it was music to his ears.
“I win.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll set the thralls free and ban the practice forever,” he said, getting up. He snatched a mug of alcohol from a server, walking away.
“Who’s next?” he asked.
“I am,” Svanrige an Tuirseach said. The young jarl was tired. Robert knew he had to condemn his mother to her death. Her crimes were unforgivable. He could see that the jarl just wanted this over with.
“Let us just cross our blades and be done with this,” he said, drawing his sword. Robert gestured at Geralt, requesting his sword. He didn’t need to draw his own for this battle.
Geralt handed his steel sword wordlessly. Robert twirled it a couple of times, getting used to the weight of it.
The tables were pushed away, creating an arena, surrounded by the spectators. Once both were inside, Svanrige brought his sword down. There was no need for a countdown, not when they were both warriors.
Robert stepped to the right, dodging the strike. He twirled once, going around the next swing. He was far faster than Svanrige could react to and had his blade at the young jarl’s throat. The warriors groaned, long and drawn out, disappointed at how quickly it ended. Svanrige nodded once, sheathing his blade. “I concede. All thralls will be free by night,” he said.
He too knew this was all so the jarls of Skellige could save face. He held no illusions he could defeat Robert. Still, he would hold his word.
Robert nodded, handing the sword back to Geralt.
—
His next challenger was Udalryk an Brokvar. He too was tired, eyes sunken, gaze unfocused. The separation from the Hym, as well as the ordeal he had gone through, had taken its toll on him. He wanted a simple arm-wrestling challenge to settle the score.
It had gone as expected.
Holger Blackhand, who had thought Robert was simply an overblown main lander, began to rethink. The rumors didn’t seem like rumors anymore. If he backed off from a physical challenge, he would lose his face. But an idea came to him at the last second.
—
Robert sat on the seat of the boat. Blackhand, notorious as a sailor, challenged him to a race in the sea. It required physical strength but also knowledge of sailing. Unfortunately for Holger, he had control over the wind.
There were no druids among the spectators. Only Geralt and Yennefer would be able to tell he was cheating. He had a feeling they wouldn’t say anything about it. Holger had started to row. He followed suit.
By the time he reached the rocks where they would turn around, Blackhand was barely halfway there. Winds had not favored him at all. He winked at the fuming jarl on the way back, watching him row without a single breeze in his sails.
It was just another easy victory.
—
As they were already on the docks, Crach an Craite challenged him next. He wanted a fishing competition. It was a respected occupation in the isles. No islander would ever dare to belittle a person over fishing.
Each would catch one fish. The victory would go to the biggest fish.
Admittedly, he preferred hunting to fishing. Crach did specify they had to stay above the water and on the boat while fishing. It limited his options, but he still knew what to do. He closed his eyes, extending a small bolt of lightning around his fishing pole. He made certain to turn his back to the crowds.
The lightning followed the line, acting as an extrasensory apparatus. Through it, he could feel the surroundings. It required a lot of focus, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle.
Both he and Crach caught a sturgeon. His was the size of his forearm, twice the length of Crach’s. The jarl simply hung his head, conceding defeat.
—
Donar an Hidar was old. He was also pious. There was no challenge offered by him. He wanted to let the gods decide the winner. The two of them stood before a shrine dedicated to Freya, waiting for a sign from the gods. Unfortunately for Donar, he wasn’t willing to wait that long.
He couldn’t be obvious about it, though. He needed something subtle, a move that they couldn’t pin on him. The sign he waited for came in the form of a cat. One of Freya’s sacred animals, a pure white cat, approached the party through the path. It rubbed its head and body around Robert’s leg.
Donar’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. His face turned red and he swayed on his feet. From the twitches, Robert thought he was having a heart attack. Fortunately, he was fine.
—
Citadel of Ard Skellige
“Fair is fair. You won, and as such, we will hold our word. Thralldom is henceforth forbidden in the isles with the wise jarls and brave warriors as my witnesses,” Ceryse declared in front of the islanders, raising her cup high. With so many in attendance, no jarl would ever try to talk about foul play.
She knew Robert had cheated in at least one of the challenges. She simply didn’t want to provoke him. Not when his beast alone could lay waste to the isles. Forbidding slavery was worth achieving peace.
The jarls met her toast. There weren’t any cheers, of course. No one was in the mood to celebrate the victory. Not when the victory had defeated the finest warriors of Skellige without even trying.
“Well, I’d love to stay and celebrate, but I have to make sure neither Radovid nor Emhyr tries anything in my short absence. You know how those two are better than me,” he said. The competition, as he expected, was disappointing. He didn’t want to stick around.
Even though he wanted to do some sightseeing.
“Aye. Like two rabid dogs in a cage,” Lugos said.
“Anyway, now that slavery is outlawed, traders from the isles are welcome at Novigrad. I wish you all a good day,” he said, giving a wave with the back of his hand as he walked away. It was an olive branch, one that would give them something else to talk about.
All in a day’s work.
—
Novigrad
Administrative Center
Three hours later, he peeked through the door into the office. Roche was still slaving away with the paperwork. He had come a long way in two weeks. He wasn’t a stranger to administrative work, only to this scale.
“Hey Roche. How’s it going?” he asked his regent. It felt wonderful to dump everything on Roche and laze around.
“Better than I feared, not as good as I hoped. Are you already done with the jarls of Skellige?” he asked. He looked out the window, seeing it was past noon. It wasn’t even half a day since he left. At least half of that was the travel time.
“Of course. They had no chance against me.”
Vernon sighed. “I wish this work were that easy.”
“Nothing worth having is ever easy.”
“True.”
“Anyway, let me know if something you can’t handle comes up. "I'm off,” he said, giving a two-finger salute, leaving.
—
Rosemary and Thyme
He sneaked into the tavern, walking up to his room. Roche had his men to protect him. With how hard they were working, he had given Sandor and Wun Weg the day off. He wanted to spend his time by lazing around a bit.
But business first.
“Ladies,” he called, knocking on Margarita's and Sile’s room. “Are you available?”
Margarita opened the door just as he lowered his hand. “My lord.”
“I wanted to thank you for your assistance in Skellige,” he said. Margarita smiled before hiding it with a cough. The look on the face of the islanders as the cat approached Robert was amusing.
“It is the least we could do. We are still in your employ after all.”
“Eh, it doesn't hurt to be grateful. Unless something comes up, you two are free to do as you wish,” he said, heading to his room. He didn’t have anything to do for now. The assassination on Radovid was on hold. Without Dijkstra and his cohorts, Philippa didn’t have an opportunity to benefit. Unless Emhyr could send assassins directly after Radovid, he would live for now.
In that vein, Emhyr’s time was shortening with each day. From Geralt’s choices so far, he wouldn’t hand Ciri to the emperor. Without an heir and a way to take the heat off his back, his death was close.
The problem was how to take over Redenia peacefully after killing Radovid. The choices that led to Dijkstra ruling the North were only possible because he was a duke. Not a real one, but most people didn’t know it. With the king dead at the hands of Temerian rebels and sorceresses, he would stand out as the man who had avenged Radovid. Combined with his legitimacy, there was nothing to stop him from taking Redenia's throne.
Legitimacy neither he nor Roche had.
Which meant violence. Men in Radovid’s army reflected their king for the most part. Cruel, greedy, and cowards. He couldn’t earn their respect, so he would have to terrify them into compliance. Roche would have to purge the hardliners and commanders to control the rest.
He turned to his right, closing his eyes to get some sleep.
—
Kaer Morhen
Geralt sighed, getting Uma off Roach. A week after he had left Skellige and collected the cursed person, as well as explained himself to the emperor, he was finally at Kaer Morhen.
“Well, look who the wind blew in. Been away quite a while,” an old but stern voice greeted.
His face eased, a calm, tiny smile on his lips. He grasped Vesemir’s arm. “Too long.”
Vesemir looked down at the ugly little creature Geralt had brought. It was turning around, muttering gibberish. “And your journey—how was it?”
Calm, if you don’t count the forktail that flew over our heads a few miles back. Passenger got a little restless.”
Vesemir bent down, inspecting Uma closer. “Hm, what have we here? Multiple deformities. Eyes, ears, nostrils. A hare lip. And is this?” he said, extending his hand. That startled the creature. It started to scream "Uma," repeating it over and over again.
“Now now, calm down,” he said, moving back to give it space. “Yennefer was right on one count. Things sure aren't pretty.”
“Yen’s here already?” he asked before realizing what a stupid question it was. Of course she was here with her portals.
Vesemir’s face became colder. “And how.”
“Did she tell you about what’s been happening at Novigrad?” he asked, trying to change the subject. At the least, Imlerith’s fate would amuse the old Witcher.
“I did hear something, but Yennefer, well, she’s a… How do I put this? Emancipated, strong-willed woman. But do manners count for nothing? She teleports in, not even a ‘nice to see you.’ It jumps right into 'We've a curse to lift. There is this to do and that—so Eskel and Lambert, get going.’ Then she went into the guest room to rearrange things… threw the bed off the balcony,” Vesemire said with an irritated edge.
Geralt winced.
“Shame, that was a good bed,” he said offhandedly. He knew why she had done it. He was also stuck between keeping silent and bringing it up to her.
“Said the same thing myself. Solid oak frame, down mattress. Triss always said,” Vesemir stopped, blinking. “Ah, now I see,” he said, lowering his head.
“It’s either that or Yen really hates oak furniture,” Geralt replied. “Anyway, you are going to want to hear about the latest news from Novigrad.”
“She said something about a dragonlord but didn’t explain anything. "Too busy, you see,” he said. He was busy with the wall as well, so he didn’t have the time to ask more.
Geralt pulled Uma along. “Let’s gather together, and I’ll tell you all about it.”