Chapter Text
Jaskier doesn’t look at Henselt’s body. Perhaps it looks like disdain to the Warden of the Guard and his troop who come riding out of the now open gates, but it is because, despite knowing it needs to happen, he wants to avoid seeing the blood.
The Kaedwani troop riding towards them have a white flag raised. It seems the demonstration that witchers can, in fact, get in, even when they’d thought it impossible, had the intended effect on the city guard.
By the time the group reaches them, Jaskier can feel Geralt standing firm behind him.
“My lords, on behalf of the crown prince of Kaedwen and the city of Ard Carraigh, I call for parlay.”
Jaskier knows the Warden likely doesn’t have the authority to actually call for such a thing, there hasn’t been enough time to relay the information of Henselt’s death to the citadel yet, so he must be more scared of them than of his superiors. Though, given the show of strength and cunning his witchers have just displayed, it is a reasonable feeling to have.
Jaskier tilts his head up and slightly to the side to face Geralt. It is a testament to how much they know each other that the witcher understands the question in his expression. Jaskier can’t make this decision or give this order; this is Geralt’s role as their leader.
“We’ll ride to the palace for parlay,” he says gravely, “we would like to find those who knew of and abetted the former king in his folly.”
Jaskier defers softly as the rest of the witcher contingent roars “White Wolf!”
The Warden looks at him with pity. Jaskier can imagine exactly what’s going through his head: a finely dressed bard surrounded by witchers, submitting to their leader, poor man…
To counter that, Jaskier grins brightly at Geralt when he offers a hand to help him onto his horse. (He’d started doing that lately, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of it.) It won’t dissuade the Warden of his notions, but he still wants to show everyone he isn’t scared of those around him, as much as he can, at least, without resorting to his normal habit of piling affection onto his witcher. It isn’t the time to call him ‘dearest witcher’ no matter how much he longs to, that would send an entirely different impression to the one he wants to send.
He does get to ride side by side with Geralt through the city, though, so that makes up for some of his regret about not being able to act in the way he wishes he could.
At one point, about half way through the city, as the houses start transforming into those of wealthy merchants and the nobility, Geralt leans towards him to whisper, “they’re terrified.”
“Yes, well, you did just kill their king.”
“Yes, but it smells more… personal… than that.”
Jaskier glances around, trying to keep an impassive expression on his face. He can see people peeking through curtains. Some of the braver people are outside and he sees a teenage boy step slightly in front of his sister as though to protect her.
“Invading armies are often cruel, wolf.” It’s the closest Jaskier can get to an endearment right now, but he needs to soften the blow somehow. “It’s likely why the Warden opened the door. He may have hoped that surrendering will limit any ransacking, even though I suspect he doesn’t actually have the authority to surrender.”
Geralt looks as horrified as his normally impassive face allows. “We wouldn’t.”
“I know. But they don’t.”
They’re towards the front of the convoy, just behind the Warden and his sergeant. It’s clear both men can hear the conversation, and when they glance back, they look incredulous. There’s no point in trying to convince them of the truth, but Jaskier hopes that perhaps Geralt’s innocent questioning in this regard might help change their minds.
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Their pace through the city is slow enough that by the time they reach the palace everyone knows what has happened. The throne room is fully packed with courtiers and Henselt’s son is sitting on his father’s throne attempting to cooly sneer at them but only managing to look like he’s about to pass out from the fear.
Jaskier immediately moves to become the mediator of the situation.
“May I present Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, who just slew the former king, Henselt of Kaedwen, for his monstrous crimes against his own populace. We are here to see who knew of and helped him in his crimes, who are all monsters in their own right.”
The Crown Prince looks shaky as he stands. He is looking down at the witchers, but he seems to know that won’t save him. The words that come out of his mouth are utter foolishness. “Of course I knew. He was the king, it was his right.”
Only Jaskier stays impassive at the growl that comes out of the assembled witchers. Geralt moves so swiftly that the ceremonial guards are unable to stop him as he also removes the Prince’s head.
Jaskier can tell how furious Geralt is when he next speaks, “Let me be clear, I would like every single one of you to swear you knew naught of the old King’s ways. And just so you know, we can smell lies.”
He’s magnificent to look at, all furious with righteous indignation, but Jaskier must interrupt without showing quite how much he’s going to hate what he expects is about to happen. He is not unused to violence and gore, and it doesn’t disgust him, exactly, but he certainly doesn’t like it.
He clears his throat, “in order of precedence, if you could. That will make this a lot more efficient, frankly.”
It takes a while for anyone to move, so Jaskier urges them on with a gentleness perhaps incongruous with the situation at hand. “Well, go on then.”
Luckily they only have to go down 5 more people in the line of succession for one of them to kneel. He’s probably the only duke left in the kingdom at this moment, and he looks terrified, but he still looks directly in Geralt’s eyes as he speaks, “I did know of the old King’s crimes, but I did not think they were right. I tried my best to protect those I could and I tried to make everyone accept that it was wrong.”
“That’s the best I’m going to get, isn’t it?” It’s a throwaway comment, mumbled at Jaskier, but it's perhaps not as quiet as Geralt had been intending because the lord responds.
“Probably, my lord. Unless you want to execute all of the nobility… I fear we all knew of his… urges.”
Geralt turns pleading eyes to Jaskier, who can only respond by raising an eyebrow. They’d not quite discussed this turn of event though they should have considered there might be some people that knew about it but were powerless to stop it as they could, coming from outside.
Geralt sighs, but then pronounces his ruling, “I guess that makes you king. What’s your name?”
“Uh…” the lord seems at a loss. “Szymon, my lord.”
“Well, King Szymon, uh… congratulations,” he says it almost like a question and Jaskier can tell he’s coming to an end of his social abilities for the day. “You may continue the interrogations. Eskel, support him?”
Eskel meets Jaskier’s eyes after responding, “of course, Wolf.” They’re not at the level of silent communication Jaskier and Geralt are, but they’re good enough at it that Jaskier understands the message imploring him to take care of Geralt.
He manages to get Geralt out of the way as the newly declared King Szymon takes the vacant throne to do as he was ordered. What follows are a gruelling couple of hours as the rest of the court plead their case. Most say the same as Szymon, some of them lie. They don’t execute all of them, only those who actively helped Henselt or those who are too insistent that he’d done nothing wrong.
When they are done, Geralt rises and goes to leave, only to be stopped by Szymon, who has mostly recovered from his shock.
“What will you do now, my lord?” There’s an edge in his voice, one that doesn’t quite speak of fear but of slight trepidation.
Geralt’s response is simple, “leave. Return to Kaer Morhen. We won’t be back until you or your lords act as monsters.”
As they exit the hall, King Szymon bows, a gesture Jaskier would have understood if he weren’t so bone tired.