Chapter Text
Pavetta has never been to this part of Cintra before. Granted, the pleasure district butting up against the backside of the theater district is not a place anyone would expect to see the 23-year-old Crown Princess of Cintra.
In all honestly, Pavetta is a little surprised at herself for making it here. Her years of sneaking out of the castle to wish upon the stars or read poetry in the hot afternoon sun has finally paid off. She is certain no guards followed her.
Courtesans line the outer courtyard, lounging between beds of brightly colored flowers. Pavetta ignores their calls, back straight and coin purse clutched in hand as she pushes open the heavy wooden door of The Celandine.
Immediately, she is hit with a wave of heady, flowery perfume. Trying not to cough, Pavetta pulls the hood of her cloak lower over her hair. It would not do to be caught now.
It is only a moment before she spots the madame sitting behind a large oak desk scattered with papers, flowers, and lit candles. There is also a bard, stretched out on the window seat behind the madame, red and gold doublet undone indecently low. He’s strumming a lute, singing to an enchanting, melancholy melody.
“The moon will sing a song for me.
I loved you like the sun.
Bore the shadows that you made
With no light of my own.
I shine only with the light you gave me.”
Pavetta watches him play for a moment, and he glances up at her, giving her a wink. She blushes, turning her attention back towards the madame.
“Hello Madame Seraphine,” Pavetta inclines her head slightly. As her mother always says, a direct approach is best. “I would like to hire a male courtesan for the evening.”
“I’m terribly sorry young lady, but all our male courtesans are sick or already booked for the evening. I’d be happy to direct you to—“
“Seraphineeeee,” the bard cuts in. “I thought this was a high end establishment! No more male courtesans? It’s not even midnight yet!”
“That’s Madame Seraphine to you bard.” She barks at him, but there’s a certain fondness that belays the bite in her words. “And it’s not my fault the boys decided to drink themselves stupid yesterday and fight half of the city guard.”
The bard snorts. “Perhaps if you hadn’t put an end to their Gwent tournament scam, they wouldn’t have had an occasion to get so drunk.”
“I do believe I’m providing you a room for your musical talents Jaskier, not your opinions about how I should run my business.”
Call it fate, call it Destiny, call it a desire to stop the bickering before it begins in earnest and she loses both of their attentions, but Pavetta finds herself speaking up. “That was a beautiful rendition of ‘The Moon Will Sing.’ I have heard the song played before, but those versions rather pale in comparison to yours.”
The bard—Jaskier—beams. “Ah, the lady has taste!”
Madame Seraphine shoots Pavetta a wry look. “Please don’t encourage him. His ego is big enough.”
“Excuse me, but my ego is quite small for a bard of such renown as myself, thank you very much. Small, unlike other parts of myself.” Jaskier winks at no one in particular, then clears his throat, moving to stand beside Madame Seraphine. “And speaking of, I would be delighted to entertain the lovely lady for the evening, if she so wishes.”
Pavetta blinks at him. “I…I don’t want to impose on your evening.”
He gives her a shallow bow. “True me, it would be no imposition at all. I’m sure the lovely people of The Celandine can survive a night without my incredible musical compositions.”
“Hmm, we may actually draw in more customers without you warbling out ‘Fishmonger’s Daughter’ every hour.”
Jaskier splutters, clutching his lute like a shield. Madame Seraphine ignores him, nodding at Pavetta. “It’s up to you. I can give you names of a couple houses down the street that might meet your needs for the night, or you can take the bard up on his offer. You could do worse. He’s got a reputation for being a good bedmate for all sorts of nobility such as yourself, so you’d be in good hands.”
“Good hands indeed, my lady,” Jaskier grins.
Pavetta’s gaze lands on his hands, those strong, lute-callused fingers. Then up his exposed forearms to the biceps she can through his doublet, down to the tantalizing glimpse of chest hair on display. She wills away the blush rising to her cheeks. From the madame’s knowing look and Jaskier’s smirk, it doesn’t quite work.
“I would be honored to have Bard Jaskier’s company for the evening.”
“You can call me Jaskier, my lady. Or any pet names you wish: love, darling, dear heart, sugar buns, best lover on this side of the Yaruga, I’m not picky.”
Pavetta doesn’t roll her eyes, but she lets the corner of her mouth tick up in a smile. “Before we go any further,” Pavetta starts. “Should we discuss payment?”
Jaskier waves his hand. “No payment necessary, I am more than happy to provide my services free of charge for such a beautiful lady as yourself.”
“Are you certain? It doesn’t seem—“
“I am very serious, but perhaps in lieu of coin, you may spread word of what a generous lover I am to all your lovely friends? I’m not aquatinted with many of the nobility of this region, and if you could talk up my many skills, I would be very grateful.”
She determinately will not be telling anyone about this visit if she can help it. What a scandal it would cause if her ladies-in-waiting found out that she, the sheltered Crown Princess of Cintra, spent the night in the company of a man from The Celandine. And a bard no less! The castle gossips would be entertained for days.
But perhaps she can get Jaskier to play at court instead. Surely that’s more than enough payment. Pavetta smiles, then nods her agreement at Jaskier.
“No wonder you get into so much trouble, bard. More charm then the stars themselves, I swear,” Madame Seraphine mutters, glancing down at her papers. “Now get going before you waste away here. Have fun you two."
“Oh, we will.” Jaskier sends her a wink, then offers up his arm to Pavetta. Together, they ascend the stairs towards what Pavetta can only assume is Jaskier’s room.
“So,” Jaskier says, gently setting his lute case down by the door and quickly shoving off the pieces of parchment littering the bed. Pavetta gracefully ignores the copious amounts of clothing and various baubles scattered across the room. “What do you desire out of this evening? Freedom from an unhappy marriage, escape from the dredges of courtly life, release from the pressures of nobility, a quick tumble to get the adventure out of your system, all of the above?”
Standing in this cluttered room with a charming bard in Cintra’s pleasure district, Pavetta can’t help the thrill that runs through her. Of all the decisions and choices that will be taken from her due to her position as princess, she made it so that she can control this at least. The choice of husband may be out of her reach, but she manipulated fate so that her first time isn’t. With the heady, intoxicating weight of defying Destiny settling around her like a blanket, Pavetta can’t help but tell the truth.
“I’m to be engaged in two month’s time,” she finds herself saying. “To a man not of my choosing.”
Jaskier winces. “Ah, the glamorous life of nobility.”
“I have no control in the matter. So I am here, taking some control over my life back.”
“Well,” Jaskier stands up from the bed, walking towards her. “I’m honored to be your choice, my lady. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”
Pavetta smiles. Jaskier draws closer, gentle hands easing the hood off of her head, resting down at her chest where the leather strings of her cloak lay.
“Where would you like to start?” He looks down at her, pretty blue eyes wide and sparkling, promising mischief and fun and a night of her own making.
Slowly, he untangles the cords of her cloak, and Pavetta breathes out. She feels the fabric slide off her until it pools around their feet, with it any nerves falling away.
“How about you put those hands of yours to good use and earn that name of best lover this side of the Yaruga?” Pavetta feels heat settle in her stomach at the positively devilish grin on his face.
“Gladly.”
And so he does.
In the days and weeks after her trip to The Celandine, Pavetta all but forgets about the handsome bard. The date of her betrothal banquet is fast approaching, and she dedicates most of her time to escaping the oppressive air of the palace, grasping for whatever slivers of freedom she can get her hands on.
It is on one of these escape missions, about a month after meeting Jaskier, when she first meets Duny. Kind, gentle Duny, who talks with her for hours, discussing poetry and ballads and literature and history. Duny, who always listens to what she has to say, never talking over her or ignoring her concerns. Duny, who meets her after midnight and whispers poetry into her skin. Duny, who is the one source of brightness in the month leading up to her betrothal. Duny, who is hers by Destiny but not by duty.
The day of her betrothal dawns, and Pavetta allows herself to be pushed around, dressed in the finest dresses, done up like a doll to look like the perfect princess. She wishes for her knight to save her, but she knows that’s nothing but a fairytale. Calanthe will not hesitate to execute Duny if he so much as steps onto the castle grounds.
She finds herself sitting up on the dais later that evening, watching as the suitors pour into the room. She scans the crowd, slipping over servants, guards, nobility, suitors and their escorts. There’s an anxious knot in her stomach. Just a few more hours, she tells herself. And it will all be over, your fate sealed.
Her eyes glaze over, letting sounds wash over her, simply trying to waste the time away. That is, until the twang of a lute catches her attention. Pavetta blinks as Jaskier—that Jaskier, the bard from The Celandine, here!—sets down his lute on a ledge near her dais. There’s a lesser nobleman making his way towards him, and Pavetta watches, amused as Jaskier quickly backs away, trying to put distance between them.
Just as the nobleman is about to reach him, Jaskier turns back, catching her gaze. She tilts her head and gives him a little wave.
Jaskier freezes mid-step, still as a statue, his eyes wide in surprise. He’s openly gaping at her, eyes flitting from her eyes to her crown to her lips to her seat on the dais.
Pavetta motions for him to come closer, and Jaskier unfreezes, making his excuses to the nobleman and all but running to up her.
“You must be our bard for the evening,” She greets before Jaskier can say anything, sending him a small smile.
He dips into a court-perfect bow, finishing with a ridiculous flourish of his hand. “Jaskier the bard, at your service.”
She leans forward, looking into his startling bright blue eyes. “Well, at least this dreadful event will have excellent music.”
“I aim to please, my lady.” Jaskier winks, accompanied by that devilish grin Pavetta suddenly remembers very vividly.
There’s a shout from the other end of the hall, and Jaskier seems to remember himself, all the color draining from his face. “Erm, I mean, not my lady, you’re not my anything, of course, I’ve never met you before. Um. Your Highness.” Jaskier bows again, a short one without any flourishes
Pavetta lets the awkward moment sit. She can practically see his heart rate increasing, watching as a blush paints his cheekbones.
Pavetta brings a hand up to cover her small chuckle. He really is quite cute all flustered. “Don’t worry Jaskier, I’m not going to chop your head off.”
The tension drains from his body, “Oh thank Melitele. I mean, I didn’t think you were going to, but you know, this is quite a big event and my first time playing in this court and you truly never know.”
“It sounds like there’s a story there.”
“My la-“ Jaskier coughs. “Your Highness, you’ve got no idea. The first, and subsequently the last, time I was invited to play in Cidaris, I was not informed that their court troubadour was none other than my old Oxenfurt nemesis, that song-stealing slug-of-a-man Valdo Marx! There I was, merrily making my way back to my rooms after a triumphant dinner set when I was rudely accosted by a dozen bandits. I still have a scar from—“
“Your Highness,” A deep voice interrupts, and Pavetta tears her gaze away from Jaskier.
“Oh, Geralt! There you are!” Jaskier grins, motioning the witcher closer to the dais. “Princess, this is my traveling companion, good friend, and bodyguard extraordinaire, Geralt of Rivia.”
Geralt frowns at the introduction, placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “I hope the bard is not bothering you, Your Highness. He tends to get himself into trouble, don’t mind him.”
Pavetta waves her hand, “Oh, he’s not bothering me at all. Jaskier, you did not tell me you are acquainted with a witcher.”
“Yes, we have been traveling together for quite some time. Perhaps I could regale you with some of our more daring tales?”
“I would quite enjoy that. Maybe later this evening?”
“I would be honored to, Your Highness.”
Geralt glances between the two of them, an odd look on his face. “Do you two…know each other?”
Pavetta’s eyes widen, a blush rising to her cheeks. Jaskier chokes on his spit, waving his hands. “Oh, no, not really. Princess Pavetta is just a fan of my music.”
Pavetta quickly nods. “Yes, his version of ‘The Moon Will Sing’ is simply magnificent.”
“Hmm.”
“Well!” Jaskier claps his hands together, and begins to walk backwards. “I’m sure you have important duties to get back to, and I’ve got to finish uh, tuning my lute. Goodbye, Princess Pavetta.” Jaskier gives her another flourishing bow, Geralt inclines his head, and the two walk back into the crowd.
Only a few moments later, the doors to the hall open, and Calanthe walks in covered in blood and sweat. Pavetta feels the nerves and dread and hopelessness hit her, weighing her down as surely as the crown on her head.
And so the night truly begins.
When Calanthe comes over to remind her to behave, Pavetta can’t help the tears that fall. Especially after seeing Jaskier—carefree, happy, able to run off on his own adventures. Pavetta can’t help but feel angry and trapped and so terribly scared.
And then Duny arrives, and everything falls apart.
Pavetta cannot remember much of what happens, all she knows is that she cannot let her mother kill Duny.
So she screams.
The Chaos settles, and for a minute, Pavetta is happy. She has done it, married a man she loves without endangering the Cintran throne. In that blissful moment, Pavetta imagines her future: growing old with Duny, sitting side by side ruling Cintra, raising a brood of adorable children, teaching them poetry and politics and how to find joy within all the pressures of ruling.
Then.
Then Duny temps all their fates, and Geralt calls the Law of Surprise.
As she vomits onto the marble floor, Pavetta can hear the cruel laugh of Destiny echoing in her ears.
After a week, it is clear that Geralt has no intention of claiming his child surprise. Calanthe officially bans all witchers from the city, and gives the order for Geralt to be captured should he ever show his face in Cintra again.
Pavetta, meanwhile, is left to adjust to her new life. She talks with Mousesack, trying to suppress her powers. She takes afternoon teas with Eist, welcoming him to the castle. Pavetta meets with various craftsmen and merchants, trying to prepare the castle for a child. She performs her courtly duties, humming ‘The Moon Will Sing’ and other ballads to make the time bearable. Duny takes her on walks through the garden, when he can spare the time between political meetings.
Once they are married, Pavetta finds that Duny throws himself into becoming Cintra’s perfect prince. There’s no more reading poetry by the moonlight, talking until the sun rises. He’s always busy, acquainting himself with the nobility of Cintra or learning about how the kingdom is run. Pavetta is glad he is settling in as a prince, but she can’t help missing the golden days of their courtship.
And when he takes her to bed, it is no longer the soft, gentle touches of their early relationship. He is commanding, running his hands over her skin as if planning a battle, touching to claim as his own.
(In the darkest part of the night, Pavetta can admit to thinking about blue eyes instead of brown, of hands callused not by a sword but by a lute.)
The days pass, and Pavetta adjusts.
She does not see Jaskier again until two months after the fateful betrothal banquet.
Duny is in a meeting with the captain of the guard, and Pavetta is waiting for him in one of the outdoor courtyards. She is about to grab some tea and fruit from the kitchens when a familiar voice reaches her ears.
“Okay, okay, no need to grab my arms! Do you know how much this doublet costs? More than your salary, I can promise you that!”
Sure enough, there is Jaskier, dressed in a very nice doublet, being dragged by a group of guards towards the throne room, boots barely touching the cobblestones.
Before she thinks about it too much, Pavetta steps toward them. “Guards, what is going on here?”
“Your Highness, we have orders to apprehend the witcher should he enter Cintra.”
Pavetta raises one eyebrow, crossing her arms and trying to channel her mother. “Is this the witcher?”
“Uh, no Princess. But this is his bard.”
“And do you have orders to detain the witcher’s bard?”
The guards exchange glances. “Not directly, Your Highness. But he’s always following the witcher, so he has to be close.”
Another guards pipes up, “Yeah, have you heard his songs? They’re all about the White Wolf.”
Jaskier struggles, still detained between two guards. “Not all of them, seventy percent at best! I am a varied and prolific bard, I’ll have you know!”
The guards ignore him. “So we figured we’ll take the bard, lure the witcher out, and let Queen Calanthe do what she wants with them.”
“And how has that worked so far? Have you found the witcher?”
The guards shift uncomfortably. “Not yet.”
“Have you asked the bard where his witcher is?” At the guards’ silence, Pavetta looks at Jaskier, taking in his beautiful eyes and suntanned skin. “Jaskier, is Geralt of Rivia with you?”
“No, he’s not even in Cintra.”
“And do you have any intention of claiming the law of surprise in his stead?”
“Absolutely not Your Highness.”
Pavetta smiles at him, then addresses the leader of the guards. “So you have essentially just kidnapped a famous bard?”
The guard purses his lips. “I wouldn’t say it quite like that, Your Highness.”
Pavetta stares at him. “You are all dismissed. I will handle the bard myself.”
They hesitate a moment, but seeing as the bard is no threat and Pavetta hasn’t backed down, they exit. As soon as the guards are gone, Jaskier turns to her. “Thank you so much Princess, I owe you for saving my life.”
Pavetta laughs, “Don’t be dramatic Jaskier. I’ve saved you from a night in the cells, at best.”
Jaskier’s shoulders drop, losing their tension at Pavetta’s casual tone. “Regardless, thank you. This doublet would not survive a night on stone floors.”
“I do believe we owe you an apology for disrupting your day. I hope you weren’t separated from any other traveling companions.”
“No, what I said was true. I’m currently traveling alone.”
“So, where is your witcher?”
“Somewhere in northern Temeria, I’d assume. We split ways in Brugge, as he had business in the north and I was invited to perform with one of the theater companies here in Cintra over the winter. But seeing as I was captured, I missed my appointment with the company. Alas, they’ve likely already given the position away to a lesser bard.”
It feels, Pavetta can’t help but think, a little bit like Destiny. “In order to make it up to you, why don’t you play for the Cintrian court this winter?”
Jaskier’s eyebrows raise. “Are you sure Calanthe won’t skin me alive for playing in her court again? No offense, Your Highness, but Cintra doesn’t have the best reputation with bards, especially ones associated with the White Wolf.”
Pavetta rolls her eyes, “My mother will be fine with it. She knows how much I enjoy listening to music and poetry. So, what do you say?”
Jaskier’s eyes practically glitter in the sunlight. “It would be my honor, Princess.”
And so Jaskier stays in Cintra.
Pavetta finds herself grateful, happy to have someone to discuss the latest poetry and ballads and literature with. As Duny spends more and more time in meetings, ignoring Pavetta’s invitations for walks in the garden or picnics in the courtyards, Pavetta finds herself spending more and more time in the company of Jaskier. He is not at court all the time, with bardic competitions to win and witchers to follow, but he always comes back to Cintra.
Jaskier’s one month at Cintra turns into two, then three, until even Calanthe calls him the court bard.
When she is queen, Pavetta swears she will make it illegal to attend any banquets or feasts while six months pregnant. The hall is suffocating with all the people, and the strong smells of perfume, roasted meat, and sweat is enough to turn anyone’s stomach. Pavetta has to excuse herself several times to get some fresh air.
Duny seems oblivious to her discomfort, too focused on trying to charm the delegation from Lyria. Something about securing trade and lowering import taxes, Pavetta thinks. She is having enough trouble concentrating on finishing her meal, much less engaging in trade negotiations.
Pavetta finds her eyes straying towards Jaskier, watching as he effortlessly weaves through the crowd. She admires the way he gives his all to the music, his passion evident in every note and step and song. It’s enchanting, and a great distraction from everything else.
It is after the food has been cleared, the guards lounging at their posts, all of the nearby nobles have already made their way to the dance floor, and Duny is off discussing trade routes with the baron from Lyria that Calanthe leans toward Pavetta, voice low and wine chalice held up to cover her lips.
“If you keep looking at the bard like that, people are going to think you want to bed him.”
“That’s assuming I haven’t already done so.” As soon as the words are out, Pavetta sucks in a sharp breath and resists the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. What is she thinking! They are in public, what a stupid, stupid thing to disclose to her mother, and in public of all places! The heat and terrible smells must be getting to her head.
Calanthe’s eyes narrow. “Pardon?”
Pavetta watching the nobles swirl around the floor. She definitely does not look at Jaskier, prancing through the whirlwind of dancers.
“Nothing, Mother,” she whispers.
Calanthe leans closer, hissing out, “Did you fuck the bard?”
“Mother!” Pavetta hisses back, gripping the stem of her glass so hard her fingers ache.
She can hear the rustle of fabric as Calanthe leans back in her chair. “Well, good for you. I didn’t think you had it in you Pavetta.”
She turns to look at her mother incredulously, seeing Calanthe’s small smirk. Voice low, Pavetta responds, “It was only once, quite a time ago, before, before everything.” Pavetta waves a hand around her stomach, ending to where Duny sits drinking with other nobles.
Calanthe raises an eyebrow. “It must have been one hell of a fuck if he’s still following you around like a lost puppy.”
Unbidden, a blush rises to her cheeks. “It was…not unpleasant.” Which is perhaps a bit of an understatement, but Calanthe surely does not need to know that.
Calanthe’s resounding scoff causes a nearby guard to look their way, and Pavetta shoots a quelling look at her mother. As usual, it does nothing to stop her.
“What a raving review Pavetta.”
“What do you want me to say? Need I remind you we aren’t in private quarters.” Pavetta shoots a nervous glance at the guards and their ladies-in-waiting. “And anyway, it was a while ago. Anything that happened is in the past and no longer matters.”
Pavetta does not like that glint in her mother’s eye. “You would think, daughter of mine, that years of surviving court would make you a better liar than that.”
“I don’t know what—“
“Ahem.”
Pavetta is embarrassed by the small jump she does at the interruption. Duny is standing, posture perfect and a polite smile gracing his features. Pavetta can’t find any hint of anger in his expression, and they were talking quietly. Surely he didn’t hear anything.
Calanthe turns toward him, her voice cold. “Hello Duny.”
Duny inclines his head. “Your Majesty. And Pavetta.” He smiles at her, and she can’t help but smile back, her heart beating so fast she can feel it in her ears. “The delegation from Lyria decided to retire for the evening, so I thought I might ask my wife for a dance.”
“Of course, I would be honored.” Pavetta gratefully takes the escape, ignoring her mother’s eyes on her. As Duny leads her onto the dance floor, Pavetta hears Jaskier switch mid-song into her favorite dancing jig.
“Did your conversation with the Lyrians proceed to your liking?” She asks as Duny rests a hand on her back, leading her through the dance.
“I was disappointed to see them retire so early, I was hoping to continue my conversation with the Baron. I suppose it will have to wait until the official discussions tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m sure you made a good impression. Anything you want to talk about with me?” She gives a small laugh. “Might be good to have someone to strategize with before tomorrow.”
“It’s nothing truly important, dear. Don’t worry your little head about it, you’ve got enough to worry about.” He pointedly glances down at her stomach.
She pastes bland smile on her face, trying not to tighten her grip on his hand. “Of course,” Pavetta replies, then says no more.
She dances with Duny and does not think about Jaskier’s strong arms gliding her around the dance floor instead, talking with her and making her laugh.
The days continue passing. The baby in her belly continues to grow. Duny continues plotting their future, hidden in war rooms and council chambers. Pavetta continues pretending it does not bother her.
About a week before the Belleteyn festival, Pavetta finds herself sitting on a window seat overlooking the gardens. The court doctors had forbidden her from exercising too much until the baby arrives, but at least she has a view of the gardens, even if she cannot walk through them now.
Her baby is stirring, and Pavetta rubs circles on her extended stomach, trying to soothe.
“I know little love, I know.” The baby kicks, and Pavetta huffs out a laugh. “I too wish to move around more. But alas, we’ve got another month together, love. So if you would please kick a little bit less, I would dearly appreciate it.”
As if to be contrary, the baby gives another strong kick.
“So that’s how this will be then, huh? A little lion cub indeed.” Pavetta smiles, and resumes looking out at the garden. Most of the flowers are in bloom, no doubt ready to be picked and twirled into flower crowns for the upcoming festival.
“Ah, I thought I’d find you here!” Pavetta looks down the hallway and sees Jaskier walking towards her, lute strung across his back. “You look positively radiant today, Crown Princess Pavetta. I say this with complete confidence, you are the most beautiful princess I have laid eyes on today.” Jaskier gives his customary flourishing bow, eyes twinkling as he accepts Pavetta’s hand and kisses the back of it.
His lips are soft, skin still warm from his trek through the city. It’s so easy, to imagine those lips kissing a trail up her arm, the curve of her shoulder, the length of her neck, landing on her own lips.
Jaskier releases her hand, and Pavetta blinks. Takes a shuttering breath in. Promptly banishes that thought.
Jaskier is still looking at her, a grin on his face. She presses her lips together, trying to look stern. “Flattery will get you nowhere bard.”
“I have proven evidence that it will get me everywhere, my lovely lady.” Jaskier wiggles his eyebrows, and Pavetta cannot help the laugh that bursts out of her. It feels like a spring day, flowers and sunshine and fresh water.
“Here for the Belleteyn festival Jaskier?”
“Why of course! I couldn’t deprive my favorite princess of the musical talents of the best bard on the Continent.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Best bard on the Continent? Favorite princess? You’re making quite a few claims today Jaskier.”
“What can I say? It’s a festival week, the sun is shining, you’ve invited me back to perform at court. I’m in high spirits.”
“Do you have any plans this afternoon?”
“Just dropping my stuff off in my room, wandering around the castle, meeting Mousesack for tea after dinner, the usual things.”
“Mind playing us a few songs?” Pavetta pats her stomach, and she can feel her baby moving around. “My child has decided to be quite active. Perhaps a few songs from you will settle us both.”
Jaskier’s eyes go soft, and he immediately shrugs off his pack, sitting down on the floor and leaning back against her window bench. Pavetta resists the urge to run a hand through his hair.
“It would be my honor.” Jaskier pulls out his lute, strumming a few chords. “Any requests?”
“Hmm. What are you planning on playing at Belleteyn?”
Jaskier tilts his head, grinning up at her. “Trying to get a sneak peak at my new songs?”
“I’ve heard you’ve got some excellent new ballads about that witcher of yours.”
“Ah yes, well, I’m not sure the larger Belleteyn crowd would appreciate them. Most people like listening to songs about maidens and ale rather than monsters and ichor at festivals.”
“And I’m sure my mother would prefer you didn’t sing about her least favorite monster hunter.”
“That did cross my mind.”
“Regardless, I’m sure you’ll put on a memorable show. The people of Cintra are anxious for a celebration, and the weather has been quite nice for the season. There is all the makings for a great festival.”
Jaskier hums, playing a few chords. “Yes, I’m certain it will be a Belleteyn to remember.” He looks back at her, and they make eye contact. Pavetta keeps forgetting just how beautiful he is, those cornflower blue eyes enchanting in the afternoon light. Jaskier breaks away first, focusing on his lute and playing a soft song she doesn’t recognize. Pavetta looks back at the garden, fighting the blush rising to her cheeks and trying to lose herself in the music.
A Belleteyn to remember indeed.