Novigrad
Administrative Center
“Lord Robert.” The White Wolf greeted him with a bow, his daughter a step behind.
“Geralt. Come in, take a seat, you two,” he said, waving them inside. “Didn’t want to disrupt your family breakfast, but congratulations on finding her.”
“Thank you,” both said, sitting down.
“What can I help you with?” They had already discussed the matter of the Wild Hunt. Not that he was displeased to see one of his favorite protagonists in person, but he didn’t know why he was here.
“I wanted to thank you and to ask you a question,” Ciri said.
He tapped his thumb twice on the table, shrugging. “You are welcome and go ahead.”
“Back at your home, did people try to control you, to decide your fate at some point?” she asked.
He craned his head back with a silent breath, realizing what this was about. “Oh yes. Before I hatched dragons, I was expected to do as people told, whether my father or the royalty did. After the dragons, it was the mountain of marriage offers in hopes of binding me to their houses.”
Power drew people who wished to control it like moths to flames. Back in Westeros, it usually happened through marriages and fostering. In the Continent, it happened through the events Ciri had gone through.
She straightened up, and he noticed how animated her eyes had become. “How do you deal with it? How do you make sure people don’t try it anymore?”
“By being the strongest, so much so that the first thing people think about you isn’t how to control you but how to avoid earning your ire,” he said. Ciri visibly shrunk at the answer.
“I see.”
“Doesn’t exactly answer your question, does it?” he asked. Ciri was stronger than most but far from being at the top.
“No, not really.”
“Why don’t you tell me a bit more about the situation so I can offer advice?”
She glanced at Geralt, her eyes wavering. He could see that she wasn’t ready to share her personal life with a complete stranger. He nodded at her. She didn’t need to share the private details, only the reasons why people were trying to control her.
Her powers, all the people who wanted a part of her, and specifically the Wild Hunt. He asked how she had learned to control her powers so far, realizing one glaring weakness.
“The way I see it, there are two outcomes. One, your powers aren’t what they cracked up to be, and the people who are after you will be sorely disappointed. Two, you lack the imagination to fully bring your potential out,” he said. He already knew the answer. It was about making her realize it.
Avallac’h was one of the lead sages in breeding the gene of the Elder Blood. Following Lara Dorren’s betrayal as they saw it, he had tracked her line, eventually reaching Ciri.
His theory was probably unmatched, but it did not matter without practical knowledge. The only one who could truly define the limits of the Elder Blood was Ciri.
“Imagination?” she asked. Was it truly that easy?
She did not believe so.
“Yes. So far you were only taught by instructors who knew your powers theoretically. None of them seem to have firsthand experience. They think they know what the Elder Blood is capable of. I think only you can answer that question,” he said. She crossed her arms, considering his words. Of all the people who had trained her, how many knew how to control time? To travel between worlds as easily as her?
None, she realized.
"It's no different than learning how to fight from people who read it from a book,” he added.
“Then what do you suggest?”
He told how his powers came to be. Slaying R’hllor, taking the sword and trying to figure everything out. He always experimented with his powers, trying new ways of using them.
What would it be like if he imposed his imagination on his powers? Taking the capabilities into account, if he imagined the sword transforming into a spear, would it happen? Could he draw on the flames to strengthen himself? Could he concentrate the heat and fire it from his eyes?
“You know what, I was just about to head down for training. Why don’t you join me and I help you figure out your powers? Not by teaching but by experimenting,” he offered. If he could get her to master her powers quicker, this whole debacle with the White Frost could be finished quickly.
Though, he just wanted a superpowered sparring partner other than Sandor and Wun Weg.
“That sounds dangerous." Geralt stepped in. He reluctantly agreed with Robert’s analysis of the situation.
It didn’t mean he wanted Ciri risking her life experimenting with her powers.
“Can’t be any more dangerous than my training,” Ciri said. She got up, nodding resolutely, and followed him out.
—
He wasn’t certain about interfering with her growth, but he had already fucked the timeline up. Sparring with someone like her, who carried great power while lacking control, would be an interesting experience.
In the books, he knew Ciri’s powers were greater. She could travel in time, jumping forward days or centuries. She had renounced her elemental abilities due to the trauma she had experienced while saving a unicorn. The prophetic trances were another of her terrifying powers.
He had repurposed Cleaver’s headquarters into a sparring ring for himself. It mostly included flattening the place and setting up a short wall around to keep prying eyes out.
He twirled his sword as she took her place, drawing her weapon.
“Let’s see what you can do,” he said, inviting her forward with his sword. She pulled out her blade, took her stance, and then disappeared in a green-white flash. He raised his blade to his back, blocking her swing.
Her only logical choice was to target his back, a predictable move.
She disappeared again, targeting the front where he had left it open on purpose. He blocked it again, letting her teleport once more. Each swing of her blade failed to touch him, frustrating her to no end.
She retreated to evaluate her approach.
“My turn then,” he said. He snapped his fingers, creating a fireball. It floated over his right palm before he launched it. It burst into a wave, covering the right half of the arena, racing towards her. She didn’t hesitate before teleporting to the opposite side of the surge. The second her feet touched the ground, something wrapped around her navel. It didn’t stop there, coiling around her like a serpent, immobilizing her entirely.
She fell on the floor.
A crimson snake with crystalline scales was the culprit, its head bopping her on the nose.
“Yield?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. The snake retreated quickly, flying away, turning to a sword. The same one Robert held in his hand seconds ago.
“Here is a question. Why did you choose to teleport away rather than counter my flames?” The answer was evident, again. And again, it was a matter of making her realize it rather than simply accept it.
“Because I don’t know anything that could stop the flames,” she said.
“Here is your chance to figure it out,” he said, gesturing at the flames. “Make your imagination work.”
She picked her sword up with a conflicted look on her face. What could she do with the Elder Blood to put the flames out? It was at that moment she realized how little she could do with her powers. Avallac’h’s training had helped, certainly, but what else had she learned other than to incorporate blinking to her attacks and to escape?
Nothing.
Her gaze slowly moved to Robert. He had the control and the imagination to shape his sword into a snake. Perhaps she could do something with hers as well.
She drew on the ancient power coursing in her body, channeling it to the sword. Her blade wasn’t special, but it would at least give her an idea. Much to her surprise, the sword began to glow and vibrate. She tried to keep a lid on it, but the sword threatened to jump out of her hand in seconds.
She swung it towards the flames, keeping it as far from Geralt and the others as possible.
Her powers had a different idea.
A bloom of energy left the sword, spreading across the room. Robert spread his sword into a shield, protecting Geralt, Sandor, and Wun Weg.
The solution worked, only too well. The flames were extinguished, but the hastily built wall around the sparring arena was destroyed. Only the section behind Robert remained.
“Sorry about the walls,” Ciri said, wincing as she saw the destruction her powers brought.
He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.”
“See? You already learned something,” he said, turning around to inspect the destruction.
“Learned? More like lost control.”
“I didn’t master everything at the first try. Now you have an idea on what you can do; it is simply a matter of mastering it.”
She raised her head, watching the sky, before taking her stance again.
—
For the next week, Ciri was a constant part of his training schedule. She was always seeking to try something new with her powers. He was one of the only people around who could take a hit. The chance to fight someone with her powerset wasn’t one he was going to miss.
The interesting part was getting to know her.
He knew about the books and certain parts but hadn’t read them. Most of his knowledge was from the game. She fought tooth and nail to survive, had complicated feelings about her ancestry, and cared greatly about her friends, such as Skjall, Gretka, and Bea.
She told him of her mother and grandmother, of her home in Cintra. He paid it back by mentioning his family and his years at Storm’s End and Eyrie. He glossed over his time in exile and, of course, spoke of his crowning achievement, Asgard, in detail.
She had smiled ruefully, seeing her own grandmother in Rhaelle Baratheon. Both were ironwilled, intelligent, and loved their grandchildren to death.
One topic she wasn’t willing to speak about was Emhyr. Given he wanted her to bear his child to fulfill a stupid prophecy, her distaste was understandable.
When she heard the prophecy of the prince that was promised and the White Walkers, her interest was piqued.
This world was quite an interesting one. On one continent, there was a prophecy that basically depicted how the White Frost would end all life and what not. Back on Westeros, they had the White Walkers, who would do exactly the same, only on a planetary scale rather than interdimensional.
He would eat his sword if they weren’t connected in this fusion world.
She, as the one prophesied to stop the White Frost, thought the same.
—
Rosemary and Thyme
“Zirael, you have been neglecting your training. I understand your need to rest, but it won’t be long before Eredin comes,” Avallac’h said.
Ciri raised her head from her breakfast, barely glancing at him before she was eating again. “I have been training.”
“By yourself?” he asked. He earned several glances as he lost control of his tone for a moment.
“No, with Robert.”
“The dragonlord? What does he know about the Elder Blood to teach you?”
“Teach me?” she raised an eyebrow. “He was simply helping me experiment. No offense to your mentoring so far, but I learned a lot.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” she got up from her seat. “I’ve been hiding this for the spar, but I suppose there is no harm in showing you,” she said. She spread her hands, gently bringing her palms together.
She had acquired a notebook, writing down ideas that had crossed her mind after brainstorming with Robert. Letting her imagination run wild had resulted in dozens of crazy ideas. She didn’t have the control to attempt any of them. This one was easy, though, and she had practiced it for the last four days.
Imagination was truly a wonderful part of the human brain.
Avallac’h waited to see what would happen. Seconds passed by and nothing happened. He thought she had failed and turned to warn her. Words died on his lips as he noticed something wrong. Everything, people, objects, and even light, appeared misty at the edges. He didn’t feel anything different due to the visual change.
He laid a hand over his heart, realizing he wasn’t feeling anything at all.
“Like it?” she asked, glancing to his right, as if she weren't seeing him. “I was telling him about the world I visited when Robert asked if I could access higher dimensions. One thing led to another, and I found a way to banish people out of the dimension we are in.”
“Go ahead, try to touch me,” she challenged. He gulped, taking a step forward to put his hand on her shoulder.
His hand passed through, breaking the misty veil without harming her. He thought she was an illusion and repeated it several times, unable to touch her.
“Stand in front of my hand now,” she said, raising her hand, palm pointing forward. He did as instructed. The power in her blood coagulated in her palm. It spread over him, and the misty edges disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared.
“How?” When he had last seen her, she was nowhere near ready to display such skill and control. How had she figured it out in a week when his months of training could not?
He wasn’t the only one surprised.
Yennefer and the sorceresses watched her with smirks or sharp looks, depending on the person. The Witchers and the owners of the inn were proud.
Only Geralt maintained his composure.
“Theory and practice don’t always agree. You taught me the theory; he is helping me put it in practice. The results have been great so far.”
He closed his mouth. Her words weren’t mere bravado. She had just displayed the proof, and he felt his throat dry. How could one dh’oine who knew nothing about the Elder Blood before meeting Zirael have done more than him?
He could not accept this.
“I wish to witness your training,” he said. He had to see it, to know what this dragonlord had done. Her powers required discipline and constant training to control. She shouldn’t have been able to learn so much, not without his assistance.
He was one of the minds behind the creation of the Elder Blood. How had he been made into an ineffective teacher in moments?!
“Count us in too,” Lambert said. He definitely wanted to witness the sage's face after watching the training. If he were this disturbed by Ciri’s growth, his reaction to the spar would be a feast for the eyes.
Lambert’s words prompted the remaining members of her family and friends to express the desire to watch it as well.
Ciri’s lips quirked upwards.