Chapter Text
Geralt never shouldn’t taken that thrice-damned contract.
He’d like to be able to say that it was Yennefer’s fault, but the truth was, he and Jaskier had been low on coin for a while now. The fact that Yennefer had a stake in the hunt intrigued him, yes… but he was far more invested in making sure that his mate and daughter had food in their bellies and clothes on their backs than he was in learning her motivations. There were few things in this world that Geralt could honest-to-Melitele claim he was good at, but he took pride in the fact that his family was never left wanting… even if it meant he was shoveling food from his own bowl into theirs. And Jaskier was in dire need of a new set of leather boots. Geralt had seen his feet—it really couldn’t wait any longer. So, he’d taken the contract… and immediately regretted it.
Yennefer’s little pet knight—Eyck, what a name—seemed to have taken a liking to his daughter, Hadria. She’d told him in no uncertain terms that she was currently involved (which was the first that Geralt had heard about this… she was twenty, which he supposed was old enough to entertain a serious relationship, provided he had a chance to thoroughly vet her partner and put the fear of the gods into them), which should have been his cue to run back to Yennefer with his tail tucked between his legs. Instead, the knight had taken that as an invitation to redouble his efforts, taking every opportunity to shower her in superficial compliments. Half an hour into their journey, Geralt was certain that he would be performing damage control for murder—
And that’s when Jaskier had screamed.
Geralt’s body had moved instinctually, his hand gravitating to the hilt of his silver sword as he moved to rescue his mate from whatever creature had startled him so badly. Hadria was faster, and, having already ascertained that the creature wasn’t actually a threat and would likely leave them be if they shared some of their rations, was in the midst of retrieving some dried fruits from her satchel when Eyck’s sword sliced through the air—
Geralt vividly remembered the streak of red-black blood that splattered through the air, slashing the front of her pristine, white fur coat.
The dried fruits had landed on the ground with a soft thump, and the creature’s head had landed squarely in Hadria’s arms.
She’d stared at it, her delicate features contorted in a mixture of horror and revulsion. There was no reason that that creature had had to die. It’d was starving, emaciated… it was no threat to them. And there Eyck was, peacocking about as if he deserved to be praised. “You’re a fucking monster.”
“Now, darling—” He took a step toward her. She took a step back, her teeth bared in a feral growl. “That’s not very ladylike of you.”
“Why don’t you take your misogynistic attitude and shove it? Because that’s the only action you’ll be getting out of me, motherfucker.” And then her eyes shifted, the glistening amber transforming into unforgiving arctic blue—And the next time you decide to run around playing knight, you ought to pick on someone your own size. Eyck winced, a thin trickle of blood slowly carving a path down from his ear.
“W-W-What the fuck are you?” Eyck stammered, digging his heels into the earth in a desperate attempt to put some distance between them.
What’s the matter, good Ser? I thought that I was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen—with a smile so radiant it hurt your eyes to behold. Tell me, Ser Eyck, is my smile still utterly breathtaking? She flashed him a smile that certainly served to rob him of his breath—
Jaskier set a hand on her shoulder, grimacing when his palm came into contact with blood-matted fur. “’ria, sweetie… you’re bleeding.”
“I am?” She blinked, slowly returning to normal. It was then that she noticed that Ser Eyck’s sword had grazed her neck when he’d beheaded the creature—what an unforgivably sloppy knight. “So I am.”
Geralt almost killed the bastard on principal. Hadria was more than capable of avenging herself—and likely would’ve struck the bastard down where he cowered in the blood-stained grass, had he not spent the better part of twenty years attempting to instill in her the idea that what distinguished monsters and men was not biology… she could be fully human, and no better than a bruxa, or a striga. No, what distinguished monsters and men was their capacity for mercy… and their understanding of the inherent difference between right and wrong. And… as tempting as it might’ve been to kill him… Geralt couldn’t very well justify his death, when he himself would’ve killed the monster to rescue Jaskier.
That didn’t make it any easier to sit around and watch as he devoured the innocent beast, however.
“You’ve quite the interesting companion there.” Borch noted, as they each made a concerted effort to ignore the way that Eyck was continuing to make an ass of himself. “Tell me, how does a Witcher come to travel with a djinn?”
Geralt rolled his eyes—of course Borch would know what she was. He’d known that there was something off about him ever since they’d met in the tavern, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “She’s my daughter.” He huffed.
“Your daughter?” He seemed surprised. Geralt didn’t blame him. After twenty years, it still felt odd to say.
“My daughter.” Geralt confirmed. “What? Don’t you see the resemblance?” Geralt knew the answer before he asked. Hadria bared very little resemblance to him—just enough that, if you squinted at the two of them in just the right light, you might be able to see it. But she and Jaskier could’ve been twins, right down to their mannerisms… and the way they seemed to be able to pull a knife out of virtually anywhere.
“She looks quite a bit like your bard.” Borch conceded. Geralt just hummed.
Hadria made an utterly disgusted sound in the back of her throat as Eyck continued to tear into his meal with gusto. The creature hardly had any meat on its bones—feasting on it certainly shouldn’t have been the production he’d transformed it into. “Must you make so much noise while you eat?”
“A knight must savor every bite, for he never knows when it will be his—” Eyck cut off, mid-sentence, his pale face growing greener by the moment as his stomach began to grumble ominously.
Hadria smiled at him pleasantly, “Be a darling and head downwind, yeah?”
Geralt couldn’t say that he was sorry to find out the dumbass had died—and nobody else in their ragtag little party seemed to be particularly bothered by the loss. Yennefer almost seemed relieved—and a little embarrassed to have been associated with him in the first place. Things calmed down a bit after that… until Borch, Téa, and Véa fell to their apparent deaths. Jaskier had tried to comfort him with the thought of visiting the Coast, of settling down and being a proper family… but his words had been anything but comforting. He’d wanted to be a proper family. What did that even mean, when your mate was a Witcher and your child was an amalgamation of chaos that technically shouldn’t exist?
Witchers didn’t get to live happily ever after. This… what he had with Jaskier and Hadria… was the closest thing to a proper family he knew, aside from the bond he shared with his fellow Wolves. And he knew that it wouldn’t last forever—that was the reason he’d made the wish that’d brought them Hadria. So that he’d still have a little piece of him at his side, even after he’d breathed his last.
There’d been far too much death on this contract for comfort. And the thought that Jaskier might die here… it terrified him.
So, he bit his tongue and let Jaskier rattle on about the Coast… and wondered, in silence, why what they had now wasn’t enough.
0~0~0~0
Eskel and Lambert have entered into a mutually beneficial arrangement.
It’s all Geralt’s fault, really. Although, this is the one instance where Lambert supposes he can forgive Geralt for being the world’s biggest dumbass—Eskel had been desperate to sneak a ‘friend’ into Kaer Morhen, with the catch that they would likely refuse the invitation if he didn’t somehow convince Jaskier to come along. Lambert, who also just so happened to have a ‘friend’ he wished to sneak into Kaer Morhen, had been willing to meet him halfway.
Lambert is usually the first to arrive for the winter, with Eskel arriving a week or so later, and Geralt an indefinite period of time after that. If Eskel were to… stretch the truth, just a bit, he would likely be able to sell the story that they’d received word that Geralt had been injured on a hunt and wouldn’t be able to make the trek up to the keep that year. With Geralt out of the picture, he should have no problem convincing this ‘friend,’ and Jaskier, to accompany him to the keep. Meanwhile, Lambert’s ‘friend’ just so happened to be a bard, and a fairly decent one at that. Lambert could bring him under the pretense of securing entertainment to lift Geralt’s spirits, in an effort to keep both Eskel and Lambert from murdering him while he sleeps—
Seriously, if he starts singing Toss a Coin one more time…
The plan is pretty perfect, if you ask Lambert. He’s been trying to sneak Aiden into Kaer Morhen for years now—who knew it could be this easy?
“So, let me see if I understand…” Aiden muses, as he tunes his lute. “You want me to pretend that you’ve hired me to perform for the White Wolf, because he’s been in a rut for two years because he blew up at his lover and refuses to pull his head out of his ass long enough to apologize.”
“Yes.” That’s the gist of it. “You won’t actually have to perform for him, of course. He’s a shit audience, anyhow. Wouldn’t know talent if it hit him right between the eyes.” Lambert says, “But that’s the story that we’re going to tell the old man, so that he doesn’t start wondering why there’re bards every-fucking-where.” He snickers at the mental image of bards multiplying like rabbits—
“And you don’t think it’ll be a problem that I look… how did you put it…” He trails off, gently strumming his fingers over the lute strings.
“I said that, with your glamour in place, you fit the extremely vague description that Geralt offered of his bard, yes.” Lambert repeats.
“Jaskier detests me, you know. He’d throw a proper fit at the mere insinuation that we bear even a passing resemblance to one another.” Aiden hums, as he cranks one of the little tuning pegs just a little bit tighter. “Meanwhile, I’m uncertain whether I should be more amused by the fact that you seem to think I could pass for him, or insulted that you seem to think I look like I’m in my early forties.”
“You have wrinkles, Aiden. Wrinkles.” The redhead is quick to point out. Aiden rolls his eyes.
“That’s because I know how to smile, unlike some people.” Aiden offers his companion a pointed look.
“Yes, well… resting bitch face keeps you young.”
He can understand Aiden’s concern. Honestly, even without the glamor in place, he and Jaskier do look quite a bit alike. Lambert’s eyes drag over his face, recommitting each little detail to memory—he has a heart-shaped face, framed by loose, obsidian-black curls. A long, thin scar bisects his nose—that’s the most prominent scar, but he has another that cuts through his left eyebrow, and another on the side of his neck, which is only visible when he wears his hair up. He has two piercings in the left eyebrow, and another in his tongue—his jewelry never matches (and is almost always stolen), but fuck if the rich, yellow gold doesn’t compliment the caramel of his skin…
Jaskier’s a bit paler, and his eyes are a different color, but… when push comes to shove, there’s enough of a resemblance there to potentially send Geralt into a full-on tizzy. But… it’s not like he’s marketing Aiden as a replacement for Jaskier… or even a placeholder, really. He’ll just be there to take his mind off of how much Jaskier cannot stand to be around him until Jaskier maybe comes around to the idea of entertaining his apology…
Or the bard stabs him in the throat with his tuning fork. Look, one way or another, the situation is bound to resolve itself.
Aiden licks his lips, “You’ve really put a lot of thought into this.”
“I have.” Lambert confirms, a bit of pride bleeding into his tone. “C’mon… this may be the one chance that we get to spend our winters together. To be honest, I didn’t think it would be this hard to convince you to go along with the plan. It’s like pulling fucking teeth.”
Aiden snorts, “Well… I would hate to ruin your plans…” He drags the words out, like he’s pulling Lambert along on a string.
“Is that a ‘yes,’ then?” He presses.
“You’re certain that a keep filled with Witchers won’t notice my glamour?”
Lambert shrugs, “Eskel might, but I doubt he’ll say anything. He’s got his own shit to worry about, and ‘s not like he’s a stranger to sneaking people into Kaer Morhen.” Although, it had been several years since Eskel had last brought company for the winter… huh. “Geralt will be too busy making an ass of himself in front of Jaskier to care, and the old man… as long as you don’t make yourself out to be a threat, I doubt he’ll be looking at you too closely.”
Aiden finally sets the lute aside, deciding that, for the moment, tuning the instrument is an absolute lost cause. “Yes—I’ll come with you to Kaer Morhen.” He begins preparing his lute case, “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You buy the first round.”