It All Comes Back To You, Doesn't It?

by 1100200

Summary:

           Jaskier has longed for a life outside of Lettenhoven's walls, one filled with music and laughter, but instead he sits sequestered in his room and taken out like a show dog. Despite ruining his own reputation deliberately, with escaped nights to a nearby bar and tumbles with a few friendly maids, his father has finally promised his hand off to a woman in need of her own pet. The leaves are falling, and a spring wedding is being planned.
           Now he's being taken out of his golden cage and has to survive the pageantry his father will put him through at the Redenian Palace, hoping to one-up other visiting nobles and bolster his own ego. The famous Warlord of the North, the White Wolf himself, is set to be dining with the king and his advisors over a supposed treaty for the next week. The whispers of Redenia warned of coming bloodshed.

Notes:

I guarantee you I have read almost every 'Warlord Geralt' fanfic on ao3, and I am not ashamed to admit I need more. So I decided to write my "perfect" Geraskier Warlord fic.

I am currently working through my finals (I graduate undergrad in spring!) so the update schedule may be spotty, but I have winter break with lots of free time. I do not know how long this will be, I'm a rambler and have an outline, so however long it takes to finish, I guess.

Here is a teaser for the first chapter, I'm starting the second chapter now, but I would love comments and such before ya'll get the nitty gritty.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1: A Bit of a Teaser

He had once held pride in his determination and grasp on hope. Hope for the little taste of freedom that lay outside the stone walls, bittersweet but refreshing. His hope for a different life had started dwindling after he came of age, as Jaskier had grown taller, sturdier, and more stubborn against his so-called family. His plans foiled, one by one, starting the morning of his 16^th as his father strode in and carefully watched as maids upturned the room, collecting anything hidden, leaving his room almost as bare as an unused guest room.

            Jewelry was kept away from him. His coin pouch was not to be seen again, no matter how many corners Jasier checked. Although he could snatch something grandiose and hideous from his mother’s collection, more guards followed him than ever before.

            Jaskier thanks the Gods above his father found it in his so-kind heart to allow him to keep his instruments, even if it was for the sake of his father’s own sanity and image. If the Viscount had known his lute was his most prized possession, he surely would’ve taken it and used it as firewood.

            Which brings him to where he is today, uncomfortable, dreaming of a life on the road as a bard, as his fingers numbly play the soft tune to a lullaby. Soft and sweet. Relaxing. The opposite of how the hand in his hair makes him feel and the expression on the chaperone’s face.

            Bright blue silk with silver embroidery. Dancing on top of a table in a crowded pub. Tavern food and better company.

            “Now you must hear this, Julie dear. Marchioness Catrin’s courting has been postponed for another season! Now what must be going on over there?”

            The chaperone’s face stayed stone still across the room, straight backed in his chair.

            Jaskier’s playing doesn’t falter.

            Countess Herta of Sielce is undeniably an advantages match. As his father puts it, he’s lucky to get any interest at all, the third son of a Viscount that he is, with “an ungrateful attitude and an instability of mind”. If anything, the Viscount’s passive aggressive comments on intrigued her, and she seemed inclined to gain an additional pet in her mansion.

            Jaskier’s attempts at sabotaging the forced union were met with looks of pity and fondness by the countess, as if he we a newborn pup still learning the use of its teeth. Bad manners, dirty clothing, missing flowers, and keeping mute did little to dissuade her; and his father only enjoyed attempting to correct his behavior in private with his whip. He eventually had stopped going out of his way to create a mess, the energy given to the effort was wasteful in its results.

            “That Marquess of Dorian was dirt from the beginning! My advice is never taken, I’m ignored!” Herta draped herself back over the lounge she was resting on, delicately placing the back of her hand on her forehead. She tosses the edge of her long blood red gown in dramatics, draping it over his far shoulder.

            “Julien, darling! Maybe once summer comes, we may travel to Tretogor for some luxury, glide through the Marquess’s mansion and down the river”.

            Her fingertips glide down his upper arm, brushing off his shoulder with a cress. He continues plucking the strings of his lute, eyes focused on the chaperone’s shoes, his back is starting to ache from sitting cross-legged on the floor for the last hour or so.

            Summer traveling. Once spring comes, he’ll be married on paper, primped by maids each morning, and bustled about like some sort of eye candy of a husband. The most perfect pet the countess has in her collection, able to sing, and strut, and produce an heir.

            Jaskier knows the openings for freedom are closing as the leaves change color and fall.

            He plays a little harder.

Chapter 2: Clipped Wings

Summary:

The scars adorning his face shown like lines of silver in a stone, faded with age and with it each a memory. A witcher, one who has come down from the keep in Kaedwen mountains to, most likely, meet his brethren for the treaty.

Notes:

This is the entire first chapter!

I expect about 7 chapters, depending, again, on how much detail I try to shove in.
I may be crazy and already thinking about like Act 2/sequel

If any details seem similar to other Accidental Warlord fics, just know I reread many of them and have internalized details. That being said, at no point am I attempting to copy anything like scenes or specifics, I simply love their tropes.

Read my favorites: Tracing A Sparrow on Snow-Crested Ground by whisperedstory and A Sort of Courting by thinksleep

            He had once held pride in his determination and grasp on hope. Hope for the little taste of freedom that lay outside the stone walls, bittersweet but refreshing. His hope for a different life had started dwindling after he came of age, as Jaskier had grown taller, sturdier, and more stubborn against his so-called family. His plans foiled, one by one, starting the morning of his 16^th as his father strode in and carefully watched as maids upturned the room, collecting anything hidden, leaving his room almost as bare as an unused guest room.

            Jewelry was kept away from him. His coin pouch was not to be seen again, no matter how many corners Jasier checked. Although he could snatch something grandiose and hideous from his mother’s collection, more guards followed him than ever before.

            Jaskier thanks the Gods above his father found it in his so-kind heart to allow him to keep his instruments, even if it was for the sake of his father’s own sanity and image. If the Viscount had known his lute was his most prized possession, he surely would’ve taken it and used it as firewood.

            Which brings him to where he is today, uncomfortable, dreaming of a life on the road as a bard, as his fingers numbly play the soft tune to a lullaby. Soft and sweet. Relaxing. The opposite of how the hand in his hair makes him feel and the expression on the chaperone’s face.

            Bright blue silk with silver embroidery. Dancing on top of a table in a crowded pub. Tavern food and better company.

            “Now you must hear this, Julie dear. Marchioness Catrin’s courting has been postponed for another season! Now what must be going on over there?”

            The chaperone’s face stayed stone still across the room, straight backed in his chair.

            Jaskier’s playing doesn’t falter.

            Countess Herta of Sielce is undeniably an advantageous match. As his father puts it, he’s lucky to get any interest at all, the third son of a Viscount that he is, with “an ungrateful attitude and an instability of mind”. If anything, the Viscount’s passive aggressive comments on intrigued her, and she seemed inclined to gain an additional pet in her mansion.

            Jaskier’s attempts at sabotaging the forced union were met with looks of pity and fondness by the countess, as if he we a newborn pup still learning the use of its teeth. Bad manners, dirty clothing, missing flowers, and keeping mute did little to dissuade her; and his father only enjoyed attempting to correct his behavior in private with his whip. He eventually had stopped going out of his way to create a mess, the energy given to the effort was wasteful in its results.

            “That Marquess of Dorian was dirt from the beginning! My advice is never taken, I’m ignored!” Herta draped herself back over the lounge she was resting on, delicately placing the back of her hand on her forehead. She tosses the edge of her long blood red gown in dramatics, draping it over his far shoulder.

            “Julien, darling! Maybe once summer comes, we may travel to Tretogor for some luxury, glide through the Marquess’s mansion and down the river”.

            Her fingertips glide down his upper arm, brushing off his shoulder with a cress. He continues plucking the strings of his lute, eyes focused on the chaperone’s shoes, his back is starting to ache from sitting cross-legged on the floor for the last hour or so.

            Summer traveling. Once spring comes, he’ll be married on paper, primped by maids each morning, and bustled about like some sort of eye candy of a husband. The most perfect pet the countess has in her collection, able to sing, and strut, and produce an heir.

            Jaskier knows the openings for freedom are closing as the leaves change color and fall.

            He plays a little harder.

~,~

            The cold air stung through his silk trousers. He had not made it further than the gardens in a couple months now, and those times were always warmer.

            The highest room in the mansion had not deterred him, but even looking back he can admit he was acting rashly in his attempts to leave a locked bedroom. He was lucky he did not break anything when he fell the last couple feet, results of a guard throwing rocks nearby to startle him down. That was maybe towards the start of the spring season.

            His brothers were standing silently off to his left. Before them the Viscount of Lettenhoven was yelling at house servants packing the carriage and preparing the horses for their travels. The air was tense, the viscount’s feverish behavior driving everyone around him mad with nerves.

            The Warlord of the North was on his way to Tretogor with a treaty in one hand and a sword in the other. It was up to the King to decide which he’d choose.

            For Jaskier and his brothers, it meant accompanying the Viscount to the castle for the negotiations that would take place, as well as potentially being shown off to other lords as a form of posturing. With a betrothed at home which he, supposedly, was in the stages of courting, and the reputation of his ‘ungratefulness’, he knows he will be kept to his rooms much of this trip. It would be disastrous for Lettenhoven’s reputation if he were not to show his face at all, however.

            ~.~

            Their party travels South through Redenia for days, stopping at small, deprived villages filled with people who gaze upon the carriages with wonder. Children point at the horses dressed in fine leather and silver chains. Elders huddle together and whisper to each other. It makes Jaskier want to throw up and turn into dust.

            The time in the carriage is long and dreary, blood red drapes covering most of the windows, blocking most of the sunlight. His father valued his privacy, and had scoffed at the idea of townsfolk viewing their parade on the way to Tretogor, but exploded at the idea of being seen as a novelty. So, the drapes were drawn shut to avoid peeping eyes of those his father deemed lesser.

            The conversation was lackluster, for Jaskier kept his mouth shut and didn’t give his opinion on the terrible topics his family chose. Politics, money, and women. It was not often they discussed such matters in front of him, he was left out of his own betrothal arrangements, and politics are something that they keep quite hushed. It is hard to have a conversation about the state of the continent and it’s people when many noblemen would rather eat their own hat than discuss the Warlord of the North.

            Their views bordered on psychotic, simultaneously believing themselves superior to the witcher’s in the north, while also fearing that they have the capabilities to wipe their civilizations off the continent.

            Two days out of Tretogor they arrive at a slightly larger town with an established Baron; one who eagerly allows them to stay, ignoring the Viscount’s tight scowl and growling. The mansion is large and pristine, not as gaudy as the Lettenhovens’. Dinner is had with Baron and his family, Jaskier sits towards the end of the table with the fourth daughter. There isn’t much conversation, as he takes to instead attempting to ignore the brash discussion happening at the head of the table. It may be that the Baron learns who he has truly invited into his home, because dinner is called early, with each of their family being shown to a room, their accompanied guards stationed outside the doors.

            Hallways down his father and brothers crash to their beds, barely able to take their shoes off in their exhaustion. Traveling is hard seated in a carriage.

            Despite his own exhaustion, Jaskier’s head buzzes and his eyes dart around the room. A room that is plain, but wonderful in its unfamiliarity. He doesn’t bother trying the door behind him.

            Taking advantage of a room not pillaged to spite him, he speeds over to the drawers of the room and creaks it open to look inside.

 Nothing.

He looks atop the dresser to the fine jewelry box sitting to the left. Opening it he finds two silver rings, both beautiful with intricate vines woven together to form a band. He slides them on his ring and fore finger.

A quick glance around the room shows the standard fineries that make up a guest room in a mansion; silk sheets, fine drapes, large oil paintings. Jaskier’s stomach twinges at just the rings on his fingers, what will hopefully buy him supplies and a night of food and can’t bring himself to continue ransacking the room like a thug. This is all he would take. He would get started in life then he would earn his own coin with the lute on his back, his sole companion in life.

The window unlatches easily, only a small squeak sounding from its hinges, and Jaskier blows out a breath in disbelief. He’s only on the third floor, a vast improvement from his previous accommodations.

 He swings the window out farther, swings his feet over the ledge, and starts edging his feet down the wall till he felt what he hoped was a solid foothold. With no sounds below him, he starts to make his decent, his knuckles aching and lute shifting as his shoulders moved. One foot down, then another. His fingers clenched and ached as he held on tightly to crevices that were barely there.

Finally reaching a height he could land safely from, Jaskier stepped back and off the wall, catching himself on bent legs and then arms to steady himself. With only the silver rings adorning his fingers, his lute, and his dark fur-lined coat to keep him warm and hide him in the dark, he took off in a sprint into the trees, unknowing of his direction.

            ~.~

The moon was starting to dip in the sky when Jaskier decided to call it quits. As much as he has been praised for his stamina in other endeavors, the weariness of constant anxiety has settled deep within his bones and the exhaustion has overcome his adrenaline. The trees were continuous before him, with no lights of towns in sight.

            Here, though, was a small clearing filled with long grass and wildflower. In the light of the early rays of sun, he decided to rest his eyes before he continued his travels. Curling up in the curved root of a tree, pillowed by moss and hidden by brush, he allowed his eyes to close peacefully for the first time in years.

            ~.~

            Footsteps.

            Sticks were breaking nearby. Leaves crunching.

            Jaskier startles, his breath leaving his body, whipping his head to locate the source of the sound, animal or guard.

            What he doesn’t expect is to almost connect his forehead with another man’s, a very large man at that.

            Jaskier squawks, scrabbling backward, but with the tree he was sleeping on there is no where to run.

            The man’s hands go up in the air, palms forward, sad worried eyes searching Jaskier’s face as he takes a step back and stares. There is silence for a great too many moments, as Jaskier catches his breath and stares back.

            Jaskier had thought he was a man, but while he pants anxious breaths out, he makes eye contact with beautiful golden eyes, sliced through with a pupil like a cat, now half dilated in the soft morning light. The scars adorning his face shown like lines of silver in a stone, faded with age and with it each a memory. A witcher, one who has come down from the keep in Kaedwen mountains to, most likely, meet his brethren for the treaty.

            The witcher still does not speak, eyes glinting with what may be amusement, as Jaskier starts to sit up straighter, dusting off the black of his cloak and straightening his doublet. He hopes the cloak had blocked the worst of the mud and dirt from his only silks.

            “Well, that’s certainly a way to wake a man up! Quite rude if I do say so myself” Jaskier harumphs.

            The witcher’s eyes glinted. He’s kneeling in front of him like some sort of dashing knight saving the princess from a broken ankle, knees in the dirt, getting leather trousers dirty. The swords on his back made him uneasy, however, as no guard Jaskier had ever met had held a sword as large as the ones that adorned the witcher.

            “Are you hurt”.

            His voice comes from his chest, soft and growling, golden eyes now roaming over Jaskier’s body in search of, apparently, wounds. He, however, only can feel his cheek light up in embarrassment as he becomes more aware of what days traveling to Tretogor has left, days of sweat leaving silk sticking to his body in odd areas.

            “No!” Jaskier assures, hands brushing his doublet again, cloak falling from his shoulder from where it had acted as a blanket overnight.

            “I just!” He glances around, there’s a couple sheep eating in the field close by. “I just... got lost! Dreadful me, I’m so bad with directions. Get turned over on top of myself! As the sun had set, I figured I would conserve my energy before getting back on the road to.. to… to town! Yes.”

            Looking back up from his fingernails, he meets quizzical eyes set in a face made of stone.

“Hmm” The witcher stands swiftly, pauses a moment, then reaches out a palm as to help him up.

            Jaskier only pauses a second, fearful of trusting the wrong person so early in his escape, but what did he have to lose. The witcher had not grabbed at him yet to haul him back home, appeared worried for his health, and not to mention is dashingly handsome. Taking his hand, calluses meet calluses, and the witcher hauls him to his feet like it takes no effort at all.

            “Woah!” Jaskier gasps, not quite expecting the sudden shift in gravity.

            “My apologies”, the witcher grumbles, hand ghosting down over his arm, not yet falling to his side.

            Times stops for another moment, as if this witcher could control the passage of minutes with only his golden gaze. Jaskier questions if the weather was cold enough for him to have passed on while he slept the night before, and now was being seen to the void by an other-worldly entity.

            The witcher grunts, stepping back without turning away and gestures to his right with a large hand. A quiet chestnut mare, seeming to be actively ignoring the tension present in the same field. A lonesome sheep has found its way close, curious, and is also ignored by the horse.

            “I’m heading south to Dagmar. May I see you in that direction?” He murmured, keeping his eyes on his own mare.

            “That would be much appreciated, Master Witcher”

Notes:

Please tell me you like this lol, I am but a softie

This fanfiction has been a great way to procrastinate with my grad applications. It's mostly for me, I love to write, but I would love for others to enjoy this too.

Anyway, I do not have much experience with dialogue, so I am trying my best. Trying to keep everyone in character, ya know?

Chapter 3: A Marvelous Fall, It's Been

Summary:

“Oh, it’s quite a pleasure to meet you, Geralt! My name is j... ya.. Jaskier! Jaskier the Bard, at your service!” He pairs it with a flourishing bow, one with manners that would scandalize his mother. He hopes the witcher doesn’t take too much notice of him stumbling between his two names.

Notes:

Here I am again, posting the next chapter, because I have IDEAS flowing. Writing this also makes me give major props to those who write like 10,000 word long chapters, 4,000 words is like 10 Microsoft word pages

I hope you all enjoy sappiness; there's a good bit. Not too much though, you'll have to wait a bit for it to really be sappy. Perfect chapter if your love language in acts of service /shhh/

I do not know if all updates will be this soon, I have responsibilities that I'm ignoring.

Finally, this is dedicated to all you hot people out there also going home for the holidays to only deal with family members you can't stand but can't cut off ~sending my love

           The road is not far from where Jaskier had fallen asleep. If he wasn’t so glad for his current luck in aid, he would be more embarrassed. Side by side they passed small farms and thankfully no other travelers. In the distance, to the side of the gravel road, sheep milled about the grass. The only sounds were nature, two sets of footsteps, and hooves on gravel.

            Jaskier was feeling uncharacteristically nervous, for once. It was not often he had the opportunity to get to know someone without being known as the son of a Viscount, altering how he would flirt and get to know another. But now here he is, in front of a witcher, who held so many stories, and a face carved by the greatest sculptors.

            He starts to hum as he walks, first his chord progressions, then a song he had heard recently played by Lettenhoven’s bard in court.

            “Do you perform?”

            The question startles Jaskier out of his thoughts. The witcher is already looking at him, then nodes to the lute on his back.

            “Well, yes, I do when I get the opportunity to”. Jaskier doesn’t quite feel like he’s lying. “Opportunities are fleeting, however, for the courts do not prefer the same songs as the common folk”.

            “Hmm” is the only response he gets.

            “Not that I perform at courts often! It’s just as of recently that my travels have been postponed by complications. Now! Local taverns are truly where you can express talent with music, nothing inspires a bard more than a dancing crowd! As long as you watch for the handsy local ladies when you’re performing atop a table.”

            The witcher’s golden eyes haven’t stopped watching him as he talked, speeding up as he emphasized his words with swinging hands. Jaskier turns as he strides, glancing back to the man behind him.

            “Now I’m sure you are used to that sort of behavior”

            His statement is met with the curve of one side of the witcher’s mouth, and a shy glance to the ground. He had hoped he would’ve found it funnier, but it only makes Jaskier want to try again to get him to smile.

            “Hmm. Bards are known for their prowess.”

            Jaskier laughs, swinging in his steps. “Oh, how I wish! Now you must have a lovely lady witcher back in that keep in Kaedwen! How far of a travel, that is.”

            The witcher hmms at him again.

            “No lover.” the witcher grumbles “Before your times, witcher’s would travel the entirety of the continent. Dagmar is not far.”

            “Before my time!” Jaskier squawks, stopping in place and turning around to the man again. “How young do you think I am! Typically, I would be flattered, but your comment does not sound like flattery. Be careful with your answer, my good Witcher, for I may not be a vain man, but I will not be told I look like a preteen!”

            The witcher comes to a stop in front of him, golden eyes filled with mirth.

            “For even I know better than to guess a man’s age. Witchers age much slower than humans. I’ve seen many things in your lifetime.”

            It’s Jaskier turn to hmm. With his hands on his hips, he nods, then intones “well then, if you’ve been alive so very long, you must have seen many exciting things. I am incredibly interested in the stories of your past battles and monsters, in Lettenhoven, the rumors do not paint the Warlord and his people in the best of lights.”

            The witcher walks past him now, holding out an arm to start leading Jaskier forward again, a large hand ghosting over his lower back. Jaskier obliges his silent request.

            “I’ve not heard much about the creatures that lurk this continent. The most I’ve heard is about the occasional drowner, if I’m not mistaken, attacking a local farmer.”

            “Witcher’s would hunt monsters for coin, traveling from town to town. Many monsters were seen.”

            “Well yes, but what sorts?”

            “Lots of drowners.” the witcher says with a smirk, as if making a joke to himself. It’s, unfortunately, very attractive, and Jaskier doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He still isn’t convinced he hasn’t passed on, and his dreams of freedom and love are being played out for him on his path to the void.

            Jaskier continues to study the man at his side, the witcher’s shoulders are wide, hulking next to him. His hair is messy with specks of dirt in the white locks, hanging freely over his shoulders. His fingers itch to sweep the foliage off the back of his head. Despite only being a few inches shorter, he feels quite small next to the man in black leather with swords at his back. Small, but strangely safe.

            “In my travels I will certainly see and learn about more creepies, I’m sure. The consequences of traveling the continent! Now, my good witcher, what is your name so that I may use you as a muse for a song!”

            The witcher appears sheepish for a second, shy.

            “Geralt”

            It’s ordinary but fits him.

            “Oh, it’s quite a pleasure to meet you, Geralt! My name is j... ya.. Jaskier! Jaskier the Bard, at your service!” He pairs it with a flourishing bow, one with manners that would scandalize his mother. He hopes the witcher doesn’t take too much notice of him stumbling between his two names.

            If he could help it, he would never be introduced by Julien Alfred Pankratz, third son to the Viscount of Lettenhoven, future Count of Sielce, ever again.

            He doesn’t think he was ever Julien.

            ~.~

            The sun makes its way across the sky as the two of them continue walking South to Dagmar. The lonely farms were now left behind them, but they have yet to start seeing the trees give way to town-centered buildings and houses. Eventually the witcher steers them off the road to a grassy area where a tree lies on its side, slowly going back to the earth.

            Geralt guides him to the log with his hand hovering over his lower back, not quite making contact with the dark heavy cloak that adorns him. While Jaskier sits, the witcher steps back to his mare and removes her saddle bags and saddle, giving her a break to graze. From his pack he produces two pouches.

            Coming back to the log, he sits close, less than a foot of space between them. Jaskier continues gazing at him, content with allowing the witcher to direct their course that day. He watched as he seemingly gathered his own thoughts. Geralt then took his hand, cupping it in his larger one, and poured the contents of the pouch into his palm. A collection of nuts and berries, of which Jaskier cannot identify, but watching the witcher pour some in his own palm and toss them back in one helping, lunch for the day, and he starts picking at his own portion.

            Side by side the two of them eat through the contents of the first pouch, eventually moving to the hard bread contained in the second. Jaskier does not know the last time he’s had such a simple meal, but it may be one of the best he’s ever had.

            Once he’s finished what he’s given, he cannot help but prattle on to fill the silence. He praised the scenery before them and its comradery with the animals that lived on it. The farm in the distance contained a few cows as well, that he could not help but imagine as pampered pets, providing milk for the family. Gazing at the chestnut mare that now is grazing before them, Jaskier compliments her loyalty, staying close to them as they rest. From there he moves on to the old stallion he was taught to ride on when he was younger, one that enjoyed eating the hair from your head and running at high speeds at inopportune times.

            Turning back to the witcher, he was staring at Jaskier with a look he could not identify.

            “Were you lying to me earlier.”

            “Lying! Now what was I lying about!”

            “Being injured.”

            Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer that question, for they have been traveling for at least a couple of hours now together.

            “If I was hurt, best believe you would hear a great deal more complaining about it. You worried me, my dear Witcher.”

            Geralt hmms at him, eyes leaving his face and scanning his body. Jaskier blushes hotly.

            The witcher pauses in his thought, mulling his words, before “I can smell the blood now”

            “Smell!?” Jaskier gapes. “Now I can assure you that I am not injured nor bleeding! What a nasty thing to smell! I am perfectly fine; don’t you worry darling”

            Again, he’s met with a hmm, and then the witcher is leaning forward and grasping his right ankle with a soft grip.

            Jaskier squawks as he is twisted and tipped so his back lays against the bark of the tree. Geralt slips his shoes off with a quick movement, tipping his leg back to examine his foot through the sock. From where he lays, even he can see the red streaking down to his heel.

            “Hmm”

            Without another word, Geralt stands and moves back to his horse and his bags. Rummaging through, he produces what looks like a roll of bandages, a flask, and a tin of something.

            “Will I appreciate the help, darling, you’re manhandling was quite ungentlemanly” Jaskier sniffs, trying not to find the witcher’s straightforward methods amusing.

            He sits next to him again, as Jaskier has lifted himself up on his elbows to watch his actions. Geralt grabs his ankle without a word, flinging off his sock in another quick motion, smirking as he does it. With his other hand he grabs the flask he brought over, and uses his teeth to twist the top off, not letting go of him.

            “This may hurt”, and he tips some of the bottle on his poor ankle.

            “A little more warning is necessary at times!” Jaskier yelps, flinching to pull his foot away, but it’s held firmly.

            “My apologies”, another splash of alcohol on his blister. Another yelp.

            He watches as the witcher carefully wipes the back of his foot clean, applying a paste from the tin, then wrapping his ankle with clean bandage. He takes a moment to examine his handiwork, grunting, before laying his foot back on the log. Leaning down, he grabs Jaskier’s other foot before he can raise it himself, and again with quick hands flings his shoe and sock off.

            Geralt gives this ankle the same treatment; a splash of alcohol met with a yelp, careful wiping of blood, then paste and clean bandages. By the end of it all Jaskier is so red is the face he’s surprised his feet bled in the first place. He hasn’t been nursed like this by another in years, since he was a young boy prone to scuffed knees. Even then he was handed off to a Lettenhoven nanny or nurse and told to shush.

            “Thank you, my kind Witcher.”

            Another hmm.

            The witcher bandaging his ankles does not quite fit the stories that are passed around court and the continent. Hands that have the capability to wield heavy swords and take on creatures with multiple heads were never said to possess quite this much care.

            It made Jaskier angry, undeniably angry, at the continent and its continued manipulation of the truth. Too many years was he told that his only worth as a third son was to marry for the family’s power and aid a higher-powered woman with an heir. His music lessons were given to keep him out of trouble and provide Lettenhoven with something to brag about. He was lucky he never quite cared about others’ bad opinions about him, both in music and his worth, as often they’ve seen him only in passing and got news directly from the Viscount. However, while he was kept locked away from most political news and rumors, even he has heard what the continent says about witchers. That they were bloodthirsty barely human creatures, ones that stole children and burned down anything behind them. Rapers and pillagers of villages and looters of gold. Greedy monsters that sat atop their mountains and would wipe out the continent below them one day if they find themselves humored.

            If the Warlord of the North was anything like Geralt, Jaskier would be willing to guess all the rumors were false. He may be large and intimidating, silent and gruff, but in the few hours he’s known him, all he’s been is kind. Kind and careful with him, tending to his wounds and expressing interest in his talents and stories. The image of Geralt killing drowners for local farmers, shyly not being able to meet their eyes when they thank him and ply him with coin, makes Jaskier smile softly.

            Geralt finally lets his ankle go, placing his foot flat on the trunk of the tree. He meets Jaskier’s eyes, cat slits dilating ever so slightly, before he looks away and stands up.

            The witcher goes back to his things, collecting Jaskier’s discarded shoes on the way. He deposits everything in his hands, places the saddle back on his mare, then comes back with a roll of wool.

            Sitting next to him again, he carefully picks up his bandaged ankle and unrolls a gray sock over his foot, twice as big as he usually wears. The witcher does the same to his other foot, then again lets them rest on the log.

            Geralt makes eye contact, scrutinizing Jaskier’s face. He hums at whatever he sees there, then looks forward towards the distance again. Whatever is in his thoughts causes him to hum again.

            He stands, then moves before Jaskier with a face full of determination and crafted by the great artists of the world.

            Jaskier can’t help but lilt his head back and offer a warm grin at the witcher, before swinging his legs over the side back to the ground.

            “Well, thank you, my dear.” Jaskier laughs, “Who knows if I would’ve survived without you here to whisk me off my feet. Now may I have my shoes back so I may stand?”

            He receives the typical grunt in return, what he now knows is a common form of communication for the witcher. “You can ride Roach.”

            “Roach?”

            Jaskier’s question is cut off abruptly as Geralt, in one fluid movement, tucks an arm under his knees and an arm around his back, lifting him off the tree with ease.

            He’ll only admit to the blush that suddenly warms his face again, however, he will never tell a soul about the mortifying ‘meep’ that left his mouth. His arms curl around the witcher’s shoulders, attempting to steady himself. Geralt seems to be enjoying himself, a proud curl to his mouth and a sparkle in his eye as he slightly readjusts his hold on him, then begins moving.

            “Roach.”

            Jaskier is quickly brought closer to the chestnut mare that had been traveling with them. He’s met with a look, which he can only describe as annoyance, from two large wet black-marble eyes. He reaches out a hand for sniffing, which she partakes in for only a second before looking at her master with a shake.

            “If the lady is okay with it, I guess”

            “Hmmm, she is.”

            He finds himself unceremoniously hauled atop the horse with little struggle from Geralt. Roach, thankfully, only takes a couple of seconds to express contempt at the situation before going back to patch of wildflowers nearby. Jaskier doesn’t know whether to be thankful she is tolerating him, or fearful of what the rest of the ride entails. Geralt does not seem too worried, however, nodding to himself before going back to putting together his packs.

            Jaskier’s bloodied socks are left strung somewhere in the grass.

            Soon they are making their way down the road again, this time Jaskier sat upon his knight’s contemptuous stead, patched up and with a full stomach.

            Jaskier can’t quite believe his luck.

~.~

            The town of Dagmar appears before them with the sun behind its buildings. It would’ve been a more pleasant sight if Jaskier hadn’t spent the good portion of the day being seen to by a very gorgeous witcher. The better portion of the last few hours had seen him playing his favorites for the witcher on his lute, going on tangents about recent drama he had heard from within the walls of the courts, and composing in his head about the long snow hair of the witcher leading the horse he was sat upon.

            The sun was starting to set, turning the sky pink and lavender as it left. The lights of the town shone before them as they made their way down the gravel path towards the cluster of buildings that made up the center. Jaskier doesn’t quite know what to do with the pit in his stomach.

            They both move to pull up the hoods of their cloaks as they cross the first farms, Jaskier missing the sight of his hair already. Townsfolk are milling around in a hurry as many people’s dining hour has already begun. People are flocking down the roads that hold signs showing the way to the tavern, much more are making their way deeper into town. Despite not being able to see the center courtyard, Jaskier can hear the music coming from between thatched roofs.

            Geralt turns them towards the tavern, leading them past houses and storefronts that have already closed up for the night. At the end of the road, they find a lively bar with a stable attached. He drops the reins of his mare and steps to Jaskier’s left.

            Jaskier meets golden eyes and swings his feet to one side of the saddle. Geralt stops him from dismounting with a hand on his calve, moving to rummage in Roach’s side bags. From there he produces his shoes, which he had almost forgotten about, and starts to unlace them.

            Despite Jaskier’s attempt to take the shoe from him, the witcher dodges easily, and moves forward to carefully slide it over the oversized socks on his feet. Jaskier feels like he’s read a fairytale that may start like this.

            Once his shoes are on, Geralt helps him slide to the ground with his hands slightly on his waist. He doesn’t move away, however, once he has his feet under him, golden eyes trained on his face with unknown emotion.

            Jaskier can’t help but smile and thank him for the help. He feels quite breathless all of a sudden.

            The tavern doors fly open, a man is thrown out the front doors by three others and lands on his front, the light from the building nearly blinding for a second. Geralt takes a step back from him, glancing towards the building and the stables, and Jaskier mourns the loss of the warmth and his gaze. The man still lies a couple paces from them

            “Will I see you perform?” Geralt mumbles, not looking at him.

            “At the tavern? Oh! Well, if they allow me to, I guess” Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer. He’s just now finding that his plans for his future consisted of mainly getting out of Lettenhoven, then making his way to a place to sleep each night. Now here he is, a nobleman with little experience out and about, in a large town, with his lute, and a witcher who he’s told he’s a bard.

            “With all these people about, I may play outside for a bit, see if anyone has coin to spare! I am also quite tired; we’ve walked a long while. I may find a room and wait till the sun rises again. I’m sure there are many accommodations in this busy town.”

            He’s met with a hum. “I have people waiting for me near town center, I do not leave till tomorrow’s light. You would be… You are welcome to travel with us.”

            The offer is more than Jaskier expected, especially now finding out that the witcher was most likely meeting up with others of his kin to make their way closer to Tretogor. He would be another mouth to feed, with no pack of his own and little outdoor survival skills. However, the fact that Geralt wants to see him again may drown his doubts.

            “I would be most honored, my dear witcher” Jaskier whispers, “For I’ll see you soon? After you make contact with your people?”

            “Aye.”

            And with that Geralt picks up Roach’s reins and makes his way back up the road they came on, back towards the liveliness in the town’s center. His first couple steps, Jaskier doesn’t break his golden gaze. Fondness is reflected back in his eyes, watching his witcher go up the hill then out of sight. With a sigh, Jaskier turns back to the tavern, wondering if he can convince the owners to let him sing for his dinner.

~.~

            Unfortunately for him, there is a bard already playing, wearing vibrant yellow silks and spinning absurdly through the crowd. While the performance might not be the best, it rouses the crowds enough for coin to be tossed to the bard, and if stray coppers find their way to Jaskier’s pocket, it’s no one’s business but his own.

            He pays for a beer, watching the merriment of the townsfolk. Across the bar a group of young women titter to themselves while watching a nearby group of farm men play Gwent. Towards the stairs there are several soldiers, quietly conversing. Behind the bar stands a woman with broad shoulders pouring beer into mugs. For the first time, Jaskier doesn’t know how to be among others.

            After watching the room for a while, he inquires with the barmaid about a possible room. His luck may be turning sour, he thinks to himself, as with the incoming band of witcher, crowds were drawn, and rooms were scarce. She does, however, offer him the hayloft of the stables outside, of which he accepts. A roof over one’s head is better than nothing at all, he supposes.

            He briefly wonders if Geralt had accommodations with his brethren. As much as Jaskier doesn’t mind sleeping rough while on the run, the witcher must have duties to attend to, and for that needs a good night’s sleep in a safe place. He wonders how easy it is to sleep outside the Northern keep, as a witcher, surely, they must constantly be on edge about attackers?

            With a brief hope that Geralt will be more comfortable than him that night, Jaskier finishes his drink. The dinner rush is only just starting to die down, those not staying for the late-night performances making their way to the doors. From outside, he can hear the start of more commotion, whether in happiness or anger he does not know.

            More townsfolk make their way out the door now, chatting as they go. A young woman dashes in through the door, saying something to the table of ladies he saw earlier, and they all go chittering out back out. A few of the younger boys in the room follow them out, as well as a few soldiers. The game of Gwent continues.

            The barmaid must have seen him watching the run out the door. She takes pity on him.

            “The young ones in town are quite excited to see the Witchers’ progression towards Tretogor. They’ve split up and crossed Redenia into separate groups, it’s rumored that the group stopping here contains the Warlord and his counsel. Judging by the flurry of folks that just left, I’m guessing they’ve gotten wind of something that is proving the rumors true.”

            “Towards Tretogor, I was sure that folks were more cautious towards witchers?”

            She gives him a significant look. “Aye, stories of darkness do not always deter the young folk. I’m sure many are hoping they’ll be the one to be able to see past the blood and battles, and just see the muscles.”

            More people are leaving the tavern now, clearly having heard about something better than the bard playing off key in the front, still spinning in quick circles. Jaskier wonders how close Geralt is to the Warlord’s counsel. Geralt was a kind man, despite only knowing him for a couple hours, Jaskier would bet coin he didn’t have that he helped out any way he could in Kingdom of Kaedwen.

            Leaving coins for his small bowl of stew that he had eaten far too quickly, Jaskier slips off his stool and makes his way outside the tavern. Up the hill the music is loud and swelling still, but he doesn’t make to join the festivities, positive his fingers would lay numb on the strings of his lute. His pocketed coin would grant him a night of rest without worry. Instead, he turns to the stable beside the tavern, where he would make his bed tonight. He would need his sleep, especially if he wanted to keep up with Geralt and his brethren the next morning.

            Inside the stable the temperature is pleasant, but not warm. For another night he is for once again grateful for the ugly old cloak his father bestowed upon him upon seeing his, much less warm, but much brighter and prettier previous cloak. He briefly regards the couple horses eating nearby, only a few looking back at him, before looking for the empty hayloft towards the end of the rows. While not the more comfortable of places, Jaskier thanks the Gods and his luck that he’s not withering back in a Redenia mansion.

            The pan to the back of his head may have proven he spoke too soon.

Notes:

Acts of service only, no foot fetishes *get out*

No kisses yet, yall gotta wait

Anyway, every comment, kudos, and even click on this fic makes me cry with joy, yall have no idea
<3

Chapter 4: All This Chaos

Summary:

Jaskier tongue sticks tackily to the roof of his mouth as he attempts to swallow. The room around him, still standing, point rapturous gazes at the man before the throne.

Notes:

Hello, hello, hello!
Happy late Christmas and/or second night of Hanukkah for all who celebrate!

This chapter took me a bit, but it is much longer than the previous chapters. There is a lot of angst in this chapter, you have been warned.

Minimal editing. I feel like I over describe things lol

PLEASE CHECK THE UPDATED TAG LIST

There will be descriptions of abuse, blood, and other such things. Read at your own risk.
If you wish to skip the active abuse, stop reading after they leave dinner and pick up where the Viscount starts talking ""
More in depth warnings are in the end notes for those of you who cannot decide.

            Traveling across Redania was never something he wanted to do. The Kings and Lords of the lands outside his mattered little to him, unless they were threatening his people or the people he protected. He wouldn’t be going to Tretogor if idiot Kings didn’t do idiotic things, like staving their own people and rounding up citizens they didn’t like.

            At the border of his own lands his accompanying ‘court’ and ‘guards’ split into three groups, set to travel on different routes to the castle to tour the villages between the two capitals.

            Eskel stayed with him on the main parade, as both his right hand but also as his only sense of calmness in the swirl of politics. He sent Yennefer with some of his selected Griffons and Wolves on the shortest path, hoping to have them arrive at the nearby town of Dagmar before the rest of the parade of Witchers. Hopefully she would be able to secure more resources before they enter the city walls, including a relatively safe place to sleep. They would need their rest in case everything goes to shit, and they get barred from Redania towns, forcing them to travel through the forests till the Kaedwen border.

            It would also grant her a few less nights of sleeping rough, something she had snipped at him about since he announced they were not portaling.

            He had sent Lambert and his cat as the leaders of the third group, combined with a couple Bears, a Viper, and a Manticore. Geralt hopes they make it back to the main gathering point before anyone’s head is removed from their shoulders.

            Despite what King Vizimir II of Redania believed; he was not there for the man’s crown. Being titled a Warlord was more than he expected decades ago, but the definition of monster was expanding, and he had a charge to protect from those who wished her harm.

            Years back they were burdened with the cockiness of Nilfgaard and its army; set to claim the land from their capital to the north mountains. Aedirn had a careful relationship with the Witchers of Kaedwen, their armies patrolled the border, but no one crossed. Trade and travel were allowed, but each side kept a wary eye on the riverbeds splitting the territory.

            Nilfgaard had infiltrated quickly, the refugees had reported later. The news of the bloodshed had not reached the keep till King Demavend III of Aerdirn’s head was on a spike, merely days after aerdirian southern border guards were slaughtered.

            They had set their sights on Kaedwen next, set to wipe their people off the continent for good and to claim the child they thought belonged to them. Geralt had claimed his daughter only a few years after he built his empire. He had promised Pavetta that no harm would come to her daughter, now his, and ultimately had formed a tenuous alliance with Cintra for the girl’s protection as heir to both thrones. Emhyr var Emreis, though present for the girl’s creation, had no claim on Geralt’s daughter of surprise.

            They were beaten back for now, though Geralt knows one day he will be forced to march towards the capital to destroy the other heads of the hydra. Emhyr had lost his head, and the kingdom of Nilfgaard lost the land they had claimed of Aedirn. He had little want for more land, instead placing a widely trusted noble as a Vassal King.

            Nilfgaard would potentially cause a problem in the future, Emhyr’s rhetoric had spread far in his courts, but for now they stayed in their corner of the continent. Now he had to handle the issues that have arouse with Redania and its own hateful rhetoric, as well as the bloody tales that are being told of the treatments of non-humans. Elvin families had started crossing the borders in Redania’s southern plains, dwarves making their ways from the northern rocks. With Temeria and Cintra’s attitude towards non-humans barely better, many refugees had set up in the plains of Kaedwen, some dwarf groups traveling more toward Aedirn.

            With a signed treaty, he would be able to make his way back to his keep in the mountains without taking any heads off. The sooner it was signed, the sooner he could be away from those who smelled of fear, disgust, and distress at the sight of him. Back to a place filled with camaraderie, warm fires, and liquored up cackling.

            Despite his love for his people, he had found himself alone for a day and a half, needing peace and the ingrained nature of slaying a ghoul that had taken up residence in a cabin outside Montecalvo. Eskel had let him go with a look, worried about him going on his own and his mental state with all the politics about. Geralt had reassured him with a grunt, admitting the need for a day with no title, and he had let him go with a bone-shaking pat on the back.

            The silence has done him some good, leaving his head clearer for the upcoming discussions with lords. He now would have a better presence of mind to stare off into space and ignore most of the nobles, letting Eskel handle it, instead of reaching across the table for someone’s throat.

            Geralt then continued towards Dagmar, a town that Eskel had promised good beer at, and where he would meet up with everyone else for the last stretch of road to Tretogor.

            A half day’s trip from the town’s edge, past the sheep eating wildflowers and bushes, was someone seemingly rasping for breath.

~…..~

            It felt like someone had replaced his brains with boulders, clunking against each other in his head and pressing against the inside of his skull. The light of heaven is blinding him.

            “He’s moved. You’re lucky for now, if he’s a vegetable you may see yourself loosing your hands.”

            “But Sir.”

            “If he ceases breathing, you’ll lose your tongue as well. Again, you are lucky the loss of his head is not worth the loss of yours.”

            The voices above him do not stop their conversation, but the boulders have started to crush the parts that process sound, and he currently can’t be bothered to rearrange them. His shoulders and ass ache under him as he lays on a hard floor, and his eyes sting.

            He couldn’t have drunk that much, could he have?

            Theres a thud of a door nearby, sending lightning through his temples. The heavens stop the light shining on his face, a reprieve that Jaskier is most grateful for. He keeps his eyes closed, a bit worried about what he will see when he opens them and not quite trusting his stomach to be able to handle sight.

            The floor starts to sway side to side, his shoulders following the motion across the hard flooring. Cursing, Jaskier squeezes his eyes tight, fighting through the nausea and the splitting plain it causes in his head. He wishes it was all the possible concussion.

            No more words come from any of the figures sitting above him. Jaskier makes to grab his head, trying to pillow his temple from the floor, and finds he must move both at once, tied together as they are. The rope is tight and biting into the skin of his wrists, movement creating more friction. Only the sounds of pen scrapes and a page being turned can be heard over the sounds of the horse’s hooves against the road.

            Eventually he succumbs to a painful sort of rest, still dazed as Dagmar is left behind. His eyes are closed, but he can’t be certain he ever fully falls asleep. He barely has the thought to question himself to why he doesn’t just empty his stomach. Maybe he’ll hit his father’s good shoes.

~.~

            The sounds of trumpets wake him from his daze, as well as the sudden grip someone has on his wrists. He’s jerked up, then crashes to the ground on his elbows as the tight grip of the rope is suddenly gone. Jaskier stays on the floor to gather his wits. Above him his brothers are primping their hair, brushing what looks like crumbs from their dark jackets to the dark red of the velvet covering the floor.

            His shoulder and back ache from lying on the floor while he was out, and surely, he has a concussion of some sort. Most men’s skulls most likely get a bit scrambled when his with a pan. Still wearing the old large cloak, he wraps it tightly around himself in comfort and leans into the corner of the seats and wall. His shoes are still on his feet, thankfully, but ruined with the same mud still caked on the bottom of his trousers. The carriage stays coldly mute, each man looking straight ahead on the way into Tretogor. His brothers are rolling their shoulders back, huffing out heavy breaths in their nervousness.

            Suddenly he feels his blood turn cold within his veins. His face freezes, and he fights the urge to move frantically in his panic. In his pain earlier he had barely noticed the lack of weight on his shoulders and back, his beautiful lute gone. Where she typically hid under his oversized cloak, he felt no strap no clang as he sat back on the wall. There is nothing below the benches of the carriage, solid as they are, and who knows if it was placed with the chests of belongings.

            His luck has turned on him. He was sure that meeting a knight with silver hair and careful hands was the sign that things were looking up in life.

            Jaskier grieves for himself for a moment. Another attempt at freedom pried away from him, and he was certain his guardian knight had already begun traveling on and that they would never see each other again, despite the obvious connection that had formed between their souls in only a couple of hours. He could feel the distance, as if both Geralt and his freedom were one and the same. He grieved for the tears that did not come, the lack of hunger, and the weight in his chest. Had he truly passed the point of feeling fury and anguish after each attempt? Has he gone numb?

            He remembers still the time he had found himself uncontrollable in his despair, locked in his room with no way to light the candles at night. Jaskier had cried and banged on the door with all the strength in his body till he had passed out from exhaustion, waking up next to the still locked door.

He had not left the property, Jaskier had argued, at 13 still not quite understanding why his parents hated and controlled him so. It did not matter that they had found him so quickly by the river’s edge, not far from the gardens. It had mattered that he had left the home, left his room. It had mattered that the maids were tittering about seeing the young viscount by the river with a boy.

            After three days in his room, Jaskier was finally ‘lectured’ by his father, before allowing him to eat what was left of the family’s dinner and being sent back to bed. He didn’t have any more tears to cry at that point.

            Moving to sit on his backside, knees pointed in the air, he continues to try to get his bearings. He does not know what time it is, nor if he’s been out for more than a day. Trumpets sound again outside, close by but not next to the doors. His brain twinges. Outside, he can hear clanging but cannot make out what the variety of voices outside are saying.

            Jaskier fixes his own hair, then straightens his pants on his legs. His father’s face is cut in the bright light of the gap in the blood velvet curtains. Filled with wrinkles of stress and anger, The Viscount’s face is stern and blank, light glaring in his eyes. Despite this, he doesn’t blink as he stares out the window, watching whatever proceedings that are taking place outside. In the dim light of the carriage his brothers’ feet shuffle, throats clearing, beards scratched.  

            None of them look at him.

            His own feet start to shuffle on the velvet as the carriage starts and stops, starts and stops. Outside, there was a crowd, some excited to see the parade of guards and nobles pass by on the way to the castle. Song is in the distance, but louder than that is the occasional shout and response of a guard to a too-close townsman.

            The window drapes are not drawn back to view what must be the crowds of Tretogor, poor villagers despite their closeness to the capital. It would make sense the lack of genuine cheer at the sight of yet another Redanian noble travel through, many have fallen victim to sickness and hunger at the hands of the King.

            Locked in a Lettenhoven mansion did not deprive him of some news of the continent, if he made the effort to sift through many noblemen’s biased and supremist version of events. When the wealthy bragged of their stores and riches, one knew that they had to come from somewhere. Stories of disobedient townsfolk and guards being ambushed with farm equipment were not without cause. Delightful stories of convinced lovers fooling in secret begs the question, do these noblemen actually woo the lady?

            More shouts are heard before harder roads appear beneath the wheels of the carriage. More trumpets. Jaskier wishes they would stop before his head explodes.

            The carriage finally pulls to a stop and the air is seemingly drained from their enclosed space. Jaskier’s father steadies himself as the servants outside the door announce the arrival of the noble family of Lettenhoven with voices that carry across the crowd.

            With a lurch the front doors of the carriage are pulled open, a servant dressed in Redanian reds holding each door. The Viscount puts his nose in the air, sweeping a leg dressed in fine silk out of the doors and down the wooden steps. From where Jaskier sits, he can only see the back of his father’s best armor, never used, cloak tossed over his shoulder and the stairs leading up to the front doors of the Redania Castle.

            The sounds of horns come, and with it, the great creak of the ancient doors opening at the top of the steps. The Viscount sets his shoulders.

            “His Majesty, King Vizimir the Third of Redania!” The steward shouts.

            Glancing at his brothers, they are again making sure not to look at him. Both are staring out the door with their jaws set as if they were about to start a bar brawl. He worries for their teeth, knowing his eldest brother Casar had already blackened most of his back teeth, if the maids he dallies with were telling the truth. Jaskier expects his wife Lindy would be grateful if he kept the ones he still had. Aldwin could stand to lose a few more.

            “And Her Majesty Queen Hedwig of Malleore, Queen Consort of Redania!”

            The Viscount of Lettenhoven steps forward and bows deeply to King Vizimir II and Queen Hedwig of Malleore, both out of sight in their perch above Jaskier’s range of sight. Straightening his posture once more, the Viscount sweeps an arm out and steps to the left.

            “Your Majesty, may I present to you, my sons. My eldest, Casar of Lettenhoven, heir to Lettenhoven.”

            As his father speaks, Casar squares his shoulder, sweeping his own leg out the door and making his way to stand beside the Viscount. He bows even more deeply than his father, pristine and perfect in his posture despite his short height and bulky frame.

            In the carriage Jaskier starts to panic slightly, not at all ready to face the royal family with his own family at his back. Above him Aldwin starts to shift, moving forward in his seat to wrap a meaty hand around his right wrist.

            Jaskier sets his feet to the floor, but his brother’s higher seat and larger build gives him an advantage to lug him in the direction of the carriage door, almost sending him out face first. Catching himself on the opposite seats, he can barely get his shoulder back above his feet before Aldwin gives his back a shove, sending him stumbling down the stairs with very little grace.

            Behind him, Aldwin pushes him to stand next to Casar at the bottom of the stairs, then places himself between the two of them.

            “I present my younger sons. Aldwin of Lettenhoven, Captain of the Lettenhoven Guard and Village Forces.”

            Aldwin bows, slightly less regal than the oldest.

“And my youngest, Julien of Lettenhoven.”

Aldwin’s jaw clench is audible.

            He truly doesn’t need encouragement to bend at the waist and bow low to the King and Queen of Redania. Jaskier preferred his head where it was. Straightening after a moment of pause, he moves to put his hands behind his back underneath his cloak. He stands tall, chin slightly raised, but his eyes stay focused on the stone stairs at his eye level.

            “Pankratz. I trust your journey was not too taxing on you and your men.”

The Viscount holds himself steady. With a polite bow in thank you, “A steady ride from Lettenhoven, was had. We were thoroughly prepared for our travels.”

Jaskier’s crosses his arms and lets his nails clench into the arms of his doublet.

He can only imagine how he must look, standing next to The Viscount, the heir, and the captain of the Lettenhoven guard dressed in a too big cloak, rumpled, and tired looking. While he’s typically a great actor, able to woo an audience when he has the chance to be his best self, he can’t muster the energy. The grimness must show.

            “Perfect. My stewards will see you to your rooms to freshen up then to the great hall, where important topics will be discussed.”

            The King nods in dismissal of their party, and servants fall into step. With a great sweep of the cape he wore, he went back through the front doors

            The Viscount’s jaw drops slightly, perhaps at the quick dismissal and no warm welcome, and makes to start forward to the stairs. Servants quickly swallow them up, however, and the Head Steward bodily blocks the man from moving forward. Behind them their bags are collected and brought into the castle before them. Aldwin’s hand finds its way back to his elbow.

            The man tips his head, hair entirely gray with age, and surveys The Viscount of Lettenhoven and his sons with a critical twist to his mouth.

            “My Lord, I am the Redanian Castle’s Head Steward, Dres Marwin, if you would please allow me to escort your party to the rooms readied for your stay. Maids have already prepared baths in each of the rooms in preparation of your arrival, I hope you find them adequate.”

            With a swift turn, the man directs the Viscount up the long entry stairs, the King long gone from sight. Jaskier’s father follows without looking back. The servants continue to spill up and down the steps and part with the movement, soldiers from Lettenhoven surrounding their party, more coming to stand to his right.

            Jaskier risks a side glance, but with the carriage behind him and the swarm of guards overseeing their bags and staff, he can barely see the gates down the entrance roads.

            He faces forward again as his arm is pulled, Aldwin striding forward after their brother. He doesn’t let go as he stumbles up the first step, gains his footing, then stumbles again. Once inside the front entrance, the air is warmer, the walls covered in large tapestries of Redania history. The group that has moved with them is large, castle guards making to follow his families as they move further into the imposing stone castle.

            The walk through the hallways is winding, the turns overlapping in Jaskier’s brain. They pass multiple paintings of previous Redanian families, as well as a couple Princes strung in jewels and heroic poses with hunted bears. Up several flights of stairs and more turns, passed several double doors they are led to a set which is open for them. The way there Aldwin never breaks his stride, grip tight, and Jaskier does not attempt to make eye contact with him nor pull his arm away. He knows better than to try anything now with the mood they are all in, another escape attempt would end with his murder. Biting his tongue, he resists the urge to complain about the treatment. When he was young, he had tried to have the last word, but nights of no dinner and falling asleep with a bloodied back had left him mute upon retrieval.

            Ushered into an open set of doors, they are brought to a small sitting area with door leading off in multiple directions. At the center the Head Steward pivots on his heels, facing the Viscount as he addresses the room.

            The man places his hands at the small of his back, “This will be your wing, My Lord. There are separate rooms and washrooms through each door, in which you will find the prepared baths. The staff will see you to the rooms in which your stuff has been placed.”

            For all that the man is below his father’s station, Jaskier is impressed by the stoic nature of his face and the upward turn of his chin at the Viscount’s visible conceitedness. His father puffs his chest at the man, raising his own clenched jaw. The steward stares back, not moving from where he stood as several of the doors around the room are open and a castle guard has come to stand outside each room.

            Jaskier can feel the weight of the tension, all waiting for who would move first. He feels Aldwin’s hand slide away from his arm.

            Finally, the Viscount huffs and turns to regard his own guards and sons. He’s slightly red in the face. Looking over the three of them, his eyes land on Jaskier and blows out a slow breath, eyes flaring. His chin gives a quick jerk to right side room, the one with quite a few soldiers around the door. Then he pivots to nod to his own guard, looks over the room once, nods again, and strides quickly to the largest of the inner doors.

            Casar and Aldwin look at each other and Jaskier begins inching towards the nearest inner door and far away from them. Their moment of silent conversation passes quickly, then Casar watches him closely as he reaches the door of the room and steps through the doorway. 5 Lettenhoven guards spill in through the doorway before he can close it.

            With a sigh and a shake out of his arms, he turns to regard his room. A bath might be the only thing that gets him through the rest of this day.

~.~

            In hindsight, baths are much more pleasant when one can be comfortable with one’s own naked skin. Made perfect if there weren’t several armed and grumpy men watching him rub soap on his body. There was actually only one armed and grumpy man he might let watch him bathe, however; one with a little more kindness in his eyes and looks that stunned. Jaskier would wash his hair for him and sing the love songs he’s heard in Lettenhoven taverns. Comb it as it dries and twist it away from his face. Geralt would prefer to use lavender scented soap over the mint he was currently using, something soft and light. A witcher with senses so powerful that they could smell blood feet away. A man strong enough to hoist him into a saddle like he was a child.

            Jaskier stops his thoughts there. No need to forget where he was.
~.~

            Going to dinner feels like being walked to the executioner’s block, or maybe like a captured wild dog made to parade amongst purebred poodles.

            The Viscount of Lettenhoven walks into the hall, the steward at attendance calling their family and lands, then announcing Casar as the heir. They then move down the stairs towards the start of the dinner party, those higher in position not yet arriving. Milling around Jaskier can identify various other Viscount families, as well as quite a few Earls. Behind him stands his brothers, silent in their observation of the room as their father moves to begin a loud conversation with the Earl of Glenelg.

            Jaskier smiles at the nearby second daughter of the Count of Roggeven, dancing between his two feet in light motions. The dresses of the girls chatting nearby are stunning shades of all the colors of the rainbow, dramatic moments of silks and embroidery. The incoming Marquess of Agar, a man only two years Jaskier’s senior but already having taken over the family, appears dressed in a fine military uniform.

            He wishes he didn’t feel so out of place in the room filled with music and tinkling laughter, but all he wishes to be doing is running out the front door. Without a good outfit on, he feels as if all his armor was removed.

            Compared to the many men in the room, he looks almost like a commoner, no medals or red pressed military suit and gold chains. His doublet is plain in comparison to the bards at the front of the room, strumming lutes and harps. This particular one was a gift from his dear fiancé, dark green in color, no ruffles or addons. At least she had provided matching trousers with a bow at the back. Although all made with beautiful Sielce silk, it clung tightly to his arms and chest and rendered him self conscious.

            Herded through the room, his brothers have them stand near a lower table of the feast, where Aldwin and himself would be sitting. The room is beginning to quiet down, the last of the high nobles entering. Casar turns to ogle the nearby 5^th daughter of the Earl of Malva as she passes, and Jaskier starts to rock on his feet.

            Ladies in crisp cooking linens begin ushering higher nobles to their seats near the front of the room, swiftly organizing Marquesses and Earls into seats, children ushered to the ends by birth order and gender. A young servant attempts to separate Jaskier from his brothers, intending to send him farther down the table, but Aldwin stays glued to his side. Guided to a middle seat, Jaskier takes a seat after nodding to the first daughter of the Viscount of Carla. With a grunt, Aldwin drops in the seat on his other side, and the Viscount’s daughter grimaces. Across from them, Jaskier recognizes the heir to the Iphor Countship, someone who’s been by Lettenhoven as a young boy to train in martials with his elder brothers. His eyes suggest that he recognizes them as well, but all Aldwin receives is a nod in welcome. Jaskier receives eyes of ice.

            He wishes the goblets were already filled.

            Trumpets start blasting from the high corners of the room and the percussionist blast as the King and Queen of Redania step forward onto the dais at the front of the room. The room stands at attention then together bows low in respect. The band quiets out as King Vizimir II steps forward in front of the throne and raises his hand for quiet in an already quiet room.

            “Ladies and gentlemen of Redania, thank you for your presence here today. Under my command, Redania has grown stronger, more unified, and more prosperous than any kingdom on this land. You have all played your part, upholding the crown’s proclamations in your lands and protecting the people of this great kingdom.

            The enemies who now turn their gaze toward Redania may believe themselves capable of threatening us, but they will soon find themselves undone by their own ignorance of the strength they face. This is not an uncommon dilemma we face as the only nation of character on this continent, our allies are vast and strong, and with strength comes those who wish to challenge us. Monsters had plagued our lands, endangering our people and their freedoms. But no more will we allow such filth to continue threatening us.”

            Jaskier tongue sticks tackily to the roof of his mouth as he attempts to swallow. The room around him, still standing, point rapturous gazes at the man before the throne.

            In court, many nobles spoke highly of the King’s proclamations. They all said with his path the Kingdom of Redania would forever be wealthy and powerful. King Vizimir II had cleared lands to make way for new towns, cleared monster infestations, and provided jobs to the young men in the surrounding towns.

            Now he may not be allowed to leave the Lettenhoven mansion much, but his dalliances in town as a teen when he was able to leave unnoticed resulted in him hearing tavern stories of bloodshed. Towns of in-humans cleared for human villages, bragged about over a beer. Chasing families across the Kaedwen border on horseback. Slaughtering any that attempted to have a conversation.

            Jaskier knew that Redania’s love for bloodshed outweighed its promise to its people.

            “In the coming days the Crown with be participating in treaty discussions with the Warlord of the North”

            The crowd shifts with unease.

            The King raises his hand again to still the room again. “Their time at the castle is fast approaching, Redanian guards are stationed along the castle to provided reassurance and protection for all members of Redania’s Royal Court and their attending families. I ask you all to be watchful of yourselves and those around you, for even within the walls of the castle, witchers are dangerous beasts. Take the necessary caution and stay to your rooms when not attending council discussions and organized affairs.

            The creatures that live on the North Mountain believe we will cave to their demands, threatening our borders and the purity of our people. During the upcoming treaty discussions, your reigning King will rightfully guide the agreements to neutralize the growing threat and create expansion into Kaedwen.

We do not fear beasts with broken alliances, their demonic magic is no match for the power of Redania’s own sorceress and armies. The treaties will be short, and celebrations will be prepared accordingly for our upcoming victories.

Let us now eat in honor of the gathering of the Royal Council.”

            With that King Vizimir II nods his head to the crowd, then floats to his throne, chin held high. The room erupts with cheers, and as the King sits down in his seat, and then the Queen guided to hers, the rest fall to their seats and the tittering begins.

            Jaskier slides to his seat slower than others, struck dumb by the speech he had just heard, the first from the king he’s ever actually heard in person. It was one thing for him to hear how the courts at Lettenhoven spoke of the surrounding continent, but here he was, hearing the some of the rhetoric straight from the source.

            He wonders what he may have been feeling at this point if he hadn’t had had his most recent few hours of freedom. The few things he had known about politics and witchers, townsfolk and inhuman populations, Jaskier knows he would’ve at least scoffed at the King’s dramatics. Now though, all he feels is sick to his stomach, turning slightly at the plates of food the kitchen ladies have begun laying on the surrounding tables.

            Jaskier had come to expect the land’s cruelty, it’s hard not to when you are raised in a noble family that sees you as a waste. He was not useful, therefore unwanted. Their cruelty to one’s they know nothing about, and have not been bothered by, shows the true extent of their bloodlust.

            He fears for Geralt in this retched place. A place that will take every opportunity to take his head off and display it for his people to see. Jaskier hopes that if he is close to the higher council, perhaps acting as a very striking chief guard or trainer, that he keeps his wits about him and avoids direct contact with the King. Who knew what that man was planning to discuss in the treaties.

            Before he had met him, he had known little about witchers outside of the rumors that were spread about the continent and the warnings from the King to not cross the border to Kaedwen. Within a day Geralt had disproved all he was told, showing kindness and that witchers were more human than most nobles.

            He regrets not being able to ware the man down enough to learn stories of his past monster hunts, before they were driven from the continent into the North Mountains and White Wolf of Kaedwen began his rule to protect their people

            The first daughter of the Viscount of Carla elbows him slightly in her, rather rude, reach for the pot of yams, and Jaskier figures he might as well eat for the first time in at least a day. Next to him, Aldwin’s plate is already filled to the brim and the man himself is hunched over his plate. The heir across from them looks like he might go up in flames.

            Dinner is slow going and painful. He eats what he can stomach of the roast in front of him, as well as the little amount of potatoes that he had put on his plate. Everything in his mouth is dry like ash, tasteless and hard to swallow. His goblet is refilled for him by a passing servant as his brother serves himself thirds. One table closer to the front, Casar is flailing his hands in what must be a passionate discussion with their father and the Marquess of Malva.

Two glasses were enough to relax him a bit, but with his brother at his side and the silence that has been the response to his escape, Jaskier is starting to feel his blood race. He questions a third, and some numbness of alcohol, but refrains for his own head.

            The ignoring part was often the worse. Waiting for the lecture and the yelling, the insults and disappointment, he could deal with at face value. Despite his accommodations in the Lettenhoven mansion, Jaskier had finally come to realized at 16 that he was little more than a prisoner. Before then he had sincerely believed that one day they would get tired of him and remove him from the family name, tossing him out with only his lute.

            He hadn’t known at the time, but they were always planning on marrying him off to a woman who would be willing to maintain control over him, parade him when they need to and hide away with disgust. The marriage contact for him was more successful than they had previously believed it would be, but after the offer they were given, his shackles tightened. In the recent years since the contract was formed and signed, his misdeeds were eyed more heavily, believing that with any finger out of line his future bride will reconsider. Luckily for him, no matter what he did and how his family assured the woman they had reprimanded him accordingly, she seemed quite amused with the behaviors.

            It left him wary for when he inevitably messed up again, in their eyes at least. His wife did not expect him to be brought to her in pristine condition.

            At the front of the room, the King slowly rises from his own throne and plate to address the room.

            The rooms ripples to silence, silver being placed to the side. Down the table Jaskier can hear the fourth daughter of a nearby Count trying to not giggle into her third glass of wine.

            “My people, it has come to my attention recently that the discussions with the Kaedwen Witchers will have to be moved a few days sooner that previously arranged.”

            A murmur falls through the crowd.

            “The Witchers of Kaedwen have approached faster than what was discussed and now sit idle outside of Tretogor. With this knowledge we will be increasing the amount of guards stationed on the grounds as well as keeping their party to a designated wing of the castle.”

            Louder talking fills the room, women looking at their husbands in worry, young ladies clutching their pearls.

            “SILENCE!” The King yells, slamming his hands on the table in front of him, sending silverware clanging to the floor. A few ladies near the commotion yelp, the Queen covering her mouth, but eventually the room is filled with silence once more.

            “Everything will continue exactly as planned. Redania is prepared for their arrival and stay. The treaty talks will also continue as planned, with no need for any derailment of any sort.” He seethed

“Dancing will now commence in celebration of the Crown and the protection it provides us all. Do not fear those that are weaker and unorganized.”

            With that he takes his seat once more, picking up his fork to start another helping. The bards begin their playing again, choosing a quick dancing song, but the room is slow to energize again, whispers breaking out. The Marquess of Agar strides up to the dais, but King Vizimir II holds out a hand for pause, and a steward begins shooing the Earl back down the stairs.

            The Warlord so close? If anything, the man had done Jaskier a favor, making everyone’s stay shorter than anticipated. A day or two of celebrations and pageantry upon arrival before the true treaty discussions begin, followed by, hopefully, a celebration for the signing.

            Cleaned off dinner plates begin being cleared from the tables around them, couples begin to stand with each other and move off to the small dance floor that has formed in front of the band. Up the tables, noblemen are receiving harder liquors to finish their meals and have begun to lean back in their seats. From across the room Jaskier can see his eldest brother leaning heavily with alcohol and attempting to chat up the nearest Earl’s daughter.

            The chair next to him squeaks loudly across the stone floor, startling him in his seat. With a quick movement his upper arm is grabbed firmly, bones squishing, from where it rests on the arm of his chair. Down the table the Viscount of Lettenhoven dips his head to Count of Sielce and the Marquess of Malva and begins to excuse part of their party from the last of the night’s entertainment. Jaskier begins to lean away from the hold, quite happy to stay in his chair.

            Casar slides into the seat his father just vacated, strumming up conversation once again.

            Aldwin tips his head to the Heir of Iphor sitting across from them. Then he wretches Jaskier up from their seats.

~.~

            The heavy double doors behind Jaskier close with a slam and reverberate the room like a dungeon keep.

             A silent walk was had down the corridors with his family, being led by a castle steward to their quarters. The man had bowed to them as he opened the door, not raising his head as Jaskier was all but shoved through the doorway. The Lettenhoven guards were left standing outside. In the sitting area of the wing, the Viscount stood before the sofa next to the grand central fireplace. It burned hot with wood, casting the light through the room and darkening the corners.

            He shuffles in the center of the room on his feet, Aldwin at his back, his father not facing him. His skin is crawling, blood slowly curdling.

            The darkness of the room stretches endlessly, doors black like portals and drapes drawn tight over vast windows. Despite the inches he has on his father’s height, the man seems to grow in the odd blobs and shapes created in the light. Skin deformed by shadows. Wings grown from the jump of flames. If he wasn’t so certain of his presence needing to be accounted for over the next week, he’s certain that his head would already be off his shoulders.

            Maybe he had truly gone too far this time. He really should’ve just kept running that night, no matter how tired he felt and how much his feet bled.

            He would’ve at least been certain that while labored, he would continue to breath.

            His father turns slowly towards him, a shoulder directed at him, face dark without the casting fire light. Jaskier can feel the gears in the lock turning.

            Theres movement behind him and he takes a step forward, ready to keep his distance. He must’ve missed most of the movement, however, as before he can take a second step his knees scrape the floor as his ankles are taken from under him. He can already feel his silk trousers zip from the friction. The hard sole of a boot to the ribs is what sends him crashing sideways, crunching his shoulder as he braces for impact after impact. With his right hand he reaches for the ankle of the foot, trying to grasp at the laces tied up the front. Without a good grip he attempts to push the bracing foot off balance.

            He cries out as his fingers are crushed under another sudden stomp.

            The toe of the boot to the side eventually sends him turning over, arms protecting his head, and for a second there’s a reprieve and the kicks stop coming.

            Jaskier groans through his teeth at the feeling in his bones, hoping that he would now be left alone. A yelp tears through his throat and his eyes immediately start watering as the feeling of lightning graces his back. Another stroke of a whip cracks through the air and he can feel the silk of his doublet split and loosen from his body.

            He curls further over his own head, feet pushing against the ground to move away from the pain being bestowed upon him, but the blows follow, crossing his shoulder and clipping his arm in his scurry. Silk begins to stick to his skin again, though it falls in tatters from him in his movements.

            Finally, the whip stops coming towards him, but he continues to hold his breath and brace. Now near the fireplace, he can see the streaks of red crossing his forearms and darkening rough edges. Above him now, his father has a hand out to stop Aldwin from finishing the blow that his arm is gearing up for. His elbow is lifted far above his head with his military whip in hand, his service metals gleaming in the firelight.

            Eyes cold and dark, the Viscount turns down to his bleeding body. “I have been very clear in my expectations of you, boy, but no matter what you are spoiled with you choose to disobey. Time and time again have I told you to quit this silly notion of yours, you have a marriage contract signed and your future set, and yet you want to throw it in the trash.

            You’re an embarrassment to our family.”

            Jaskier slowly raises his head from the ground, mouth set tight, over his father military armor and jewelry, and makes eye contact with the dead eyes of the man who helped bring him into existence. The heel to the face sends his sprawling to his back, which sends him back to his side groaning.

            “All those things you hold so dear will never be seen again. Another toe out of line and you will be left barren and bored, with nothing to do but stare at walls and pull your own hair out”

            Pacing now, “Arrangements have already been made for you. Sielce estate is prepared to handle your disobedience till the Countess has full rights to you, and then you’re fully her problem. All the freedoms I handed to you, gone. You’ve used the education and the resources I have provided you to disgrace yourself, and no more will I see it happen. Your wife will see to your attitude adjustment, I know she will.

            For far too long I entertained you, no matter what I did you threw what was given to you back in my face. For that you will spend the rest of your godsforsaken miserable little life repaying me, by creating a trade offer across Redania. Your brother will be keeping an eye on you during our stay in the capital, after that you will be handed to the Count of Sielce to be delivered to his daughter, in chains if necessary.”

            The tips of his shoes squeak inches from where he has his face pressed to the floor, hand pressed to his eye. He keeps his other eye shut tight.

            “I’ll promise you this, if you do not behave and act accordingly, you will not see the light of the sun till your wedding day.”

            And with that the Viscount of Lettenhoven turns on his heel, nods once to his middle son and strides to his room. Jaskier cannot hear the door close over his own breathing.

            Aldwin still stands above him, arms now by his sides, staring down at his heaving bloody body. In the light his face looks gaunt and stressed, barrel chest slowly moving in the silence. With another moment, Jaskier thinks maybe that he will say something, anything, to the little brother he had brought to the ground.

            One last kick to his shoulder is what he receives, barely moving him from the lump he’s formed on the floor, crumpled in front of the fire. Then, he too turns and doesn’t break stride on the way to his room, shutting the door with a click.

            And there Jaskier stayed breathing into the warmed stones of the floor.

Notes:

Last chapter was so fluffy I had to hurt the precious bean, don't worry he'll find his feet

 

IN DEPTH SCENE WARNINGS: a character is attacked from behind by a family member with a weapon. Weapon is not a projectile. Descriptions are given about wounds and blood. Abuse and death are both threated by a family member. Implied future abuse.

Chapter 5: Warm Welcomes

Summary:

"For all the King’s boasting, he does not have the best head on his shoulders"

Notes:

Sorry yes this took me forever to write, I forgot how to write words for awhile
Expect a similar amount of time between chapters (one to two weeks)

Feel free to really read into anything you want in my fic, I like symbolism and having fun with word usage (I tutor college writing)
I did intentionally clue to things, probably a little too much, but I had too much fun with it
Also know that I am trying my best with the romance, I write horror more often, which also means that later chapters will be a bit game of throne-sy lol

Other info:
Redanian Reds - nickname given to standard Redanian guards
Scenes are separated by 'angels': ~.~ is the changing of a scene, ~...~ is the changing of the scene AND pov

Original characters were created for this story, mostly to bulk up these treaty discussion scenes, but some are more prominent than others.
Dres Marwin and Egar are both characters that you'll see throughout, just because they allow me to poke at things
Words: 8,613

            “You tryna become a pancake, eh?”

            The castle at the heart of Tretogor required them to travel through the outskirt villages, filled with townsfolk with hardened stares. Many came out of their homes as they passed, to watch 17 hulking witchers and a finely dressed sorceress trudge through the mud that made up the roads.

            “Are you kidding me, Lambert?”

            Eskel had fully turned around in his saddle, just in time to watch Lambert pick up a teenage boy by the back of the collar and toss him to the side to avoid crushing him with his horse.

            Geralt just hummed; his back was turned towards them so thankfully he was not responsible for whatever bullshit the rest of them got up to. It was Eskel’s job to make sure every witcher left with their head still attached. Lambert was supposed to be keeping an eye out for suspicious nobilities with his cat, but from the sounds of it, he had expanded his own responsibilities.  

            Yennefer was riding steadfast ahead of them, visibly ignoring them.

            Ahead the castle gates drew near, looming large stone walls framing the iron gates, ostentatious and lacking defenses. The king would pale at the sight of the walls of Kaer Morhen, built up layers of heavy stone over the killer and heavily protected at each gate and pillar.

            The sight before him leaves him feeling even more off-kilter than he was previously. With only a small fraction of his forces, he was already weary of the treaty invitation. Political discussions were always full of strife, and too often small-minded men thought they could treat them like mindless creatures. Every ally made outside their Kingdom was tentative, every witcher having full memory of the years on the path.

            His hackles were raised, especially so far into, what very much could be, the heart of enemy territory.

            He hadn’t been away from his daughter in some years now, and although the Witchers of Kaer Morhen have grown in strength since Nilfgaard attacked, it’s grown more difficult to leave her side. Last time there were tears when he left, but he knew that a bit of gentle rocking from Triss or Vesemir would put the fussy infant to sleep eventually. Now, however, his departure left much more despair in its wake. It was only about a three-week trip; a week of travel from the border to Tretogor, a portal across Kaedwen, however many days it takes dealing with the Vizimir.

            Despite those facts, he had left his keep only after prying little fingers from his armor and giving many hushed assurances that he would return as soon as possible. She had still wept as he had crossed the courtyard gates, and Yennefer keeping a tight hold of Roach’s reigns was the only reason he didn’t turn right back around.

            “Don’t touch me! I’m busy doing my job! Unlike pretty boy and his grimace doing they’re very best to get us stoned!”

            Eskel took another swipe at Lambert’s shoulder, and in dodging it missed Aiden coming up behind him and taking the reigns of his horse to urge him forward.

            The bickering behind him does not stop as they arrive at the gates, imposing structures at the surrounding the castle lands. Atop towers Redanian guards look down at them, the nervous shuffle of their feet audible to their enhanced ears. Coen is the one to finally get Lambert to quiet down with a stern look, one that increases the smell of fear in the air from outsiders.

            Two trumpets sound, announcing their arrival, and the iron gates swing inward. Down the roadway within the walls, a second wooden gate, seated within a secondary internal wall, swings open to let out a procession of Redanian army men. The group of them sit atop snow-white steads, heads held high wearing armor that has clearly never seen a battle before.

            Lambert snorts behind him.

            Yennefer sniffs in disdain.

            The head of the Redanian army stops his horse on the other side of the iron gates, giving a solid glance over the group of them. Despite the straight face he keeps, the smell of his nervous sweat had hit them before he had even pulled to a stop.

            “Y..y..your Majesty, White Wolf of The North, I am Redania’s Head of Military Lazar McTor, I.. I welcome you to the c..capital city and Tretogor Castle. Allow me and my men to escort you to the castle.”

            With a nod of his head, the few men with him start to fan out around their party. They are not quick to move, hesitating as they make their way to the sides. Next to him, Yennefer watches one of the men move out of the corner of her eye, then continues to watch McTor carefully.

            “And where is your King in this welcome party?” She questions.

            "We shall lead your party to the front doors of the castle, My Lady, where His Majesty, King Vizimir II waits to greet you upon arrival.”

            “Hmmm” Yennefer does a good impression of him. Behind them he can hear Lambert and his cat whispering to each other.

Geralt himself grunts, then nods to the man in front of him to lead the way. A glance to his side allows him to make eye contact with Yennefer, sending her on a step before him.

            She seemed to have way more of a handle on this than he did. His words weren’t coming to him, few as they usually were, and inside a castle is the last place he wants to be at this point.

            Yennefer had stopped him from postponing their arrival, but just barely. Something wasn’t sitting right, was he still partially convinced that he had hallucinated a day that nice. He hadn’t taken potions for hunts in some years, maybe he had grown rusty in his memories of the aftereffects.

~…~

            Eventually he peeled himself off the stone, warmed only by the glow of the fire. The night had passed silently around him as he lay in a painful doze. Not wanting to be seen by the guards or castle staff, he eventually hauled his weary body to his feet and towards his room.

            The room is as quiet as he left it, the trunk flung open to reveal his only belongings, left in the rush to dress earlier. Now he moves towards it, using its open side to move himself to his knees.

            He selects the few sleep clothes he has packed and lays them to the side as he sits back on the floor.

            Carefully he unbuttons the front of his doublet, and it falls in tatters around his body before he even finishes. Shrugging his shoulders to move the silk smarts the wounds on his back, pulling at the tears in his skin. Reaching up, he carefully peels soiled fabric from each shoulder, then slowly unsticking it from his back.

            Gathering the silk into a ball, he presses it against his opposite shoulder, staunching the blood he can feel starting to trickle again from the most prominent gash.

            Slowly he shimmies to remove his trousers and pants, removing his shoes once he starts to get tangled. Taking the matching trousers, he rolls up the fabric, then ties it like a sash across his body holding his ruin doublet to his right shoulder. He uses his underthings to wipe the few slowly bleeding cuts along his lower back and upper right arm, thankfully smaller and shallower.

            He maneuvers his legs into his sleep pants, pulling them up like a child still learning to dress themselves. Forgoing a shirt, he rises from his place on the floor, then shuffles towards the chest of drawers in the corners of the room. Using the water set aside he splashes his face then washes his hands, sweating from the ache of moving.

            Then he crashes face first to the fine-feather mattress of the bed in the center of the room. He’s asleep before he can cover his legs with the blanket.

~.~

            The door banging open in a young woman’s hurry wakes him up. The glare of the sun in his eyes from the curtains being flung back is what wakes him up fully to start his day, rubbing crusty eyes from a terrible sleep. She barely gives him a glance as she rushes through the room.

            The young woman flings his trunk open, pulling out a doublet and matching trousers, as well as his formal outdoor cloak and jacket, laying them all together atop the end of the bed. Jaskier makes to sit up, his ruined trousers laying on the bed, removed during his tossing and turning. The maid moves to remove the bowl of water from the drawers, then swiftly leaves the room with the door still thrown open.

            He finally rises from the bed, wincing at the pull in his shoulders. He picks over the bundle of clothing left for him, separating out the underthings first. The woman comes bumping back into the room, new bowl of water carried with her. Some of it sloshes over the edge as she places it on the dresser, rushing back out just as quickly.

            Carefully he pulls the rest of his clothing on; fitted black riding trousers and a matching cloak, held together with a simple clasp. From his feet, he pulls off the large woolen socks. Laying them in his hands, he checks for stains of his own blood but finds nothing but shades of grey. After slowly rolling them up, tight into a ball, he tucks the socks in the back corner of the trunk, underneath extra shoes and belts.

            Outside Jaskier’s open door he can see his brother Aldwin, awake and dressed for the day, but the Viscount and the eldest are not beside him. He’s talking to multiple maids that had come with them, including the young woman who had left his bedroom door open.

            Jaskier takes his time coming to the conversation, because clearly, he was supposed to initiate any sort of information for his awakening, and really, why such an early morning hour? Opening the door for him to roam and figure out what direction they want him to go in.

            He supposes that can apply to many situations.

            The maids form a semi-circle in front of his brother, 6 of them all together, white smock dresses with red sashes at the waist. They appear enraptured by whatever his brother is saying, some in interest, two others obvious lust.

            Besides his brother, he looked like a mourner. Dressed in black for rain and cold, forbidden to wear color like a widow. Even his brother had a red sash tied to his belt, one of the maids obviously having brought an extra.

            “Aldwin.”

            The man turns to him, and nodding to his as one would typically acknowledge a younger brother, something odd in the man’s eyes.

            “Brother, you’re awake.” He takes a step closer to him, away from his maids.

            The man tips him a smile, then clasps his shoulder with a meaty hand, thankfully the uninjured one.

            “Lola, grab my good cloak for me.” Turning to him, “when’s the last time you’ve been hunting, Julien? Years?”

~~~

            He’s standing in a small courtyard within the king’s hunting grounds, between trees older than them and blocking Jaskier’s view of the castle walls surrounding them. The grass had obviously been freshly cut, collecting on the bottoms of his good shoes. A way away, most of the wives and daughters of the attending men sit on a sort of viewing pew, many seemingly content to not ruin the ends of their dresses.

            A few yards away Aldwin was standing quiet in front of a larger group of nobles, each man wearing deep red cloaks of status.

            Next to him stands the first daughter of the Earl of Gleneg, ends of her dress stained green, heels sinking into the dirt across from her father. The man is leaning heavily on his cane, hand on his brow. The group is made up of multiple Viscounts and a couple other older Earls; all memorizing whatever they were talking about so they may gossip later.

            The way Countess Chira of Gleneg has herself wrapped around Aldwin, arms like a vice and her beaming smile, make his shoulders ache. From the set of her father’s shoulder’s she is obviously using ‘daddy’s princess’ privileges to try to choose her own marriage contract. From the look on Aldwin’s face, she may also be getting her way.

            He was quite surprised to not see his own father boasting about his second son, Captain of their guard as he is.

            Glancing around, Jaskier realizes he does not see the Viscount of Lettenhoven anywhere. Had not since last night.

            As a matter of fact, not a single Marquess nor any of the younger Earls stood on the grounds with them. First sons missing too.

            Across the courtyard, multiple teenage boys are trying to tackle each other into the grass, being studiously ignored by their Baron father. The Baron men having seemingly gathered to converse, talking politics or trying to marry off their children as the time passes for their hunt to begin. The man doesn’t turn as the youngest bumps the back of his boots after being tossed to the ground by his brothers.

All entertained at least.

            Like all such times in his life here in court, he finds himself alone and awkward, not quite sitting in his skin the right way. Eventually he takes a couple steps towards Aldwin’s possible marriage discussion, content to listen in on any such gossip.

            What he mostly gets to hear is a symphony of praises of the man’s physique and knowledge of military history, as well as a warble of ‘please’s.

            Across the field, servants in battered cloaks carrying cages make their way to the center of the hunting groups, presenting the fine white rabbit held in each. Aldwin’s group disperses, heading to stand closer. Over the young lady acting as a barnacle’s head, his brother’s eyes send daggers, urging him forward with the other’s. The Earl’s daughter tries not to lose her grip, but the man is handed a bow and a single arrow by an attendant, and he shakes her off to take the offered weapons.

            He makes his way to stand behind the 4 men holding bows, off to the left to avoid the crowding watchers. The Earl of Gleneg stands with another man, watching his brother’s form.

            The servants and the cages head off into the woods before them, breaking off into groups. A loud whistle is blown, long and harsh, signaling not only the start of the hunt but the release signals for the rabbits.

            Aldwin demonstrates for the watching Viscounts around him his precision with a bow. Pulling the string back to his cheek, he watches the tree line, tracking streaks of white fur. With a thud, the arrow hits its mark meters away.

            Jaskier winces at the sound.

            Countess Chira of Gleneg cheers happily for him, clasping hands together as she smiles at Aldwin, teeth bared in obvious delight. The man turns back to her to sponge in the praise.

            Next to him, other men are releasing their arrows, staining pelts of white fur red.

            The rabbits are carefully collected by servants as they make their ways back out of the woods, each presenting the kill to the man who shot it. Chira titters at Aldwin, and the rabbit is taken away for skinning and treatment, promised to the girl for new fine white winter gloves.

            Turns are taken between the hunting party; a group of younger Viscounts challenging each other to get more than one, and a few Earls testing what was left of their balance to shoot besides friends, three younger boys start racing each other to retrieve the downed animals.

            From behind them Jaskier watches as the arrows are supplied to each Redanian men, notched, and sent flying towards the animals fleeing the trees.

            A basket of bloody white sits meters away from him, slowly being added to.

            “Brother!”

            Jaskier startles at the hand clasped to his shoulder, but he tries to not show it. He turns to his older brother, his thumb now digging into his collar bone.

            “You haven’t had your turn yet, quick before we all head in” The comment is paired with a small shove in the direction of the courtyard’s center.

            Once there the man lets go of him, a servant offers Jaskier a bow and a single arrow. He hesitates as he takes them, trying to ignore the few nobles that are giving him curious glances; led like a child to practice.

            His brother steps back from him, giving him space to pull the bowstring.

            Pulling back the bow and arrow required some muscle memory, younger days of hunting with brothers and blunt wooden arrows. It takes a couple tries to get the arrow to stay properly notched, but corrects his form for a second and finds it much easier. He feels the string give in to his pull, and he raises his right hand to his cheek, arm stretched out ahead of him.

            He breathes slowly out of his mouth, his hair tickling the fingers at his cheek. The moment is still as he waits for the whistle of the attendant, signaling they’ve released the rabbit into the brush. He scans the roots, waiting for a flash of movement.

            Jaskier tries to focus, but it is hard with the weight of the presence besides him.

            The darkness of the shadows makes it hard to make out root from rock from here, never mind a hare, but a flash of white streaks under a bush towards the edge.

            Just like all the others, the white rabbit runs past brambles and weeds, fleeing humans in every which direction. Stuck in a state of fear.

            He lets the arrow soar.

~...~

            The front doors of the castle swing open for the grand entrance of King Vizimir II of Redania, dozen foot soldiers pouring down its stairs before the man himself swishes through the doorway. The trumpets blare from each town above them and on several stairs accompanying a good handful of Redanian noblemen of all ages. The soldiers are dressed in simple military uniforms, deep reds with accents of gold and medals. They look like toy soldiers with painted-on uniforms next to their leader; a too long cape edged in animal fur, a rapier at his hip, boots with riding spurs attached.

            Boots that are, noticeably, the reason for his average height.

            Boys playing soldier.

            Roach snorts next to him, nosing at his hair. He lets her, content in allowing her the moment to block his face from the sight in front of him with her own head.

            “Welcome, Famed White Wolf of the North, welcome to our beautiful country and our Redanian Castle in our esteemed historical city of Tretogor. It is a great pleasure of mine to have you here for our peace discussions, for I can’t help but want to host this great meeting in my own humble abode.” The man tips his face slightly to them, not moving to make his way down the stairs to meet them.

            Next to him, Yennefer tips into a slight curtsey. He himself gives a small nod of his head, acknowledging the man’s welcome. Behind him he can hear snorts and shifting armor as his men dip their heads in small bows, barely polite. They were fast paced to pissing off a king if Yennefer’s predictions of what Vizimir’s expectations of ‘hierarchy’ were. They were barely able to convince Egar, one of the younger wolves, to not follow along with Lambert and flip the man off instead.

            “Thank you for your welcome to the Castle of Redania, it is a great honor. I present, Geralt of Kaer Morhen, White Wolf of the North. My name is Yennefer of Kaer Morhen, Chief Sorceress and advisor to the King of the North. This is Eskel of Kaer Morhen, Right Hand to the King of the North, Head Advisor and Diplomat.”

            “A great pleasure it is. I do hope your travels across my kingdom went smoothly, I am so gracious you’ve made it to our capital city ahead of what we had previously anticipated with such a… treacherous ride along the way.”

            Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Your border villages welcomed us graciously. Our movement west was steady, much like We anticipated.”

            The king hummed, “My men here will see to your horses and belongings; the west wing has been set up for your accommodations and other amenities will be seen to shortly. I trust you will want to settle before any lengthy discussion begin, drink and food is a must. The kitchens have just now started to clean up midday meals, so dinners will be brought to you in your rooms before supper is served later in the day. As you can see, many of my council have chosen to attend our meetings, excited to see a treaty formed and take part in the discussions, introductions will be set aside for later for everyone’s ease.”

            “Please make yourselves comfortable during your stay here in Redania, allow my people to see you to your quarters.”

            The servants lining the stairs don’t move towards them at their king’s command, feet seemingly glued to the stones. Most of their gazes focus on Yennefer and him, or just over their shoulders at the hulking witchers behind them. The noblemen and their sons are no difference, posturing more at the sudden stand-off created before them.

            Roach whinnies in annoyance, clearly deciding her job is done and her saddle bags must go. Geralt takes his time by giving her a good pat on the neck, then carefully unlatching buckles and moving bags to his own shoulders. She shifts in place, and he moves to stroke down her back as he continues his work, flinging leather bags and an abandoned lute over his shoulders.

Behind him, his men have moved to do the same, unbuckling saddles and bags without bending at the waist nor turning away from the castle stairs before them. Lambert places Horse’s saddle upon his own boots, avoiding the road dirt. Coen shifts upwards towards Yennefer’s pure black gelding, removing both bridles at once.

            Slowly, as buckles clink and witchers start baring heavy bags, servants shift down the stairs, followed closely by Redanian reds.

            The middle-aged man who comes to stand next to him has his jaw set as he dips his head and reaches for Roach’s reigns that hang from her head. For his movements she attempts to take a finger, but the man snatches his hand away too quick with the leather in hand, a deeper look of contempt turned towards the chestnut mare. She does hesitate to voice her complaints, side-eyeing her witcher, then dismissing both with a shake of her head.

            The group of servants swiftly move to leave the front courtyard in the direction of the stables, 18 horses of differing temperaments all expressing disdain towards their current handlers. Left next to their party is a good handful of extra helpers standing awkwardly and quivering in their boots at their situation. It’s hard to fulfill the kings’ commands to carry their bags when there was one, so few things to carry, and two, already being carried by men half a head taller and twice as strong.

            Geralt can feel his back teeth grind. He nods, hoping they will disperse to find other things to do, and turns to take one of Yennefer’s bags from Coen. Lambert lets out a lung emptying sigh, Aiden bumping his shoulder in warning. Besides them, Egar is studying a young soldier’s medals, the man in red shifting to each foot nervously.

            “You may lead us now” He finally says to the man now standing at the bottom stair, hands behind his back and clearly the leader of the next movements. Above them, Vizimir had already disappeared back through the doors of the castle, off to whatever it was that kings like him do, followed by his school of fish.

            The man bows, hair grey with age and joints creaking, then fixes the dark red of his neckerchief and steadies his shoulders.

            “My name is Drew Marwin of Redania, Head Steward of the Redanian Castle in the Capital city of Tretogor and have served these great lands for the last 42 years. I am honored to be serving you, White Wolf, along with your accompanying entourage. Please, allow me to escort your party to the west wing, where you shall find rooms prepared for your arrival and dinner laid out in the common space. Water has begun to be prepared for your rooms as well”

            Yennefer tips her head to the side, regarding the man in front of her with a curl of one side of her mouth.

            “Why thank you. Shall we proceed.”

            All he could use is some got water and maybe a cave to crawl into.

~...~

            Dinner is a lavish affair with a very interesting undertone, if Jaskier believes his own instincts. Plates are being handled rougher than usual by maids, the higher tables of the feast are quiet, and behind his seat he can occasionally hear the murmurs of a Redanian Soldier passed to a friend.

            For another dinner, Jaskier finds himself nauseous in his seat. He forces his hands to move, grabbing the first serving plate in front of him. After serving himself some stewed carrots he places a few cuts of the roast in front of him. He can barely let go of the serving fork before Aldwin, again seated next to him, takes it to get seconds.

            Trying to choke down what’s on his plate, he takes account of the room again. There are three times the number of guards stationed about the room; standard Redanian Red and shining metal-armored knights by the front dais. Upon closer examination, there are less table too, a notable lack of higher noblewoman at dinner.

            That’s what makes him finally place his utensils down, not quite able to stomach more.

            The room hushes further as the king stands up from his chair at the front of the room, finally finished shoving food down his throat like it was his last meal. He gives a hearty cough to clear his throat, then tosses back what was left at the bottom of his goblet.

            “Noblemen of Redania, Yesterday I had warned of the approaching party of the Northern Kingdom, and today I will come to you with a warning to stay wary as our treaty discussions move forward. Who knows what will become of our meetings, but I trust we will all be prepared to defend our great kingdom from those who wish to remove our people and our culture.”

            “This morning, many witchers arrived on horseback, accompanied by their sorceress” at this the room gasps, a hand is held up for silence “but there is no reason to worry yet, for we are prepared to welcome our guests as well as see to a peaceful signing of treaty for our great and prosperous nation.”

            “I have heard you worries and fret about the upcoming union, but I must assure you that Redania is always prepared for what lies ahead and does not compromise when it comes to our core values and morals. Prepare yourselves for the evolution of our great Kingdom, for our true power is just steps away.”

~.~

            The room is dark and cold around him. Jaskier wishes he could’ve at least had the stars to count to sleep, but he had drawn the curtains tight to keep in any warmth he could; this old historic castle beautiful but so so drafty. His fire had burned out maybe an hour ago, ashes left to dust the stones of the fireplace. Trying to keep it going, he’s afraid he may have made it die quicker, too urgent in his actions to keep a flame. The embers were no good anyway, he needed more firewood to make anything substantial.

            After he had murdered his fire accidentally, he had tried to curl up under every blanket made available to him to strive out the lasting chill. No matter how much he had cocooned himself, feather mattresses and thin silk sheets did little to warm up the tips of his nose and his toes. Curling up in a ball had pulled at the cuts in his back, starting to scab over and stop oozing.

            He hadn’t been able to twist quite right earlier when he had tried to view them, now more healed than when he had first woken up. All he had done was pull at them and cause the large one across his shoulder to bleed again.

            Now he was out of bed again, determined not to catch hypothermia in a random castle bedroom. His pacing was working well, steps starting to swing more with each movement to keep the feeling in his legs. A waltzing song eventually found it’s way back into his head, one he had not heard since he was a teen, and he began to move more with the music as he began to hum.

            Arms warp around himself in a hug, Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh at himself a bit. Here he was, just like every other person who had found themselves in love within fairytales; dancing to themselves to chase off a chill and their blues.

            His pleasant moments of music were rudely interrupted by a harsh raspy intake of air outside his bedroom door. Standing in place, he listens to the rasp come again, patterned breathing that was now clearly identifiable as a grown man with a sinus infection snoring away.

            Jaskier makes his way to the door of his room, unlocking the door from the inside, then slowly twisting the handle to unlatch it. He creeps the door open towards him, inch by inch, then slowly moving to knob back to its place so that it doesn’t snack back and make noise.

            He pulls the door open another inch, peeking his eye through the crack he’s made. There, leaning heavily against the wall, slid down to sit on the ground with his legs splayed out, is one of his father’s most trusted Lettenhoven guards. Bernhort had been entrusted by his brother, his captain, to stand guard by his room and prevent Jaskier from leaving or doing anything else they didn’t want.

            Clearly the travel of yesterday and the morning hunt had drained the man, reducing him to a pile on the floor.

            No matter, Jaskier supposes he can find wood for himself.

            He tucks the corners of his cloak tighter around himself, inching the door open just enough to get his body through. Sliding his boots across the floor, he closes the door behind him, just in case the man wakes up. Bernhort snorts in his sleep, followed by another loud sound lung-rattling roar.

            Jaskier almost covers his ears, but decides swiftness is the best course of action. He’s careful with his booted feet on the hard wood, hopping from the main carpet of the living room to the entrance rug. Hugging his cloak tightly, he walks around furniture and other baubles, determined not to snag anything in his haste.

            He stands at the doors for a long while, listening to the noises of the hallway. Theres a definite shuffle, a scratching hand perhaps, that he can hear on the other side of the wood. He ponders if it is really worth it, he would have to pass the Redanian Red standing guard outside the door. But now his stomach is grumbling, the meager portions he could get down earlier not enough to sustain him.

            With all the walking and running he’s done these past days, he needs the ability to eat without worrying if he’s using the right fork and not taking too large portions.

            Squaring his shoulders, he brings himself to full height, placing his hand on the doorknob. With a deep breath in, he opens the door.

            The two men standing on each side of the door turn their heads slightly towards him, pausing a moment to take him in, then both nodding in respect and dismissal, turning to face ahead again. Jaskier stands there in the doorway himself, catching his bearings.

            He had expected more conversation.

            Taking the luck for what it is, he moves swiftly out the door, deciding to take a swift left down the hallway. He quite honestly has no idea where he is going, but as of now he is much happier roaming the hallways lost than being stuck in his room.

            Taking the first set of stairs he finds, he makes his way to the ground floor. He hopes that due to his knowledge of castle and manor layouts the kitchens wouldn’t be too hard to find.

~...~

            The Redanian castle was cold and quiet at night, firelights shone under doorways but kept their warmth inside. Barely any guards made their rounds outside the western wing, there they stayed together by the twos and threes. Here though, the few that passed him were dead on their feet, oblivious to their surroundings.

            Leaving his room had been almost offensively easy, despite his decades of slipping past armed men and creeping past beasts. Having taken advantage of the rotation of guards not changing over the past hours, he slipped from his rooms, desperate for a change from the gaudy silk drapes and portraits of barely covered woman.

            It was not often he saw paintings of such quality, the mountain home to less creative hands when it came to art, but even he knew whoever painted this must have stared at the lady’s chest for maybe too long.

            The portraits in the hallways were much more covered; skinny princes in shining robes, a man with a very prominent mustache posing on a hunted bear. He pauses at a few of them, taking in details that, if anything, make him more annoyed with the nobility. Old men on embellished horses, overdrawn and freakishly big.

            A guard passes by, stumbling in his boots. Geralt tucks himself next to the suit of armor next to the portrait of a long dead general and watches the man go by. Once he turns the corner, he continues his path down various hallways, hoping his nose and memory will lead him to where he wants to be.

            The smell of warm yeast rising in covered batches. The slowly dying embers of cooking fires and the pots of stew left to cook for serving in the morning. He knows he’ll be able to scavenge something up, the need to do something with himself overwhelming.

            For the past couple hours, he had sat by his given bedroom door meditating, or at least trying to. He had listened as the noblemen of Redania finished up whatever activities they do after eating supper. Heels and hunting shoes had clicked their way to the east wing, chittered among themselves, then went their separate ways to either bed down immediately or take the time to fuck their wives. The final straw was hearing something knock over in Lambert’s room doors down.

            Down the stone steps of the castle side, obviously a servant’s pathway, Geralt finds himself in the back storage shelves of the kitchens, filled with baskets and barrels. The room is dark and dry, dirt floors curving up to dirt walls, the ceiling barred in wood to support it. The scent of yeast is stronger here, beer barrels stacked in a far corner and loaves of bread baked the day before resting at eye level. He tilts his head to the floor, dodging cured meats as they swing from the wooden beams.

            Removing a dagger from his sleeve he cuts down a small hanging sausage from the joists in the back corner of the room, still not fully aged, but one that will not be missed. From the kitchen he can smell what he hopes is some sort of preserve or honey, something sweet and vaguely flowery. Next to him, he takes a slightly over-browned loaf of bread, still good from this morning, and reaches above to find one of the small jars of honey lined up in neat little rows.

            He tucks the jar in his trouser pockets, breaking the bread in half with the cured meat still tucked in his elbow. Making his way to the lighted doorway of pantry, he bites off a chuck of the loaf bigger than he intended, hungry after the meager meals they were provided earlier.

            Dinner had been filling, but not quite enough for 17 grown witchers, plus an additional sorceress. Meat pies and boiled potatoes with carrots were scarfed down quickly after the trip from Dagmar. Plates had been emptied before being stacked to the side, each man taking the time after to scope out their rooms and take a moment for themselves away from noble gaudiness. Supper had been just the same, roast ham and more potatoes, large loaves of bread and butter. Filling, but small portions compared to Kaer Morhen feasts.

            The world is quieter here than the keep, in an odd way, Geralt realizes. Above him he can hear the sounds of many heart beats, fast paced even in sleep. Footsteps are rounding the corridors across the wings in lazy circles, pausing occasionally. Multiple floors above he can hear a man muttering in his sleep, although too far to make out the words.

            Slicing off one side of the salted meat, discarding the tie in towards the wall, he ventures into the light of the kitchen, searching for perhaps some butter and whatever the fruity preserves he could scent turned out to be. Maybe he would continue with some of the stew still simmering above the fire in the next room.

            In the doorway, he stops dead, loaf still held in one hand, sausage under one arm. Another heartbeat, fast like a hummingbird, much closer than he has been aware of, lost in thought and a search for food. Through the shelves lining the walls of the main kitchen, just barely hiding himself from view, he can make out a man hunched over the countertops nearby the large cooking pot.

            In here, the fireplace has warmed the walls and flooring, air comforting like a blanket. The smell of simmering meat fills the room, the fire still crackling hot underneath at least three separate cooking areas.

            But the room does not just smell like food. It smells like a flower garden after the rain is done, and the fresh blueberry juice that ends up smearing Ciri’s face when she finds a bush of them. Like the softness of linen and the taste of syrup.

            He had thought he would never see him again.

~…~

            The noise of a jar or glass being set down behind him startles him from his stew.

            And like a dream, there was his witcher, with hair of silver, slowly stepping into the kitchen, out of the darken open doorways of the pantry. He finally gains the ability to swallow what’s in his mouth, then he quickly setting the bowl on the counter to make his way towards the man he is not convinced he’s not hallucinating.

            He stops before Geralt, hands fluttering in the air, not quite sure if he should give into his desires to jump into the mans arms. The witcher makes that choice for him, placing the loaf of bread on a nearby counter to put his arms around Jaskier in a tight embrace.

            The pure happiness of the situation is enough to dull the pain of arms across his back. He must not hide it well enough, because all too soon is Geralt pulling back from his, gazing at him with those concerned gold eyes of his. Removing his own arms from around the man, he tries to smile. With the shadows across his face, the witcher looks tired and morose. He cups his face in his hands, tracing the line of a scar that goes across his cheek.

            “What are you doing here?”

            “Oh Geralt, you don’t understand how wonderful it is to see you again.”

 “Something is wrong. When did you leave Dagmar?” Geralt asks, quiet but insistent, eyebrows creasing.

            Jaskier can’t help but melt in the man’s arms, sighing, but worrying his own face. “Geralt, I’m perfectly fine. I.. I had to leave Dagmar quite suddenly, I’m so sorry, I.. I hope you are not too distraught.”

            He cringes at his own wording. He can’t tell the man the real reason he was ripped away from Dagmar, and away from any attempt at starting a life somewhere else.

            He rambles to soften his wording, “I truly was going to write! I figured after the treaty and such there would be more trade, and tributes and such, between Redania and the Northern Kingdom. Mail would be easier! I just, yes.. I was going to write and apologize for my sudden departure! But who was I not to expect our paths to cross again, my Dear Witcher! I had remembered you were on your path to the castle, but I may have convinced myself that a treaty discussion would render you impossible to find. Dare I ever question the fates again!”

            The witcher still holds him softly at the waist, gaze once again skirting over his figure for any injuries, despite the layers Jaskier was wearing.

            Jaskier smooths his thumbs over his brow, smoothing lines of worry and stress. He hadn’t meant to do this to him, that day walking to Dagmar supposed to last much longer. It was the start of his new beginning, the first actual hope he tasted in quite a while.

            Had he known that he would be ripped away from him so early, he wouldn’t have leaned in as much as he had. Chatting and sharing stories, dreams; showing the beginning of romantic feelings, only to disappear in the middle of the night. He was a man of character, his flirting always lasting till at least the next morning cuddles.

            Not that he had been planning on sleeping with the man that night, no, he was starting to hope for a more careful courtship, maybe some wooing. Find his way to the gooey center he knew Geralt had.

            No. If he could turn back time, his departing would not leave Geralt in such distress.

            “You were gone by sunrise; the bar had said they had not begun serving breakfast.”

            “Oh! Well yes, I.. uh left very early! Ate on the road, I had to get here quite early!”

            “Hmm”

            “There’s that hmm I had missed. And don’t you catch me at my most embarrassing moments!”

            He receives another hum, Geralt’s arms curling tighter around his waist.

            “You worry me. I found your lute.”

            That sends Jaskier jumping, mouth agape at the man in front of him.

            Beaming, Jaskier practically shouts “Do you have it! Actually no, of course you do, is it broken? Oh thank you so much.”

            He receives a small smile in return, no amount of smoothing removing that worried look from his face. Jaskier can’t help but continue to beam, the fates giving him moments of bliss between the hardships of his life.

            “It is fine.” Again, his face grows somber, “what are you doing here in the Redanian castle? You had flinched when informed we were traveling to Tretogor, I wouldn’t have expected you to travel here yourself.”

            “Oh well, I had.. just come from Tretogor, and was not excited to head back, but traveling with you and your kin was worth the change in path.”

            “Yet you’re here now.”

            “Well, yes I guess I am.” Jaskier doesn’t know how to quite steer this conversation, questions hard to answer without worrying the man more. “Family duties to attend to here, you see. Uh, well, my father is a Viscount and, um, despite being his youngest son I had called to attend quite suddenly.”

            He hopes the smile on his face doesn’t mimic a grimace, but by Geralt’s face he is not very convincing.

            Jaskier uses his right hand to cup the man’s cheek, enjoying the moments he can trace the lines across his face; a thin silver line by his lips and a thicker gash cutting his left eyebrow in two.

            “I’m okay. My only worry is that you think I left you callously.”

            “I don’t.” Jaskier doesn’t know if he believes him, “When you didn’t come in the morning I was going to look around, see if you were still around to talk to once more. I had not wanted to overstep. I had responsibilities to attend to, ones my kin wouldn’t let be postponed, but we would travel back through.”

            Geralt brings one hand up to hold his cheek in return, a large hand spanning half his face but gentle in its touch. Jaskier sighs, but at the situation in Dagmar and the loving gestures he was receiving from the witcher in front of him.

            “I had worried.”

In the glowing embers of the dying kitchen fire, Jaskier can’t help but study the Witcher’s face. The man’s eyes are intense, pupils covering the gold. The room warm, and from where he stood, he could feel the warmth radiating from the witcher’s body.

Geralt was watching him intently back, eyes moving from his, to his shoulders, caressing across his neck, then making eye contact again.

Jaskier moves the strands of his white hair from his face, tucking them behind his ears. He plays with one stand as his fingers get caught in a knot, careful not to pull.

Time seems to move slower as the witcher moves his right hand in a caress; touch light where fingertips meet skin.

They spend a moment gazing at one another, Jaskier memorizing the callouses touching his face and the starry-eyed look he was receiving. The love songs he’s practiced don’t quite describe it right. He’ll have to write them some of their own.

His eyes flutter as the witcher’s gaze turns towards his lips, admiring, before jumping back to meet him. Swooning into the hand still framing his face, his eyes are closed before the witcher’s lips meet his.

He had thought his past dalliances had left him somewhat experienced, while not as much as the passing court bards, someone who could impress a partner during such vulnerable times. Now, however, he can positively feel his spine turning to liquid, breath drawn from his lungs in an instant.

The witcher’s lips are soft against his own, warm like the rest of the man. He presses his hands to the biceps of the larger man, feeling solid muscle under soft linens. One hand begins to tangle into the collar of the witcher’s shirt. In response, the man raises his other hand to Jaskier’s elbow, then softly presses his palm to the outside of his hip. They press soft lips to each other over and over, pulling back to share the same air before drifting back in to continue the exchange.

They hadn’t known each other long, and Jaskier knew Geralt was a man of few words, but in this moment, he feels as if they’ve known each other for decades. Warm lips and hands too familiar to belong to a man he’s known less than three days.

He can hear the words from the witcher’s mind in his kissing. Of all the love songs he’s heard, nothing can quite compare to the sonnets Geralt is conveying with the press of lips and hands on his waist.

They pull apart slowly, not quite able to open their eyes just yet. Jaskier’s mind was filled with melody, and he couldn’t help but tap out the beat on the other man’s shoulder, trying to find lyrics to put this moment to.

He’s having trouble thinking.

The hands around his waist don’t leave, but Geralt’s arms begin to tense around him. Theres no other sounds in the kitchen, but the witcher tilts his head to listen to something far off. With one hand the witcher grabs what was left of the bread he had and the cured meat on the table, and bodily starts to guide him back toward the pantry.

“Oh ho ho, what are you doing?”

The witcher doesn’t respond, but the corner of his mouth raises, then he continues to move them back behind the shelves throughout the dark room. Jaskier stumbles, but his weight is caught by the man who continues to guide him. On the other side they find a stone servant staircase, light shining from the torches on the upper floor.

Behind them, he can now hear the clanking of pots and pans; just missing a newly awakened kitchen cook.

He can’t help but beam as Geralt hands him a slice from the sausage he was holding, one hand placed on his back to guide him up the stairs.

….

               The walk back to the eastern wing of the Redanian castle is longer than the walk to the kitchens; together him and the witcher walk past gaudy suits of armor and grand rooms with little furniture. Outside the windows the sky is speckled with stars, and past the trees that make up the king’s hunting grounds Jaskier can almost make out the lingering smoke above homes.

            Jaskier’s arm is wrapped around Geralt’s, letting the man lead the way. In the man’s other hand hangs several pieces of firewood, tied together with strings, that had been set aside with others to tend the cooking fires.

Together they had finished what the witcher had taken from the kitchen, quiet in each other’s company. Every so often they press together in a corner of a room or being a statue, waiting for guards to obviously pass each time. He tries to keep the skip in his heartbeat up control, but Geralt’s small smile and the ease in his face tell him it’s very noticeable.

 They make it to the hallway before Jaskier’s rooms, Redanian Reds still posted outside his family’s quest wing.

            The witcher places the wood on the ground, and again places his hands on Jaskier’s waist to regard him slowly. This time Jaskier is the one who tips forward, winding his hands around his neck to bring the man in for a hug. Geralt breathes into his shoulder as they embrace,

            Pulling away is harder this time, and Jaskier can’t help but worry his brow at the man.

            “It is not guaranteed we will see each other each night during our stays, the treaty discussion set to start tomorrow. You and your kin must be busy. I will try to write after my family’s stay here, send message back to your keep.”

            “Will you be okay”

            Jaskier can’t help but smile fondly, “I am always okay, my dear witcher, I am a man that rolls with what is thrown at me.”

            “Hmmm. Stop getting injured. I’ll try to get you your lute, your family has many guards.”

            He has to clasp his hand over his mouth to keep from snorting at the man’s grimace, but Geralt’s face has tensed up again.

            “I am perfectly alright, my dear. Now you take care of yourself. For all the King’s boasting, he does not have the best head on his shoulders.”

            Again, he is met with a hum, then a hand slowly tilts his head to meet his lips in a soft kiss.

            “Take care of yourself”

Notes:

Yay for kisses!!
Again, trying my best with the romance, I'm pretty aromantic and usual write scary stuff

Not only does Geralt gorge himself on bread, he also does not understand daughters lol
Ciri will most likely only be mentioned in this fic, but I do have ideas for a bit of an epilogue/sequel

I see a lot of Accidental warlord writers write spinoff stories focusing on original characters, usually how they arrive to Kaer Morhen. Do you guys like those? I have ideas for one, but it would take a long while (i got classes man)

Thanks for being patient with this chapter!

Chapter 6: Chapter 5: Long Live Redania

Notes:

Haha, hi everyone... So the depression got me bad and i struggled piecing scenes together in this story, but now its here. It got very long, the next two chapters are intense, check the tags

Detailed warnings at the bottom

I too know the joy of a long-awaited update, so those of you who've been waiting here is the last three chapters!

            Jaskier could barely sit still besides his brother the next morning, breakfast having no call like the man somewhere in the castle. The past couple days had been nightmarish, watching hope drip from his fingers as his family showed him off to other noble families.

            Even the Count of Sielce sitting with his father at a high table couldn’t dampen his good mood today.

            Earlier this morning the Lettenhovens’ suite had been filled with yelling; curses and insults, low blows and fist raised between his brothers. The guards were sent outside, and Jaskier himself kept to a corner to avoid catching an errant blow from his father.

            That afternoon was filled with tea and dancing, as well as harsh hands on his shoulder leading him to his next dance.

            Upon the call for dinner, the tenseness between his family had only grown.

            Despite his circumstances, still high off the emotions of last night, Jaskier couldn’t help but imagine him and his witcher in place of his favorite ballad. The two of the running off into the sunset and away from the prying world around them. A castle for the two of them at the top of a mountain pass.

            He earns a glare from the lady across from him for his humming.

            Surely, after he made his way to Sielce, he could send message back to Geralt in the Northern Kingdom. They would be able to continue their storytelling, he could learn more about the hunts that the witcher had been on so many years ago, and he could have some sort of joy for once in his life.

            Because no matter how much he wished, there was no stopping his upcoming transfer into the arms of his oh-so-loving betrothed and her family. As much as he would love to slip his guards again and head straight up the northern mountains, he was more trapped than he ever was in Lettenhoven.

~…~

            Yennefer was pacing at the center of the common room, all of them gathering as the sun broke through curtains for a debriefing before the first day of discussions. She was muttering to herself, hands clasped tight and pressed to her forehead.

            Next to him Lambert was still half asleep, leaning heavily on Aiden as the cat polished a small blade.

            Geralt himself sat lax in a pretentious armchair; Redanian red and lined with lace. His boots were ruining the matching foot stool, but he just adjusts to get more dirt in the fabric.

            He knew he would never sleep in this castle, but last night, no amount of meditation cleared his mind, thoughts running wild with scenarios and questions.

            Cause here Jaskier was again, glinting in and out of his path.

            Again, he questions his own sanity and memory, it was too good to be true to see Jaskier so soon again. Not only that, but the bard was glad to see him too.

            In Dagmar, Geralt had spent a couple hours catching up with Eskel and the group, listening to the reports gathered in other towns visited on the way to Tretogor. His brother had elbowed him with a raised eyebrow, but he had said nothing of his journey there. He had untacked Roach there, leaving her to graze with the others, before settling in to discuss further strategy for the upcoming treaty discussions. Only after the stars shown clearly in the night sky and even giggling town girls made their way home did he make his way back to the tavern that they had parted at.

            Inside there were few people; a couple lone drunks and the barmaid washing down tables. He made inquired about the man who had previously come in asking for a room; strong shoulders, but skinny. A pretty man in a dark fur cloak. He had been directed back out to the stables where the bard had been given permission to crash in.

            Instead, all he had found were several old horses, bales of straw, an abandoned lute and the sharp smell of shock.

            The smell had settled into his stomach and left a pit there. He knew something bad had happened, despite the lack of blood or the signs of a struggle, but as little as he knew the bard, he didn’t imagine him leaving his instrument so carelessly. He had searched every inch of that barn, then the small town, coming up with nothing else of Jaskier’s and no clue where he had gone.

            Despite his instincts telling him he needed to keep searching, that the lost lute meant more, he had responsibilities that he had to get to on time. He also couldn’t swallow the feeling that he had misread things, that the man’s soft voice and smile meant nothing. That one charming day was all that was ever offered.

            He wishes he had searched for longer, now knowing he had been wanted back. That that single walk to Dagmar was held dear just as much.

            But something was obviously wrong. Despite Jaskier’s grace and beautiful smile, he couldn’t hide the smell of lemony nerves from a witcher’s senses.

            “Well so what are we doing about dickwad?”

            Lambert, always one to break the silence, is only encouraged by Coen’s scoff.

            Yennefer stopped in the middle of the room. “WE are not doing anything, and if you want to keep all your fingers and toes, you’ll leave the speaking up to me.”

            “Honestly, I’d prefer to keep this short and sweet, those idiots outside are giving me the jitters.” Aiden chipped in.

            “At no point do I think these discussions will be able to be described as ‘short’, but especially not ‘sweet’. I would place more coin on having to remove the man’s fingers to get him to acquiesce to any of our demands.” Yennefer retorts. “We should not keep our expectations high that this will go smoothly.”

            “Ugggh” Lambert head drops back to the couch, then he proceeds to slouch further till he’s half on Aiden and Egar who sit either side of him.

            “If you’d had paid attention, you would’ve known that a large portion of our kingdom’s population are refugees from the surrounding continents. Between the skirmishes at the border and the large parade of new residents, we must re-establish our borders and what we will not tolerate from allies. After Nilfgaard and their stupidity, we have no need for kings to get big heads and believe they can slaughter without repercussions. We would prefer the travel between our lands be a little less fearsome and return with fewer injured and wary.”

            “With the number of refugees this king sends our way, it’s better now to establish an agreement in writing… Also, before he comes for our throats.” Eskel adds.

            “Inevitable. With the number of guards, he has crawling all over, I would keep on your toes. Fates know what they’re planning, although it would make sense to place us in a separate guest wing, easier to spill blood without terrorizing a noble’s wife.”

            Geralt finally lifted his head from his hands.

            Adien speaks up again, “I told you they gave me the jitters, I’ve already bet Lambert my best dagger that it’s that brown bushy-haired guard that paces outside the front stairs is the one who sneaks into our room one of these nights.”

            “I think they’ll just lock us in a room and starve us, honestly.” Lambert grunts. “Cowards, the whole lot of them.”

            Geralt just sighed tiredly, letting his breath go loud as the room starts up with guesses on how the Redanians will try to wring their necks. His hope for this peace treaty going anyway but sideways was dwindling; his own focus elsewhere in what could very likely be a murder plot.

            The back-and-forth communications between kingdoms bordering their own were simple assurances of an ended war with Nilfgaard originally. When he and Yennefer had received the letter from the Redanian monarch requesting them to agree to a peace treaty as allies with them, promises of better trade and steady borders, they were highly skeptical. Nilfgaard and Redania had been friendly with each other, but their battering down of the empire did not seem a good enough reason for Redania to want to finally play friends. Nilfgaard still existed, just without it’s tyrannical sorceress as a king.

            Yennefer and Eskel said this allyship would be good for their people. Potentially stop the unnecessary bloodshed caused by ignorant kings and blind followers. Give people the chance to move between their lands in peace and trade their wares.

            Now he’s not so certain that peace is obtainable with Vizimir.

            Yennefer, raising her voice, manages to quiet the room, standing at the front of the room, ever more the leader than he is.

            “We are playing polite till further notice. If a man comes in your room, I suggest you give them a good stab, but stick to maiming before outright death. It will be beneficial to hand them back to their tiara wearing frog, whether for answers or for intimidation’s sake. I expect many of you, and those of you know who, to hold your tongue within the next coming days.” She measures a deadly glare towards the couches.

             “Eskel and I will lead the discussion with Vizimir and adhere to our version of the treaty, whether it takes threats or not. No discussions of blood, guts, or sex. Keep your trousers on and leave the older woman alone, if I see one faint I will be removing limbs.”

~.~

            From the front of the room, he could feel his skin crawling.

            The room felt too large and for not the first time he regrets starting up this whole thing. He should be back on the path with Roach and a nice campfire.

            This was much worse that passing through monster-ridden towns with glaring eyes.

            There were a lot of very good reasons he shouldn’t be the face of anything, and when the new legion of witchers were deciding on a leader and kept bringing up Geralt’s name, no number of faults would get his stubborn family to change their minds.

            “Heery, Heery! The Crown of Redania Welcomes The Crowned King of the Northern Kaedwen and his councilmen! Presenting to you, King Geralt of Kaer Morhen, White Wolf of The North and Esteemed Court Sorceress Yennefer of Kaer Morhen.”

            He rolls his shoulders back, straightening his posture as the crier reads out a traditional welcome, launching into praise for the upcoming peace treaty. Yennefer pinches the top of his hand, earning a grunt. Theres no need to try not to look menacing when no matter what his facial expression is, many of the ladies looking faint already. Standing in front of him like a wall, was a crowds of young noble woman, grouped together like a flock of birds. Despite the fear he could smell on each of them, it didn’t stop them from adjusting their necklines and hair, simpering for a dance with him.

            Next to him Vizimir still stood chin up, trying to intimidate despite his short stature. The Queen and the wife of his brother move off to the right together, hands clasped together to find their seats again.

            “King Geralt, allow me to introduce you to my lovely niece, Duchess Aura of Redania”

            From between them, a young noble woman, tall with striking red hair pleated to the side, darts around to stand by her uncle. The man takes her hand, placing a soft kiss to her knuckles, before moving the girl towards Geralt and placing her hand in his.

            Remembering what Yennefer had drilled him on he bends down and brushes a kiss over the large ruby sitting on her ring. He lets go quickly, but he can still hear the rustle of her jewelry as she fidgets, her ankles creaking in the heels she has wedged her feet into.

            He’s very aware of every stand of hair on his body, nerves strung tight as the night progressed. Geralt had only just survived the long-winded cowshit that spilled from Vizimir’s lips as they ate supper, the man’s own wife finishing her glasses of wine at a record pace. In Kaer Morhen supper often ended with a brawl of some sort, starting from anything like a friendly release of drunken energy to squabbles over Gwent and coin.

            Nevertheless, he dips his head in respect again and requests a dance, as Yennefer advised him to just next dance with whichever woman is closest. She and her father agree, and he takes her hand again to help her down the stairs.

            The room parts at the center to clear out the dance floor, men and women scrabbling back despite their crowding; a spectacle of a witcher dancing expected to be entertaining at the least.

            Geralt grimaces and tries not to tighten his hand. The woman’s hand is dainty and floats in his palm, the young woman’s thin fingers lined with rings. He tries to remember the cautiousness he used with Ciri, especially when she was still wobbling around the keep.

            It pains him to think of this young - young woman and his daughter in the same fragile sense. Naïve, still just a girl. Not meant for politics, yet.

Smoothing his face out is easier if he pictures the dancing he had done in the keep, stepping on Yennefer’s feet and listening to Lambert and Ciri crow at him from the sidelines.

            Geralt can feel his eyebrows furrow again. The part he was rigorously prepared for, couched and scripted. The small talk portion of the dance.

            In the center of the room, he and Aura spin to face each other, and he slowly moves to place his hand upon her waist.

            He could feel the room hold their breaths.

            They began to dance the traditional Redania Waltz, an opener to the later dances and a show of good faith during the treaty discussions. Slowly he moved them around the dance floor, careful not to step on her foot or move too fast. Around them people shift away with their movements. Despite the swelling of the music, he can still make out the scuffle of shoes on stone floors, muttering between others, and the smothered snickers at his tenseness by way of his family.

            There was a reason he had learned to dance with no audience. Lambert had only made his way in tonight to the ceremony after threatening to yowl like a cat outside the door.

            “Do you enjoy doing any activities in particular?”

            Geralt grimaces and hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s interrogating the poor woman.

            Duchess Aura gives a small sniff, “I enjoy the process of dress making. I aided my ladies in waiting with the creation of the dress I’m wearing tonight. I have embroidered it specifically for the celebration of our countries’ upcoming treaty discussion, your Majesty.”

            “Hmm. I’m.. honored. I know little about dresses, but I used to sew my own shirts.”

            He focuses on swirling, moving in memorized pattens. Like a sword fight. He keeps his focus over the woman’s head, determined not to look down at her despite the distracting glare of light on her red hair.

            Geralt was only trying to ignore the situation at hand and let his mind take over, feet hopefully fall into place, when he begins to fall into his old fighting ways. Scanning the front lines of nobles around the dance floor, men standing behind shorter woman and some obscured by atrocious hats that adorned their heads. No one is close to the dancing circle, having lined the edges to watch, and Yennefer and Eskel still stand out from a crowd with their similar uniforms of dark armor.

            Then it was only a glance. A meeting of eyes across the room, and like every time, lighting strikes. He’s far away, behind layers of onlookers, gazing at him from the shadows at the back of the hall.   

            He had only seen Jaskier in traveling clothes, but the man was sunshine itself and sang like a beautiful bird, and tonight his clothes brought out the brightness in his eyes and shown from afar. A pale red doublet and ocean blue eyes.

            Another spin of the woman he is holding forces his gaze away, and it takes everything in him to not break the pattern of his feet.

            A couple steps to the right, a slow flourishing turn.

            Swing the partner out, pause. Curl back in, arm around waist.

            Steps to the left, careful of the feet.

            Forward, and further backward, a turn (watch your feet).

            He twirls the woman out away from him, then brings her back in for a slight dip as the crowd starts to clap and twitter louder. Bringing her back up, he gets her on her feet then takes a step back, gaining his own footing again. In the middle of the room, he bows low, and Duchess Aura curtsies lower, and Geralt squeezes his eyes tight for a second.

            When he straightens to his full height, he faces the room at large. Glancing over unfamiliar faces, filled with curiosity or scorn, he gives an awkward nod, hoping the attention will drift away from him.

            He chances a glance back towards that back corner again, but Jaskier’s not visible anymore.

            Yennefer slips onto the dance floor to thankfully claim the next dance from him, and a few excited noble women pull their husbands out to dance with them.

            The night wears on, and he ends up having to deal with only more dancing, and no Jaskier.

~…~

            Jaskier’s brothers surely knew how to add insult to injury. It was not often that they pulled pranks that would end up with all of them in the doghouse, but here he was only in his small clothes, his clothing gone, and not present at the introduction of the King of the North Mountains.

            For all his love of music and dancing, he had a good head on his shoulders, if he did say so himself. All that time spent locked in his room was not just spent laying on the floorboards, he had given himself quite the education. He had also spent the years learning about all sorts of people from his window, patterns of behavior and expected topics of conversation.

            While his brother’s may be sneaky, they could not easily hide the fact that they were purposely making him miss the most important of the events happening in the castles. Especially the one’s having anything to do with the other kingdom’s representatives.

            Now they were not the most powerful of all the noble families, and he was the third son, but he would typically be invited to treaty negotiations if he was ever trusted with his rightful position. Now finances and policies were not his love, but he had expected to be invited to keep up appearances.

            Instead, he has been herded away from anything important and lead to each dance during tea hours. Jaskier hates to say it, but he feels caged like a noble woman, and he’s heard enough gossip to know how bad it gets.

            After skulking about in the Lettenhoven quarters - avoiding his brother’s rooms - he finally makes do with pieces of clothing found in the guards’ extra packs.

            Throwing the clothes on, he decides to make do with buttoning the uniform doublet as he walked, leaving the top few unbuttoned to hopefully make his father squawk a bit. No one is in the hallways but a few sparse guards in their Reds, and he jogs past quickly.

            At the Grand Ballroom doors he skips around to the back, down a low-ceilinged hallway, following the sounds of soft clatter as the maids and cooks haul the leftovers of dinner back to the kitchens.

            The beautiful ladies working were happy to supply with him with some of the leftovers in exchange for carrying a couple dishes back down with them. Jaskier also ends up hoisting pots and pans to high shelves to prevent a marvelous older head cook from doing so herself. He was happy to do so, and helped himself to a plate from the platters along with the other servants after.

            Giving his plate a quick wash in the large kitchen sink after having his fill, Jaskier makes his way up the servants stairs and slides in through the side door of the ballroom to join Redania’s ‘celebration’ for the arrival of the Warlord of the North.

            He finds himself ignored by others and situates himself in the corner near a pillar, picking off the dessert plates as they pass. Jaskier wonders if King Vizimir III hired purposely subpar performers for the Warlord’s arrival, perhaps hoping witchers had no taste for music.

            Jaskier knows at least one witcher that has a music taste, although the man would not admit to him that he had liked his music.

            He wishes he had his lute with him. Hopefully it was only a couple more days without her, and at least she was safe. She is also a lovely excuse to see Geralt again.

            Back in the corner of the room as he is, Jaskier finds himself lucky to have the advantage of height over most of attendees, as he can just barely see the dancing.

            A sudden turn of the dancing man’s head, and silver hair shines in the candlelight. Jaskier is struck by the picture Geralt makes.

            Now Geralt had not been one to talk about himself much. He admits that he took up a large part of their conversation, although he did get some things out of the man! The man knowing how to dance was not something he had expected from him, with the size of him and all.

            Jaskier supposes he doesn’t know much about Witcher training, he could never find a book about it. On the other hand, most books about witchers are not exactly based on fact.

            The look on the man’s face is steely concentration; a look that sends a lot of the more naïve maidens close to fainting. You could practically see Geralt counting the steps by the tick in his brow.

            Jaskier wonders if the one witcher standing towards the front of the crowd had thrown his to the wolves and forced him to dance out there on his own.

            He flinches fast at the hand in his peripheral, but a second hand makes a grab and clasps the back of his neck like a misbehaving kitten. With his back hunched forward, Aldwin leads him straight of the first set of doors he sees, their father trailing along behind them.

            As soon as they’re past the threshold of the ballroom door, the Viscount is whispering as much as his rage is letting him.

            “What in the King’s name are you wearing boy!?”

            Jaskier doesn’t quite know how to answer that, as he is obviously wearing a very old Redanian-style doublet, slightly too large on his frame. Other than that, he can’t help but cave to the same anxious childish ways the Viscount’s always been capable of drawing out of him.

            He just points the finger. “Aldwin stole my clothes.”

            “No I fucking didn’t!”

~…~

            The walk to Vizimir’s council room for another day of discussions was almost the most impossible feat he’s ever accomplished, above surviving the grasses twice and raising a little girl. There was not a bone in his body that wanted to be dragged down these twisting hallways and back into that stuffy room.

            His head was pounding already. From the moment they stepped through the doors of Tretogor’s Castle he had had pressure building behind his eyes and between his temples. There were too many confusing smells in these walls. He wanted to figure out what was making Jaskier’s heart race like a hunted rabbit, a sound he could pinpoint from floors away. He wanted Egar and Lambert to stop betting on who could pickpocket the most off the Redanian Reds. And currently, he could really do with a knock in the head so wouldn’t have to listen to Yennefer croon at this Dres Marwin dude who led them down each of these endless hallways.

            He’d really appreciate it if they’d all follow his rule of keeping him out of unimportant shit. Silencers on bedrooms in the keep and no sex in the hot springs. Keep your business to yourself so he doesn’t need to deal with it. Last time he had to “deal with” anything of anyone else’s he ended up in charge of Kaedwen with an adopted infant. His family has been non-stop in his business ever since; he especially didn’t want to be in theirs.

            Since last night, Yennefer keeps giving him these sly glances out of the corner of her eye, as if she knows everything. Then she turns around to this steward asshole and pretends to pick the fuzz from his collar.

            Seeing Jaskier across the room last night had made his day of discussions and pageantry worth it, even though the man was so far away. Upon escaping the young woman set upon him by the King, he had entered the crowd hoping to get another moment to speak with the man alone, knowing Jaskier had to be in attendance. Between all the people in the room, the candles and the food, he could not get a sense of Jaskier at all once entering the crowd. Despite his height, he had no sight of him.

            Now here he was on another day of battering down King Vizimir’s terrible treaty. He had barely read the pieces and fragments the man has shown, much more inclined to turn anything the man wrote into kindling. Yennefer used his brooding silence to break down the man’s counterintuitive trade proclamations, but the man was budging little when it came to training the armed guards stationed in Redenia’s smaller towns.

            Marwin’s eyes stay straight ahead as he addresses the guards at the front of the conference room, Yennefer flashing a devilish grin at them all. The doors to the room are opened for them and a third of their men file in behind them; those besides Yennefer, Eskel and him moving to secure the perimeter of the grand court room and match up with Redanian soldiers.

            The criers introduce them to the room at large, again, as if they had not met the same people the previous day.

            Vizimir barely stands to welcome them, but his council does, each shaking even worse than the day before. The man’s smile is slimy; teeth yellow and showing through wide wet lips.

            Geralt nods back to the room, pulling out the chair to his left for Yennefer before his own. Eskel takes the seat on his other side. Once the three of them are seated, Vizimir lets them all ache in a lull of silence for a second.

            Yennefer, however, is not burdened with the man’s theatrics, and soon stands back up from her seat, rising to full height. “Well, we might as well start today off with a continued discussion of the routes between Kaedwen and Redania, now yesterday the topic of immigrating peoples was highly avoided, so I supposed we shall take care to highlight it today.”

            The temperature rises as the council before them shifts in their seats, ever more tense by the second. Vizimir’s face doesn’t lose its grin, despite his hands clenching around his feather pen.

            "Now our border is most secure, my lady. My men guard it most heavily. What could you possibly wish to change about it.”

            “Your people are being punished for leaving your territory, sire, and often they are going to the best places to sell their wares. What do you say of that?”

            A man with a rather stiff mustache speaks up, “Our kingdom prioritizes the safety of our people, you must understand. Small fines are collected for cross bridges, and dangerous items are collected.”

            A thin man, practically skeletal, continues, “Many Redanians pass through to both Hengfors and Temeria, they come to trade for silver for grain and corn. Our farms are most prosperous, and our villages welcoming to travelers.”

            “And yet, immigrants to our territory tell stories of your men destroying property on the paths between Kaedwen and Redania. Not only that, we have received various reports of massacres of family units through Redania, and not only your lands, but the roads to our’s as well.”

            Vizimir’s smile turns smarmy, “Our intent is to sort out dangerous items and beings, ma’am, casualties happen. You would not want them in your kingdom either. We have mages and guards-a-plenty who work to watch over our villagers and their wares. We assure you, we are doing the best for everyone’s safety and prosperity.”

            At this point Geralt had closed his eyes and tried to picture sitting in front of his fire at home. With a lot of White gull.

~.~

            That night he took another late-night stroll, determined as hell with an old lute on his back. His pace throughout the castle is brisk, searching for any sign of the one person he wants to talk to. Geralt ducks and twists behind columns and obnoxious art displays, sliding past guard after guard that patrols through the night.

            Through the stress and surprise of seeing Jaskier at the Redanian Castle, he missed the steady conversation of their first day meeting. The chatter, though reserved, picking up speed through favored topics and the sweetest compliments he’s ever heard.

It was not often Geralt ever said much, but the man made him want to at least try for him. The man asks so many questions, and Eskel and Ciri have taught him that the best way to speak as little as possible himself is to ask more back.

            Jaskier had played upon Roach’s back as they walked. His fingers flew across the strings of his lute and his stories catapulted into song often each hour. He had described the scenery and twisted it into poems. Geralt could feel his eyes on him as they had walked, and for once had not minded.

            He wanted that again. How ever Jaskier would allow it. Geralt doesn’t know what Kaer Morhen would have for Jaskier, though. It was cold, damp at times, and filled with rowdy smelly men. They were no other musicians in the keep.

            A bard such as Jaskier would want to travel.

            Today he decides to go up instead of down, perhaps track his way to just outside the hallways of the visiting lords and ladies. He wouldn’t dare be spotted by the Reds positioned outside the doors.

            Down one staircase then up another, he bypasses the kitchens entirely - left cold and quiet for the night. He rounds past the Witcher’s wing, listening to steady breaths for just a second, before continuing on.

            It when he’s walking up to a higher floor that he smells Jaskier before he see him, blueberry and something sunshiny. The man is moving slow down the steps, carefully putting each foot down as if to avoid making any noise at all.

            Geralt stops just a couple steps below the stair landing, hidden by the wall. He quiets his own breathing more, the corners of his mouth twitching.

            Footsteps come closer, touching down on the landing. A pause, then small shuffles to the other side of the wall from him. Finally, Jaskier turns around the center column quickly, eyes outward and down.

            Only Geralt’s hands catching on the man’s waist keep him upright, as Jaskier startles and squawks loudly at the sudden presence in front of him.

            Picking him up fully now, Geralt can’t help but let out a deep chuckle at the secondary squeak. Jaskier’s hands land on his chest to steady himself. Making sure Jaskier’s feet are under him, swinging him down beside him on the red fabric-lined steps, he watches him catch his breath.

            “The number of times you’ve startled me, good heavens, Witcher.” Jaskier gasps out, “For men of your size, you should be crashing about.”

            Jaskier punctuates his statement with a pat to his chest. The small smile stays on Geralt’s face as he raises a single eyebrow.

            Neither of them let go of the other as Jaskier continues voice his surprise.

            “I’ve not known wolves to be so silent, as you say. Cats and birds, however, would make much more sense! Maybe even…”

            “There are cats.” Geralt responds, moving to wrap his arm now fully around the bard’s waist. He begins to guide the both of them back the way he came, towards a hall where they would not have to watch out for people passing by.

            Somewhere on the floor above someone is pacing in the hallways.

            Jaskier hums at him, leaning into his side as they walk. Chuckling, he teases, “I wonder if all you wolves are so bossy. Maybe a cat would be less likely to push me all over the castle like I’m being herded.”

            Geralt’s only response is a grunt at that; not sure Aiden would be as nice.

            “You sure do perk up like a cute puppy at wanted sights, my dear. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging! Oh, don’t give me that look, it’s quite adorable seeing you smile at my presence. Aw, now don’t stop!” Jaskier’s finger has now risen to poke him in the chin.

            Through a door and down another corridor, out an open arch, Geralt finds the outer walls of the third floor. The open walls allow for the light of the moon above to shine through, gleaming on the red carpet just enough for them to not trip over creases.

            Past the wooden banisters, the stars shine above dotted window lights from small houses in the outer villages. Smoke still billows up into the sky above the roofs.

            Alone now, Geralt twists, pulling the lute off his back and holding it out clasped in one hand.

            “Yours.”

            Jaskier’s face brightens, blue eyes fluttering at him as he takes the outstretched instrument. His eyes graze over its wood, a soft hand following the same path.

            With a twirl the lute is swung over the bard’s shoulders, hooded eyes then meet his, “Thank you, my sweet.”

            Geralt grunts.

            “You’re awfully grumbly tonight, my dear witcher. While I know that is not uncommon for you, I do worry at the lines upon your forehead. Who knows how long they’ll stay. Even with what little court experience I have, I know Vizimir can take his toll upon one’s peace.”

            Geralt hums at that.

“I’ve never seen you at discussions, other nobles attend.”

            At that he receives a small eye roll, “Now I’m just a third son, Geralt, the less they include me in the better for us all.”

            “It’s been a long couple days.”

            “Oh, I can only imagine, all you big tough witchers crammed in a tiny conference room, listening to insufferable old men tell you how they want to cheat out their people.” Jaskier pokes him again, twisting out from under his arm to lean against the banister. “I would love to know more about the conversations that take place at that table, but the terrifying sorceress I saw hanging about makes me realize you lot are probably holding your own somewhat.”

            Geralt leans into his finger, tilting his own face towards the bard’s radiant smile.

            “As taciturn as you are, I expect a lot of your debating is made up of grunting and those magnificent eyebrows of yours.” Jaskier’s voice turns sweet at the end, obviously making fun of him, but Geralt can’t stop watching the way his lips move.

            For all the sleepless hours he’s spent thinking of what he would say to Jaskier if he could, he again loses it all at the sight of him.

            Leaning against the banister himself, he slowly cages the bard against the railing, taking his time to trace his fingers over the man’s sides and arms.

            Long eyelashes flutter at him, and Geralt leans down and grazes his lips over the man’s browbone. Jaskier’s breath stutters, eyes closing, before tilting his head farther back for him to graze a kiss over his lips. Once, then again before lingering, finally slowly moving back.

            The night air is quiet and still around them, the trees in the distance still.

            “I hate politics.”

            His words startle a shout of laughter out of Jaskier, the man leaning back over the railing behind him, face to the stars.

            “Oh, that does not surprise me at all! You seem to be the sort of man who prefers his solitude in the mountains. All that brooding in the dark, away from polite society.”

            “Eskel does better than me.” He responds honestly.

            “Now I think an actual wolf may be better at polite conversation than you, my dear. Your eyebrows do all the talking for you, leaving little need for words. All those trickily worded clauses, dead at the sight of your beautiful scowl and dark eyes! It’s a wonder the Redanian council doesn’t fall faint at the sight of your silver locks.” Eyelashes flutter again at him.

            Geralt can only grunt in response, “The council is stupid, following a daft man with fool’s gold. The treaty is as much of a crock of shit as they are. Eskel knows what he’s doing.”

            Jaskier snorts at that, tracing Geralt’s eyebrow with a gentle fingertip, “Now I hope your Eskel is good at debating with dim-witted men, the fates only know how much those men drive people mad. The absurdity of King Vizimir inviting witchers to his castle to sign allyship with still passes over me. Not that I regret your invitation to these lands, but surely it hasn’t been straight-forward for you all. I can only imagine what that man is doing in the shadows, with all this pageantry and falsehoods.”

            At that he gives the bard a smile, fond at the sight of Jaskier making fun of him. “My brother, Eskel. He’s much better at conversation.”

            With a hand on his chest, the bard pushes him back a bit, an incredulous smile on his face. “If he’s any better at patience than you, I’m sure he’s amazing at politics! You witchers make me laugh, you at least seem so keen to be anywhere but here, flaunting power and wealth.”

            Jaskier’s hands fling about as he continues, “Oh if my older brother had even a chance for a higher position, he would be crashing through doors and walls. A position in your kingdom’s council, as you have, is something many would boast about. Nigh, many here would kill for.”

            Geralt puts his hands back on the man’s waist as the bard glides his hands down his arms.

            “Lucky you that you can let your grunts do all the talking and leave the rest to your Warlord,” He chuckles, “I can’t imagine how anyone convinced you to be in a roll that requires so much public appearance. Or was it that dangerous looking mage of yours I’ve seen about.”

            So he didn’t know.

Without any words to add, Geralt instead focuses back on receiving the kisses he’s been craving as he sat ignoring treaty discussions.

He can’t admit that he truly was the one in chance of the whole treaty mess, that sadly he had to speak with more than just facial expressions at the meetings.

            That all the responsibilities for getting this treaty signed are his. That the ire Jaskier knows is there, they direct at him.

            He doesn’t want to make the man’s smile crease and fade.

            His stomach churns at the thought of Jaskier not knowing who he was getting involved with. He sickens at the thought of Jaskier treating him differently if he knew.

            Jaskier pulls away again, clearly wanting to make conversation, “So, a brother!”

            Geralt hums at him and dips down for another, but Jaskier laughs and turns his head.

            “Oh, I know you hate questions, my dear. But surely you can stand a few! Now typically that’s how all those courtings go, and usually,” Jaskier eyebrows wiggle, “with a chaperone. You could at least tell me if this Eskel is older or younger!”

            Geralt doesn’t quite want to think about Eskel at such a time as this.

            “Little older.”

He leans down to press his lips to forehead again, feeling the texture of skin on skin. Smelling the sweat on his skin.

            In the quiet of the night, he takes his time to breathe his bard in slow and deep. Geralt memorizes the sight of Jaskier before him, relaxed and happy, framed by the village lights behind him, lips plump and wet from his own.

            “Normally conversations work both ways, you boar!” His face stays smiling, “Any others?”

            “Many”.

            He meets lips. Another kiss becomes two more, and Geralt knows that he should be walking the man back to his room, instead of softly holding Jaskier in secret.

            “What of your family?”

            “Of my family?” His heart beat stutters for a second before evening out again, “Oh, well, I have two older brothers, both in training for their positions as the head of the estate and guard, and my sister. I haven’t seen Eliza in years since she married this wretched little man out in Kovir. I do have nephews, though I haven’t met them. I would’ve loved to, obviously, but circumstances prevail.”

Geralt’s hands wander as they hold each other tight, his slow witcher heartbeat attempting to match pace with the man in his arms. He tucks his fingertips under his shirt, ghosting over skin, before making their way back to the man’s sides.

            “And what do you do, if you don’t go to court.”

            The chuckle Jaskier gives is not quite the same as the one’s before, “I prefer my independent studies. Literature, math, a little science…”

Geralt’s lips cut him off again. With their mouths pressed together, him pressing Jaskier into the railing, he begins to understand all those cheesy books Eskel would read when he thought no one was looking. Neither of them opens their eyes as they sway in the moonlight, content with the soft push and pull of their mouths.

            Time loses meaning with his bard, the stars dimming in the sky as the morning sun approaches the skyline. Geralt’s hands drift, pressed against the small of the others’ back, tilting the man’s head for a deeper kiss.

            It’s not the first time he questions if the man has chaos.

            A loud bell sounding from out in the hills startles them both, arms wrapped tight around the other in surprise. Geralt comes to his senses more as another church bell tolls further east, ringing for longer and louder than the previous one.

            Behind Jaskier’s head the morning sunlight starts to peak above thatched roofs and billowing smoke. Below them the sounds of servants starting morning chores start up.

            Footsteps grow louder in the halls deeper in the castle.

            Prying himself from Jaskier is harder than before, the bard’s lips swollen and red, pupils large in blue oceans. However, the guards have picked up pace, rounding corners in the hallways as they patrol in the early morning.

            His careful herding of the man takes on a more persistent note as they reach the doorway of their hallway, turning the corner as a group of Reds make their way onto the balcony. Jaskier, not quite understanding where exactly they were going, shuffles awkwardly and goes banging into the wall.

            The clanking is enough to stop the Red’s in their place for only a moment, before their pace picks up in their direction.

            Geralt takes the man’s hand and hauls them down the corridor, taking sharp turns and narrowly avoiding stupidly large sculptures. Jaskier keeps pace behind him, although clumsily, with footsteps echoing behind them.

            Around another tight bend, Geralt gets a better hold on Jaskier, his arm wrapping around the bard’s waist. After another misjudged corner and another large clatter as Jaskier stumbles over his own feet and knocks his lute against the wall, Geralt takes a hold of the man’s strap, swinging the instrument back over onto his own back for safe keeping.

            It’s down another long hallway that they come to a dead end. Geralt takes the smaller man around the waist and tucks them into the corner of a decorative column along the outer walls.

            He covers Jaskier mouth gently with his palm, stifling the little squeak and giggle. At least one of them was enjoying the recent developments. Geralt grimaces as the footsteps of the patrolling guards turn down the hallway after them.

            Jaskier worms his arm up, grabbing hold of Geralt’s wrist, tugging lightly. He moves his palm and moves his face closer.

            “I can distract them”

            “No happening”, Geralt furrows his eyebrows at him.

            Jaskier rolls his eyes, no less fond then earlier, “I’ll just tell them I got lost or something looking for breakfast. They’ll just take me back to my rooms, and you can sneak off.”

            His answering grunt must seem like an affirmative to him, and the bard starts to wiggle out of his arms. Geralt reluctantly lets him slide away, but not before another kiss.

            He watches Jaskier backside as he walks back down the hall they came down, the man chatting up the very confused guards as they came speeding around the corner. They try to move past him, and Geralt ducks back behind the column.

            He waits for the footsteps to disappear before heading back to his room, a lute still with him.

~.~

            Geralt did his best to ignore the people sitting next to him, the room stifling with heat and the sounds of nervous breathing. After the day they’ve had, he would prefer to be alone in his room or in the woods somewhere. Anywhere but a ballroom; where he can’t even pick up a spoon without getting the side eye from an Earl’s wife.

            He focuses on his food, avoiding the hunch he wants to go into as he attempts to use the small silver forks they were given. Across from him Yennefer is doing her best to keep her attention on her conversation with the Duke of Redania and keeping her own annoyance off her face as she watches him struggle to get food to his mouth. Lambert barely tries down the table. To his left, Eskel now sat next to him, still reeling from the embarrassing announcement his own entrance came with.

            Geralt fills his plate with second helpings of the roast and potatoes in front of him, passing Eskel plates as they try to eat their fill and avoid talking. Choking down food is difficult when your senses are so filled that you can’t taste or think. Everythings bland and barely spiced. The lot of them want this pageantry to be over. To his right, Vizimir sits primly picking at a plate of carefully curated portions, offering a snide opinion every so often in Yennefer’s conversation with the King’s brother about music and the local Redanian culture.

            After so long of Yennefer no longer touching her own plate, he beats Eskel to finishing it off.

            From down the seats, Lambert was filled with complaints, directed at no one in particular. Geralt ignored his grumbling.

            This night he had more luck, dodging maidens on the dance floor too nervous to speak to him. He avoided stuttered conversation, eyes straight forward to cut through the crowd. Geralt had seen him at the back of the room as he had made his way from the high table, by himself beside the obnoxious wall drapery and outer positioned guards, near where a Cat stands post in the shadows.

            He looked beautiful, despite the heaviness that he could see on the man’s shoulders. Jaskier wasn’t a quaint man, sturdy with broad shoulders and a trim waist, but he was hunched in on himself, determined to make himself smaller in the dark.

            The room murmured with confusion around Geralt as he moved, but he did not care. A few guards force a few couples into the dance floor with hard shoves, the musicians moving to play at the King’s glare. He’s aware of his own men moving, shifting around the perimeters of the room to follow him.

            Across the room Eskel has moved to stand besides Yenn, whispering in her ear.

            Still hidden in shadows, Jaskier eyes widened at the sight of him approaching, but Geralt keeps pushing forward; guest moving with little need for warning at his size.

            Now closer, the lines across his face become more visible, eyes tired, expression drained and weary. Jaskier’s again dressed in the same dark colors of before; grey buttoned suit top sitting tight on his frame, his coat too large on his shoulders.

            Geralt’s eyes squint in concern, again cataloging the man’s appearance and his person, tired and pale as Jaskier is in daylight each time he sees him.

            It only now that Geralt can really measure the heaviness in front of him – such a contrast to their midnight meetings and the ease of the smile on Jaskier’s face in the torchlight. He’s at a loss of words at what to do, still watched by a ballroom full of people. His head blanks at any sort of question to ask the man. Instead, he just holds out his hand for a dance.

            Those blue eyes widen at the sight of him, right in front of him perhaps, with so many people watching, but despite the shock on Jaskier’s face he places his own hand in Geralt’s, and with-it Geralt leads them out to the center of the dance floor.

            The crowd parts around them, slowly moving backwards and muttering to close acquaintances, but for once the chatter surrounding him was not pounding inside his head. The smells of the lingering feast and dripping candle wax fades, the pinch in the air from upcoming lightning storms gentling.

            Jaskier’s face is shining with insecurities, eyes hopping around the room, but not stopping in one place. His hand clenches on Geralt’s own, and he squeezes back. He’s clearly wary of those in the room, and Geralt longs to do anything to show his own vow of protection.

            With the man in his arms he can’t regret his actions, but Geralt’s suddenly aware of the implications of his actions and the stares.

            Instead of running like he wants to, with the quiet swell of music, he wraps his left arm around the Jaskier’s waist, holding him close, and begins to lead them in gliding movements around the room.

            This close, he can feel Jaskier’s breath, fast paced and warm on his skin, and Geralt longs to meet his lips again. Geralt turns them into a bit of a flourish, more than he’d usually care to add, but Jaskier’s scent spikes with something dark, and those blue eyes squint up to meet his.

            Time slows once more, and he’s convinced this man has chaos unrecognizable to pull him from his surroundings like this. It’s like the first time; the man’s hair wind-swept and messy, cheeks flushed and a tentative smile growing.

            “I’ve missed you”. Geralt barely realizes he speaks.

            Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes for a second, before he squeezes his hand once more. He whispers back, eyes down again, “And I you, although it’s only been hours.”

            He grunts back, not willing to admit that the hours of treaty discussions stretched out like days, and that he had not slept since their parting. Too much happened in these castle walls for Geralt to ever be able to sleep soundly.

            “I hope my dancing is up to par”. He tries to tease, sounding flat, desperate for something to say. Geralt’s coming up short again, blanking on every question he prepared for these dances and Jaskier’s darting eyes were drawing all his attention.

All he receives is a small smile and nod in return. Blue eyes glance to watch their feet before settling again into their waltz. Geralt gentles his arms around the bard and slows their dancing.

            “Something is wrong”. That much is clear. Jaskier is still slightly tense in his arms, face pulled down as he tilts towards Geralt’s chest. Jaskier’s gaze has moved again to the outer corners of the room, looking this way-and-that as Geralt leads them in practiced circles around the room. The bard’s fingers twitch in his hands.

            Jaskier’s face doesn’t change at his words, but his slow breathing sounds forced, “No, no.. nothing. Let’s just enjoy this moment”.

            Geralt’s own jaw tenses, eyebrows drawing in. He can feel his back molar grind against each other.

            “Who did you see?”

            At that he feels Jaskier flinch, even if it’s just a hard twitch of his hand. He was trying to hide it, that much was certain, but to Geralt it was now obvious in the tensing of his bard and the dark lines across his face. Geralt can feel his gut turn and warm, teeth clenched, shoulders tense and drawn.

            Geralt had walked knowingly into a room of those who wished him harm. Now he could see the fear Jaskier himself felt at the center of the room.

            He steers them both through careful turns as he swallows hard, throat clicking.

            He hoped his hands weren’t sweating. Geralt shouldn’t have done this. Like every other time his family throws him in the center he has fucked up royally. Last time he had insulted a leader of a dwarven refugee group, barely making amends with Lambert’s drunken help. This time he has thrown the both of them into the center of a beast’s hunting grounds.

            Jaskier’s fresh linen and blueberry jam scent is tinged with the sharp smell of fire and ash.

            Surely someone in this crowd is in some way responsible for Jaskier abrupt departure that night, scent distressed and nervous. His precious instrument left behind in the dirt.

            Finding Jaskier weary and hurting in the Redanian castle, accompanied but family members of esteemed positions.

            In his days of traveling the continent, hundreds of years of monster hunts, he had seen much of what would happen behind closed wooden doors and in front of loyal courts. Those with wealth did no good by their children, bartering and trading them like goats for more land.

            And Geralt was no idiot. He had come back to villages who had deemed their children rebellious and rowdy, finding miserable young adults now stuck in family farms. He knew what means many took to get such obedience.

            The music fades out, Geralt removing his arm from around Jaskier waist, moving back to dip his head low in a bow. Across from him Jaskier makes to do the same, staying in one place as the next song starts. Geralt dips his head again and offers his hand for the next dance.

            This one is slower, less twirling of one’s partner and more intimate small steps. It allows him to hold Jaskier even closer now, arm low and light, pressing their hips together as they sway.

            “What aren’t you telling me? Let me help you.”

            It seems that was not what needed to be said. Jaskier makes eye contact with him again, blue eyes blazing, his eyelashes fluttering in the dimming light of the room around them.

            “You Witchers think you have all the answers, don’t you?” Jaskier lips thin, before offering him a tentative smile. “Bringing Redania new regulations and handing them solutions they do not want”.

            “You appear to know more about the treaty discussions than I expected, Vizimir bragging at court?”

            “Oh of course, but anyone with a brain would know that the man is leading this place to rubble, surely a feared leader with a successful kingdom would lead the writing of any such piece of legislation.” He sighs. “To bring you all the way here only to bury you in politics, I assure you they are not as easily persuaded to part with their ways as it might seem. They care little for safety or correctness if it means stepping on you.”

            Geralt can feel his own face sober, “Hmmm. And yet I cannot protect everyone can I.”

            Jaskier’s blue eyes shine. “No, you cannot”.

            They continue their swaying, moving slowly in circles around the floor, dodging other dancing couples who have more grace but less spatial awareness. Jaskier’s eyes are closed now, peaceful, following the movements with what must be memory. Geralt takes the time to let his own gaze trace the man’s long eyelashes and browbone, done to his cupid’s bow and the freckles on his cheek.

            For a moment the bard looks to be at peace, here in Geralt’s arms.

            So, of course, Geralt’s mouth gets ahead of him and ruins it for him.

            “Leave with me.”

            Jaskier eyes open quickly at his words, glaring at him. The words that Geralt barely thought of before saying; although it doesn’t subtract from desperation he feels in his own stomach.

            “What?”

            “Leave Redania with me. After the treaty is signed. Come back with me to Kaer Morhen.”

            Their dancing slows down, steps losing their grace and timing with the music. Geralt’s eyes go to his feet, trying to find his footing again. Jaskier’s fingers begin tapping within his hold again.

            “I.. to kay what? Geralt… I can’t leave Redania with you?! Do you know what you’re asking?” Jaskier’s whispering fervently. His pupils have blown wide, covering the beautiful ocean blue.

            Geralt grunts at him, pulling him back towards him, “Of course. You hate it here. You should leave with me.”

            “Geralt! It is not that simple! I.. I.. You’d be accused of stealing a noble from the castle walls itself! Who knows, I could be assumed a spy or something else treasonous!”

            “Well… we’d deal.” He hadn’t thought that far, but they would. “Just think about it… please.”

            “Geralt…”

            And with that the music begins to fade again, forcing them to end their conversation early and removing the man from Geralt’s arms. They again bow low to one another, stepping apart in the middle of the dance floor.

            This time, as he straightens, Jaskier dips his head again and makes his way off into the crowd, leaving him standing in the center. At Jaskier’s departure, a swath of young noble woman rushes up in attempt to take his place. Their smiles are fractured, and he can smell the nervous sweat on them

            Instead of dancing, Geralt turns and returns to the front of the dais where King Vizimir III stands with his brother.

~…~

            His father manhandles him into the shadowy corner of the ballroom as soon as he had made his way through the crowd, and with the movement Jaskier tries not to vomit.

            “What did he say to you, boy?!”

            Jaskier’s stomach has been steadily sinking into his boots the whole night through. Between the basic entertainment for the extra noble children and the herding of his brothers, he knows he’s missed out a lot on the introductions and making connections aspect of treaty negotiations. He’s heard little gossip about the witchers and their Warlord from the ladies around, ostracized as he is, but Jaskier is not a dumb man and can put the pieces together himself.

            A seat at the high table, dances with the Redanian family, and an aura of command in his very being.

            Jaskier may have missed the beginning ceremony, but he had seen Geralt’s dance with Duchess Aura of Redania, King Vizimir’s eldest niece.

            At the time there was no way of knowing if it was her first dance, her second, or her eighth.

            Now tucked away in the dark corner of the ballroom, Jaskier could feel his spine fusing together and his shoulders drawing back. At his back, the Viscount de Lettenhoven stood with a firm hand on his shoulder. Next to them both, Aldwin stood ramrod straight, eyes watchful of the room.

            In front of them all, crowds of onlooking noblemen and their families turned to face the King.

King Vizimir III stood before the room, upon his dais, with his wife dressed in blood red at his left. Behind him to his right stood the man’s sons, three in total, as well as Vizimir’s younger brothers, each with their wife and children. From the back of the room, each looked skinny and small behind the man wearing a hefty silver crown.

The King raises his hands up high for quiet, swaying on his feet, and the air turns cold as the crowd mutes suddenly.

            Geralt himself stood next to the King of Redania, face grim in the dying light of the overhead candelabras. From where Jaskier stood, in the far back of the ballroom, the witcher looked like someone from folklore, pale silver hair and skin with dark solid armor, broad shoulders towering over the foe around him. His eyes were dark and steeling, gazing over the crowds of onlookers before him – judging them all and deeming them unworthy.

            Jaskier would write a million sonnets about the sight.

            “My fine people! We are gathered today to rejoice in the culmination of the treaty between our great nations. In the coming days we will see much difference in our farmlands and bounty, our people fully dedicated to the grounds we reside on, and law and order restored in our borders and seas. We have worked so hard to dedicate our lands to our people’s growth, and for that we have been rewarded.”

            King Vizimir’s smile is filled with teeth, “Together, the great lands of Redania and the kingdom of Kaedwen will ensure the prosperity of our people and guard from the monsters that lay in wait. Our kingdom’s prosperity and fortune will only increase, and with our new allies in the North, our power will only grow and transform for our mutual benefits.”

            “With a sealing of the Peace Treaty between Redania and Kaedwen by way of marriage, our kingdom with continue to grow, protection for our people increased, and trade expanded to the mountains for gold and stone. Through my niece Duchess Aura of Redania’s union to the King of Kaedwen, The Warlord of The North, our two kingdoms will now forever be united in allyship and welfare.”

            And with a hearty yell, the people of Redania rejoiced.

~.~

            Curled up under his covers, Jaskier could feel his fingers and toes shaking. The fire in his fireplace was burning low, the air in the room starting to cool. Despite the layers he was under, his limbs seemed to be numb with the cold.

            To combat it, Jaskier pulls his knees close to his chest; curled into a ball like a child. Tight and safe, chest warm against his hands.

            And to think he had any sort of hope at all.

            Jaskier cannot help but laugh at himself a bit. To be the universe’s cosmic joke; someone the fates love to push and pull till they break.

            Just how much could he handle being ripped from his grasps. First the love of his family, then freedom itself, music, and what had been love at first sight. Something he had read about, dreamed about in the dark.

            Why had he been so desperate to feel a connection that he had gone and thrust it on someone unobtainable.

            Jaskier knew the witcher loved him back. What they had felt, not everyone got. That night in the kitchen had crafted parts of his very veins and heart. The walk through the halls in the crevices of his brain. The kisses they shared tied their breaths into one.

            But even bards knew good things never lasted. Sending letters to a foot solider of a feared Warlord, precarious treaty in place, would’ve been difficult. He would’ve needed to come up with an excuse for Sielce attendants, mail carriers, and even possibly his wife.

            Writing to the King of Kaedwen, the White Wolf, famed Warlord of the North, however.

            Jaskier’s not stupid.

            In the morning his eyes were crusted and dull, his stomach still turning. At breakfast in the Lettenhoven’s  sitting room, the Viscount claims that business has been sealed with a wax stamp and dried ink, flourishing the paper on the table in front of him.

            Sitting beside his father, drinking watered down ale, the Count of Sielce’s face is grim and tight, tuning out the man’s delighted crowing. He sends one of the maids to pack Jaskier’s things in a hurry.

            Caser snatches up the letter before Jaskier can, snorting at it, then passing it down to Aldwin. The Count takes it back from the man, folding it up carefully and placing it in his front coat pocket.

            Jaskier doesn’t touch the food on his plate.

Notes:

Warnings: lots of kisses, discussion of women being in a bad position in noble families

while this fic does not have blatant homophobia, women are still seen as possessions

Chapter 7: Chapter 6: Hell Hath No Fury Like a Lover Scorned

Notes:

For those who forget ~...~ is a switch in perspectives, ~.~ is the same perspective but a new scene

Detailed warnings at the end

            The entire room smelled of rot and mildew, musty from where the weather had gotten through the wooden boards and stones.

            No matter, Jaskier had decided this small walk-in closet he had found, abandoned and lost in the curly hallways of the Sielce mansion, would be his oasis. Here he could sit peacefully with his eyes closed, quiet in the dimly lit room.

            His shoes were pried off and placed in front of him, granting his heels a moment of reprieve from torture. Despite his own unique tastes, even he practically vomited as he tried to pry the sequined and gemmed atrocities from his feet.

            Sielce either had outrageous fashion statements, or his fiancée did.

            Jaskier longed for his lute, forgotten in the chaos of the treaty discussions and discovering the man he loved was a fucking king. The king of quite possibly the entire continent. There was a lot to think about.

And there was no goodbye.

            The days in Sielce passed like ones stuck in a prison cell, or so he figures. Lines drawn on the wall counting days till his execution. He supposed death would be sweeter than his current future, but he had long convinced himself that he would not cower and give others the satisfaction.

            Despite the silence of the room he sat in, he held hope in that room, in the form of a couple sequestered coins and pieces of jewelry, hidden beneath loose floorboards. It was easier to do here than Lettenhoven, Herta having three younger brothers who were more than ready to point the blame at each other.

            His current plan? This he guesses. He doesn’t quite know, but it involves squirreling away money, hopefully a successful escape from the Sielce grounds, then who knows where. Maybe Kaedwen, eventually. Enough money to get on his feet and out of this kingdom.

             Jaskier traces the lines on the walls that he’s drawn; inaccurate, but enough to tell him he’s been here for a couple weeks at least. It’s not everyday he finds his way to some peace and solitude, too often being dragged around by his fiancé or padded with enough guards someone may think him a prince.

            But for each negative he holds a positive, at the end of every chalk line there is a coin or two, and for now that is enough to keep some hope.

~.~

            The sun has set outside and cast shadows throughout the grand dining room of the Sielce Mansion. The Countess was just as obnoxious in her taste as her daughter, leaving them all sitting in a room more like a bratty teen’s room with the amount of gold and drapery about.

            Jaskier could barely swallow the sweet wine placed in front of him. His throat dry despite the constant sips that he takes from his cup. In the haze of incense and candle smoke that hung in the air, his eyes could barely open to view the people sitting around the table with him.

            To his right sat his ever so lovely betrothed, and she was putting up a fuss at some notion or other. Across from Countess Herta of Sielce sat her mother, a beautiful middle-aged woman who talked with her hands. As she discussed the upcoming wedding, she barely missed hitting her husband square in the face with her cup on multiple occasions.

            The Countess Herta of Sielce took after her quite a bit, Jaskier too dodging fingers as she emphatically argued with her mother. She got more of her personality from her father; a large man with control issues and a love of sounding intelligent. Jaskier learned quite quickly that despite the chaos of the family, no one spoke over Herta or her father.

            Her mother still made attempts.

            The food is served and Jaskier piles his plate high, determined to get something down.

            For once he is not judged for his plate; his mother having instilled in him to only grab small portions and pass. Here, Jaskier watches the younger brothers take food till their plate overflow, pushing and shoving at each other to get the best portions and steal the others’. The Count himself was not a small man and chose food over conversation every time.

            “I swear, I want white linens for the dinner and drapes, what don’t you understand? It’s a spring wedding, it’s supposed to look HAPPY, not like my coronation ceremony.” Herta voice was becoming slightly hysterical. “That’s after!”

            “Oh, I know my love, but for all that linen left like that? I’ve already had Walford and his men up and down Redenia for all the cochineals to dye the tablecloths red.” Her mother’s face turns dreamy. “I remember when it was my wedding and I was not to have any colors but red, my dress scarlet like all our ancestors before us, oh I looked like an angel that day! My sister cried, for she was made to wear blue at hers for her ungodly pride. Father refused to let her wear the color again after all that hubbub with that knight fellow. You haven’t met her, she’s dead now. You children are so unique with your colors and festivities these days, now I know it is in season, but Herta love show some pride in your country’s colors and your own chasteness.”

            “I’ve already told Elaine that I want more gold trimming on the skirt.”

            Her mother begins tearing, still looking off in a trance, “but darling you would look so beautiful in my dress, your grandmother wore it as well. Just think, you could pass it off to all your sons’ wives when they get married. Your brothers for sure can’t wear it and I won’t have it hidden in storage.”

            “I think I’d pull it off” The middle, Florian pipes up, taking the opportunity to then punch little Marcus as he makes a grab for the extra roll on his brother’s plate.

            “Oh Herta, just think of how beautiful you would look. The Gods would bless you with an heir that night!”

            “Maybe Julian will like me in it more!” Marcus crows, joining the fun.

            At this the countess bursts into tears, murmuring about the beauty and purity of a wedding. The Count doesn’t look up from his plate.

            Countess Herta pulls her shoulders down and whines. “I want white linens! It goes with the deep red satin of my gown! With the gold! Lila said she would get the greenery done before the wedding, so it does not die and look hideous before.”

            From the other side of the Count of Sielce, Harris, the eldest boy, is steadily ripping the seams off of the tablecloth, eyes blazing.

            Jaskier dodges one of Herta’s hand as she flails, then the roll that goes soaring past his head that one of the boys had clearly intended for their sister. He finishes some more of what’s on his plate, now pushing root vegetables around in circles.

            “The invitations have been sent out already and I cannot look like a filthy little girl who plays dress up in front of Marchioness Catrin. She needs to know that not only am I getting married before her, but my wedding will top her stupid imaginary one.” Herta adds. “I want all the court ladies to be copying my style for the decades forth.”

Her tone turns sugar sweet, “Daddy, did you send word to Master Pelo of Troy? I want him to start on our marriage portrait before the day so we can place it in the hall sooner. For the Coronation”

            At this, the Count slowly looks up from his meal and gives a short hum of confirmation. “Not for another week or two.”

            “Two weeks till he gets here to start?!” Herta shrieks and makes to stand from her seat, hands flat as she leans over the table at her father, “What is he ever going to accomplish in that time with our wedding so close! I wanted the unveiling in the same weeks as all the other festivities I had planned! There was a plan for each party!”

            “My sweet daughter… with the other portrait…”

            “Daddy! You promised!”

            “Herta, there is still time to change your decision on your dress, deary, maybe it’s a sign of the fates!”

            “I SAID I WANT GOLD ON MY DRESS, WHITE LINENS, WHITE SILKS, AND FOR EVERYTHING TO LOOK LIKE A BLOODY GARDEN HAD SEX WITH THE HEAVONS! IM NOT WEARING THAT HIDEOUS THING, YOU HAG!”

            And with that she pushes her plate across the table, upending cutlery, cups and other plates of food, and storms out of the dining room. She leaves the forks to clatter to the ground and both of their wines to continue spilling out onto the tablecloth.

Jaskier looks up at her father and watches as his eyes fall to his plate and don’t leave. Her mother is weeping. He returns his gaze to his root vegetables and listens to Florian and Marcus chortle at their sister’s back as the servants scramble to right the chaos that’s happened.

Harris catches Jaskier’s eyes, and the annoyance is clear.

“JULIAN, WITH ME”.

And with that he pushes away from the table, dusts the breadcrumbs from his clothes, and follows the woman that summoned him.

~.~

            The next day Jaskier found himself herded from his rooms to the sitting area upon the sun coming up. There, servants flitted about cleaning the room and serving him porridge for breakfast, next fussing over his clothes underclothes and pushing him into a standard buttoned shirt with nice pants.

            Next, he was shepherded out of his rooms, down the long sweeping hallways, and into a much more lavish sitting room. His darling thorn of a fiancée Herta was not present, but still, Jaskier did not find himself relaxing.

            Across the room, upon plush yellow chairs and dark wood tables, lay bolts of fabric every color of the rainbow. In a corner a few of the guards are picking at the satin left draped nearby but are quickly slapped away by a larger man greying at the temples.

            The man’s robes were plain in color but fell across his body in drapes to accentuate the wideness of his shoulders and large waist. The way he skips across the room carefully but precisely selecting small pieces of fabric, touching the pieces to his face and passionately admiring the cloth in the sunlight, almost makes this tailoring experience exciting, however circumstances prevail.

            He’s distracted by the swathes of fabrics and workers when behind him, the doors to the room groans open again, letting in voices that are loudly expressing their displeasure. Three boys: all dark haired and curly, the middle just now hitting his growth spurt. Jaskier knows from his own youth that the last thing any teenage boy wants is to spend a day being told to stand still while being pricked with pins.

            Little Marcus is the first to make a run for it, but his nannies seem to have prepared for him, and he is quickly blocked off from the door. He goes to the floor with a theatrical wail, ignoring the multiple candies and the stuffed bear held out to him.

            His older brother is much quieter. Harris seems to be attempting to set the wood floor boards beneath their feet aflame with his glare, knees locked just beyond the entryway.

            A heavy hand falls upon Jaskier’s shoulder, making him jump, “Court Consort! Please remove your overclothing, there’s lots of work to be done.”

            Against his will Jaskier’s guided to the small pedestal standing before the large windows. For a second he tries to appreciate the flatter lands of Sielce before him, starting to defrost as winter turns into spring. Hands are already starting to flick over his chest to remove the doublet and trousers they had just minute prior shuffled him into.

            Whirled around in circles, and now finally posed and steady in his undergarments, he has a perfect view of the room at large. Each of Herta’s brothers stands upon their own stools being swarmed by tailor’s apprentices and their own attendants.

            Marcus finally quieted, soothed with sugar candies, face still blotchy. Florian was actively attempting to melt to the floor, snickering all the way, leaving multiple attendants to try to hoist his limbs up for measuring.

            Jaskier’s arm is tugged up and out, the tailor moving to measure his wingspan and around his arm. An apprentice is laying squares of fabric across his shoulders, each a cream or eggshell. The tailor only glances at them before giving a loud gag and shake of his head, going back to measuring, and the squares are quickly replaced with what seem to be similar squares.

            Over all the chatter, Harris is arguing with his own nanny. The frazzled grey-haired woman is attempting to calm him with soothing words and soft gestures, which only seem to work the boy up into more of a tantrum. He is refusing to stand upon the stool for his fitting, pushing at the maids attempting to remove his clothes.

            At 15 years Harris had finally grown to the height and weight of a man, but even teenage boys were no match for 3 determined nannies. A couple of the tailers aid and get the boy to stand, starting to take measurements with haste as he shakes like a caged dog.

            Jaskier doesn’t remember the last time he’s seen a boy above 13 with nannies.

            “This is so stupid! SHE SHOULD’VE BEEN SENT TO DORIAN WITH IZABELLA!”

The tape measure is wrapped around Jaskier’s middle and pulled tight. The tailors’ tuts remind him too much of his mother.

            “Poor girl. Such a sweetheart. It was like, poof, all of a sudden, she’s shipped off to Dorian with that diplomat twat.” The man hums, taking Jaskier’s face in his hands. “Sweetheart didn’t last a year as the fourth wife.”

            Jaskier’s quite certain the man can feel his jaw unhinge as he turns his head this way and that.

            “As always, it’s onto the next wife!”

            “GET OFF ME YOU SARD”

            The tailor’s hands on his head don’t let him flinch at the yell coming from Haris.

            If anything, Jaskier’s grateful the attention is not focused on him today.

“That woman never learns, let the boy air out his anger, maybe he could actually find some passion in his life.” He pipes up again, seemingly delighted to gossip without Jaskier adding anything. Jaskier takes his own silence as a chance to study the man’s face - covered in a greying beard and almost unbearably jolly in the face of such unhappy clients.

He moves away to set down his tape measures and strings, collecting little bolts of fabric from before. With squares of red in his hands, he lays them out against his shoulders, staring intently. With large hands the man spins him to-and-fro, adjusting the lighting from the window from dim to bright to dim again.

Over Jaskier’s shoulder he can see Florian flopping his hands about in the long-sleeved tunic being trimmed to his size. This time he only turns with a small huff when directed into a different position, but he begins to hum a new song under his breath.

Marcus has given up standing in the face of the long hours with the tailors. Luckily a few of the attendants have started accommodating.

Harris had been calming down, but at the sight of Jaskier across the room, his face blows red.

“You can’t even spare me the decency! What am I, supposed to be paraded around in humiliation!?”

With quick movements, the whole group of servants and guards move at once to shift towards the middle of the room, some moving to block Harris’s eyesight entirely from his side of the room.

“What a mouth on that boy.” The tailor tuts. “They didn’t expect it to get this bad”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

At this the man gives a belly laugh and pauses in his shuffling of the fabrics upon his shoulders.

“Boy has much to mourn, not many men of title are willing to snuff their eldest son of the heirship to the land.” The man gives a long sniff. “Not too keen to seeing you in the wedding colors of the next Count.”

The tailor gestures over to the pile of fabrics left aside Harris’s shoes. Red fabrics and white hemming. Clean and pure to his and his future wife’s red and gold; colors of the Redanian Kingdom.

            The tailor removes a few of the samples, handing them off to the apprentice behind him before studying him again. Jaskier tries not to squirm.

            “You have such a good form, the corset will accentuate it nicely.”

            He finally selects one square, bringing it himself to the table by the bureau in the room. He sets it aside before looking over a wide selection of lace.

            Jaskier squirms as the apprentice pulls his shoulders slightly back, straightening his posture.

            As the tailor begins to lay out the lace across his collarbones, Jaskier whispers, “so since I get the title…”

            The tailor doesn’t make eye contact, but his face turns mischievous. “Did you really think they were going to hand a third son a higher title?”

            “Countess Herta needed a pushover”, he drops one frilly thing to the floor, “You’re just here to play family.”

            A few more pieces of lace are thrown to the floor carelessly, picked up by the apprentice waiting behind him.

            Jaskier had become still as his brain ran through the scenarios.

            At whatever look is upon his face, the man’s eyes turn slightly sympathetic, although he doesn’t lose that sparkle of amusement. The tailor simply smiles softly and wraps his chosen piece of lace around his left wrist, tying it to see the look against his skin.

            “At least you won’t have to deal with all the politics, I’ve heard it’s quite bland.”

            A loud crash sounds from the other side of the room, but he keeps his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the beard of the man in front of him.

            “I’LL KILL YOU ALL”

~…~

            The days following the signing were filled with miserable steps through the villages of Redania, sludging their way back to their own kingdom, and a wailing young woman with practically no dowery but her own belongings, atow.

The ink hadn’t dried yet before Geralt could already feel the regret seep in, he had trusted the scent of the man’s fear to follow orders, but even he knew that words on paper were just that – on paper.

When leaving his mountain, he had no plans to marry, and yet he had left with a wife a fraction of his age, written into a line of the treaty that that toad of a king would not budge on. He knew how men such as this valued their offspring. With little love but for their ultimate use in the end.

The now Queen Aura of Kaer Morhen had sat beside her uncle as Geralt and Yennefer argued on her behalf, but the King of Redania would not budge on a political tie within the royal family. There would not be a treaty without a marriage. Without a treaty there would be a war.

            Eskel had vehemently argued Ciri’s name out of the document; the piece of filth had originally wanted to promise his second son, in a stab at another kingdom, not quite understanding the girl would rule no matter who she marries. She would’ve also stabbed the man upon the first meeting, so it was truly for everyone’s benefit that she was left to choose her own suiter.

            Geralt’s approach to remove the issue was about to be much more straightforward and direct, but only the thought of a long drown out fight away from home and the long black painted nails puncturing his thigh kept him from pulling his sword from its holster.

He had thought this marriage business would be slashed through by the time of the signing. This headache proved him otherwise.

Yennefer had taken the time to explain to him the careful politics of it all. Removing the line would be seen as handing too much over to him, and with the denial of Cirilla’s hand, they were only left one option. At this point is would be an insult if the King of Redania removed the marriage contract due to it being Geralt’s hand instead, and thus he throws the closest female relative of age to what the man assumes is the dogs.

Vizimir only solidified his hold on the treaty by announcing the marriage to his people before the papers were even signed or fully agreed on. Neither of their countries could go back on Vizimir’s drunken words that night if they didn’t want an uproar from the Redanian people.

            Yennefer was still fuming up ahead, trying and failing to stoic her face as she attempts to calm the Queen Aura and her maids again.

            The ache is still behind his eye and between his temples, curling down his neck to the top of his spine. He’d give anything to be already back in Kaer Moorhen, where he can disappear into the wood and use hunting game as an excuse. Back in the hot springs with his daughter running from pool to pool.

            Geralt ignores the people coming out to watch their parade and keeps his eyes forward, tracks the movements of the Redanian carriage up ahead. Queen Aura had cried when they had told her they had come on horseback the morning of the departure. Only Eskel’s careful bargaining got them an old carriage, losing its colors, to haul his new wife up the mountain in.

            She had still cried when the doors had closed, all her prized dresses and four trunks of trinkets right beside her. Her ladies in waiting took turns sitting inside the carriage and sitting up front.

            Geralt had little idea what the tears were for and felt unsteady and wary in their presence. For all his years, he admits he has little experience with women, besides prostitutes, even less so noble ones. Yennefer and Triss don’t quite count, immortal and chaotic as their very beings are, and Ciri was raised by witchers, and is often described as ‘feral’ by her grandfather. When Cirilla cried, he could take her up in his arms and easily wipe away the tears, tickle her into laughter and set her back on her feet or cuddle her up and head to the large throws in front of his bedroom fire.

            Here he was faced with a situation that he had tried so desperately to mend, and only seemingly fucked up in the end.

            After signing that blasted treaty, a very quick and thrown together royal wedding, Geralt and Queen Aura had both kept carefully straight faced throughout the celebration dinner. However, her fear and outright rage could be smelt a mile away on a light breeze, the whole lot of them in the room sneezing with it.

            That night as they were supposed to be sealing their marriage in the eyes of these snot-nosed nobles, he and Yennefer had removed the so-called spectators, and had taken careful steps to explain the future of their marriage contract.

            Geralt had no plans to bed an unwilling person; he was not a monster.

They would never sire an heir; he already had one.

            At this point he didn’t know if she was angry at him or her family, perhaps both. Tears for the loss of her home, a better husband, maybe a child of her own. Maybe expecting a better parade on the trip home. She had not seemed so happy to hear he already had a child back home, one that would become the next Queen.

            She was quiet when he had offered her the ability to go anywhere with protection and bed others.

            Yennefer had told him to shut up for the rest of the night after that.

            Now all he had was left with was a cart full of teary women, 3 Redanian knights, a lute and an annoying cat that is attempting to talk one of the ladies in waiting into a threesome with him and Geralt’s younger brother. And no bard to sing as they all trudged home.

            His right eyebrow is stiff.

            “Hey pretty boy, if you’re gonna keep carrying that lute around are ya gonna finally play us a song!”

~.~

            “Hey stop!”

            The loud shout sends Geralt straight to his feet, bedroll tangled a bit around his left foot, hand going to the handle of his blade at his waist.

            Turning each way, he spots several of his men running west, then he double takes at the sight of distressed Redenian maids in a tizzy without their Queen.

            “Ma’am! Please stop! You’ll hurt yourself!” someone else shouts out.

            Geralt takes off following the sound of swooshing skirts and continued sobbing, now hiccupping with the loss of breath. The smell of bitter fear and anguish is toxic in the still air of the night.

            He passes by Egar and taps his shoulder - sending him back to camp. The fewer witchers surrounding a terrified girl in the dark, the better.

            Up ahead, Eskel remains only yards behind her, able to catch up easily but allowing her to try to calm first. He gasping is loud in the silence of their footsteps.

            “Ma’am, be careful. Please.”

            What neither of them expect is from her to stop so quickly, but with a skid of her bare feet of sticks and dirt, she was quickly sprinting back in their direction. With this movement she nearly collided with Eskel, who can only brace for a second, before she then makes her way around him and straight for Geralt.

            He only sees the knife she was holding once it’s on the ground, thrown in the space between the two witchers.

 He smells no blood, so no one is hurt.

            Queen Aura launches herself into his arms, sobs picking up, but touching him for the first time at her own accord. Hands latching and scrambling as she mumbles. Geralt looks over her head at his brother, hoping Eskel would have some sort of explanation for any of this behavior, but instead he finds the man gazing out in the direction Aura was running.

            He strains his ears, but only just over the sound of the young woman’s weeping does he hear footsteps. Boots and hooves.

            “Geralt, there’s Reds coming”. Eskel’s look is questioning, voice stern.

            At the words Aura begins choking on her tears, grabbing at Geralt’s arms for a better grip.

            “Please! Please don’t let them kill me, please.” Her voice cracks “I will promise you anything. Just please please please don’t let them kill me!”.

            Geralt again tries for eye contact with Eskel, but the man is pulling out his sword and watching the woods intently. His brother shifts slightly as a long arrow goes whizzing past his right shoulder, then the crashes of feet in the woods become louder.

            Looking down at the hysterical woman in his arms, he curses quietly, and with a sigh hoists her like a bride and starts to sprint his way back to camp. Behind him, Eskel’s three-beat whistle rings out clear through the dark and quiet forest.

            Under attack.

            A battle cry sounds up ahead, Lambert streaking past him towards the fight with only loose pants on. The others follow, swords drawn, to back up Eskel and protect their camp.

            The skirmish is over almost as quickly as it started, Redanians barely trained for war, only fancy battles with pretty line-ups. Between their small group of witchers and a small task force of soldiers, the fighting is bloody, unexperienced fighters falling easily to trained monster killers.

            Lambert give the whistle for clean up as Geralt watches Yennefer tend to the bottom of Queen Aura’s feet, her maids tittering behind her.

            “Geralt, cut that face out. You look positively murderous and like always it is making this worse instead of better.”

            He answers her with a hum, and tries to smooth out his facial features. He leaves his arms crossed over his chest.

            Eskel comes jogging up to camp behind him, slightly damp from the nearby stream. He settles in to stand by Geralt’s right side, both of them watching over the first aid being given.

            As Yennefer sits back and stands up, both of them straighten, but Yennefer raises a hand.

            “Why don’t we ask for the story before anything is asked more of me.”

            At the sight of their three very serious faces, Queen Aura’s eyes go wide and glassy, more tears sliding down her face as she takes in her own situation.

            “It’s.. it was for the good..goo..good of the count-try”, The woman can barely speak through hiccups.

            Yennefer turns to Eskel with an eyebrow raised.

            “She had a knife and we don’t know where it came from, she ran, but obviously did not want to go back to the Redanian soldiers.”

            At the sight of Yennefer turning back to her, Aura begins her sobbing again.

            “Can someone just tell me what the fuck is going on? I’m was sleeping, fucking hell.”

            “You were not sleeping Lambert”

            “Shut up!”

            Eskel puts an arm out to stop Lambert from going inside the circle of their conversation. He just barely gets time to ground his feet as the man comes barreling in more heated than expected.

            “What’re you doing running out in the woods little girl?” Lambert emphasizes each word with a finger point.

            In the face of Lambert’s anger and accusatory pointing, the girl begins to cry.

            “He said! I don’t want to die but he said I had to! This wasn’t all supposed to happen I was supposed to just leave, and they’d forget about me!”

             “Who said?”

            “I didn’t want to die! They want me to kill myself! So it looked like he killed me” She wails and points a dainty finger at Geralt, “I didn’t think my uncle would send the guards so fucking quickly, I thought I had more time to leave!”

~…~

            In the late winter, Sielce was cold but not covered in snow, allowing for midafternoon walks before supper. Jaskier would prefer to spend the time besides a nice fireplace, maybe with a stiff drink and his lute, but he was at the whims of the women besides him.

            Countess Herta’s hands were tight around his arm. Shoes barely made for outdoor use, she was determined not to slip. Typically, he loved a good walk around a beautiful garden and a conversation, but both were quite dead this winter.

            “And then with the weather well and after much rest, we shall head south to Tretogor to dine with the courts and have King Vizimir introduce me as the next Countess of the Royal Court. Of course you will be in attendance as well, I’ve already had Peter start on matching outfits. Satin and gold. It is very important that I outdress the Marchioness Catrin in her engagement dress, her little village does not get as beautiful beads as we do here.”

            Jaskier only hums and dips his head, but it’s enough for her to continue her tirade.

            “Honestly Jaskier, as if you don’t know! You’re not blind and stupid. The Daughter of the Marquess of Catrin and that Marquess of Dorian boy with the fake teeth. Melinda says the maids see it in a little cup by his bedside! And he is expected to make her with child! If he hasn’t already with the engagement finally sealed between the two of them. If I knew her any better, I would say she bedded that cook’s apprentice to seal the deal.”

            He keeps his eyes cast towards the ground, scoping for uneven terrain for the Countess Herta. Focusing on each brick makes him almost lose step with the women on his arm.

            Sielce’s gardens are grand, clearly neatly kept with overflowing amounts of flowers in the spring and summer. With an emotionally unstable wife and a quick-tempered daughter, the Count of Sielce rightfully prioritizes their happiness. Just past the view of the layers of shrubbery, a flattened courtyard for organized games gives way to thick trees, untamed by the castle gardeners.

“Desperate, that girl is.” Herta sticks her one hand out, admiring her gloves. “Pity they’ll be shipped off to the mountains after all that. What with her father not being able to stand the sight of her. I surely believed he was going to throw her in the Temple of Melitele with that other bastard child he had.”

Herta angles him with a scathing look from beneath her lashes.

            “I don’t recall.”

            She huffs and jiggles him with the arm she has wrapped in a vice, “Of course you wouldn’t! Who cares! Her father is naming that hideous teenage boy as next in line - the one from the maid I was telling you about. Now if only she had some spirit in her she would’ve solved that problem first!”

            “And her lacework is atrocious. Now you should remember Lady Emla of Pindal, she was quite known for her handiwork. Now if she was still alive, I would have had her brought down here to do my veil instead of the workers. Daddy had to buy like twenty more workers to have it completed it time, what a joke, and so much coin!”

            Jaskier grimaces hard.

            “When I was in Baldhorn, Count Omar made me these gloves. They had matched my coat perfectly that day and I just couldn’t pass them up. So charming! Of course, daddy wanted me to get rid of them. As if they were courtship jewelry! When he was killed, I snuck out around with the stable boy and pretended I had gotten pregnant before!”

            He keeps his face peaceful but still, focusing hard, which only angers the women at his side. She harumphs, then gets a better handful of her dress to avoid the snow-covered ground. Herta shifts on her heels to get better footing, holding tight to his shoulder.

            “With all the fuss at the capital about that stupid treaty, now Carmen won’t even gaze at me, that’s what witchers do, ruin my life I tell you. Too afraid to have some fun with monsters in the midst.”

            He hums again.

            “Caaarrrrmmeeennn.” She annunciates, “Like the daddy’s stable boy?”

            Jaskier’s way too focused on keeping his footing.

            Countess Herta shoves him, surprisingly hard for a woman who does no labor, sending them both almost tumbling to the ground.

            “You’re no fun!” She grabs hard at his wrist to prevent herself from falling, heels sliding, practically removing his arm from its socket.

            “I’ve had men ride towards drowners for my hand! Your apathetic attitude will not get you far you little runt.” Despite her unstableness, she shoves him again and Jaskier squawks, “I own land! And people! All you will ever do is follow me around like a LITTLE DOG”.

            Jaskier attempts to grab her hands to stop her strikes, backing up in small steps as she swats with gloved hands and wobbly steps.

“Countess Herta, please.”

            “You are so lucky! Do you even know how lucky you are! No one wanted you! My hand is the best thing you’ll ever have!”

            Her yelling continues, her face lighting up even brighter in the cold of the early season. Crocodile tears are falling down her face. Nearby, their chaperone and guards have given them the allusion of privacy by averting their eyes, a couple having turned around completely.

            “You’re supposed to fall all over me! I knew something was wrong with you when your father practically threw you at our doorstep!”

Her hands grab hold and shake them both. “What is it? Are you a queer? A pervert? I am beauty defined and yet you barely glance at me! Men abroad fight for my hand and yet you act as if my touch is poison!”

Giving one last shove with a cry of annoyance, she spins and starts to stomp the path back towards the house. Each step is purposeful and loud, heels made to clack on marble.

He rolls his shoulder, feeling the healed skin pull and the muscle twinge. Massaging his upper arm, he turns to follow Herta. By the time he has managed to catch up she’s limping and tripping, refusing to take the nearby attendant by the arm.

Jaskier just about manages to unstick his tongue and offer his uninjured arm.

“Please, my love, let me help you”.

~…~

            Only slightly nicked, they made camp north of the town sat on the northeast corner of Redenia. Having moved farther up the mountains than most humans venture, Geralt and Eskel worked to regroup their men while Yennefer sent word back to Kaer Morhen.

            They were going to need more witchers.

            The news of dead Redenian soldiers would make it back to Vizimir, Lambert made sure of it. It would be all the warning the King gets. Now they had to quickly secure their border, collect what they already had, and plan for the upcoming warpath towards Tretogor.

            They had been a little obvious about planning to break the laws involving protected people, and that they could squash as the days passed. A battalion of soldiers sent to either prove they had killed Queen Aura or kill them themselves, that was an outright declaration of war by breaking of treaty.

            That next day as they sat around the fire and discussed their plan of action, his family couldn’t help but get their licks in.

When Geralt had told them to prepare for the battle path back across Redania Yennefer was the first to start plotting a path splitting through Lettenhoven and Mirt to get then move south towards Tretogor. He had said nothing, but he hummed at the sight on the map.

Egar joined Lambert in loudly complaining about the travel conditions of the country, and how this was far too many times to cross in one century.

Yennefer grew frustrated with them all easily that night, seemingly eager to get the destruction of Redania over and done with. The entirety of their stay at the Tretogor castle she had been tense, besides when Geralt had caught her making advances on the steward.

 It’s only around a campfire that she finally speaks about it.

Once she got them all complaining about the food, the lack of gravy and the blandness, does she lay into them and their inability to taste their own food being tampered with.  She had known something was off, but Yenn had only recognized the herbs after Triss had sent them with a group of witchers for their potions.

A hush settled over them all at that. Geralt’s no sure how he feels about them all missing such an obvious attempt.

Aiden leans over Yennefer’s shoulder where she’s sitting, “I thought their food just sucked?”

This sends most of the men laughing, though it’s tinged with a bit of gallows humor. Eskel sighs and Geralt’s just tired. He could hear the wrinkle forming on Eskel’s forehead as he starts puzzling on their training regimens. Geralt was not excited to be tested on poisonous herbs and dogged at every political meal in the future.

            “And what about your food?” Lamber huffs.

            Yenn sniffs at him delicately, raising her nose high, “I’m not stupid enough to not have become immune to it.”

~.~

Vesemir’s face is stone cold on the other side on Yennefer’s portal. He simply nods at her and goes to rally everyone together to move out quickly. Triss takes his place, face drawn, and Yenn gives her a quick rundown of the situation surrounding the treaty and said treaties annulment. Then she passes Aura and her ladies to her, along with a very loved lute, face a bit smug and relieved at passing her problems on to Triss, who looks incredulous. With instructions to house them together for the foreseeable future, away from Ciri, until the danger had passed, Triss starts to press them all out of the room.

As portals spilled in witchers from all schools, they split the whole of them into two, Yennefer leading half with Geralt himself leading the other. He spares her the pain and takes Lambert and Adrien with him, which she is visibly relieved at. Eskel gives him a withering look, unhappy to be separated from his best friend and leader, but Geralt needs him to keep the other group on track while Yenn kept them moving. Her group heads towards Mirt, preventing northern attacks in case the townsfolk aren’t keen on the transfer of power to be had. From there they would move through Malva into Lettenhoven.

The fall of Mirt and Lettenhoven would send word enough to King Vizimir. The heads taken from their leaders would demonstrate what their path was for, and that the man’s little treaty gimmick had failed.

Not only was Geralt himself still alive, but so was the former Duchess of Redania, who had been subjected to midnight council meetings planning her fate.

Lambert laughs at him for the plan, saying he’s pulling favorites when it comes to their siege across Redania. Geralt assures him of the north’s strength, as well as how stupid it would be to come up from the south; between the castle of Tretegor and the Nilfgaard border.

He merely receives an eyeroll in response.

~.~

            Moving through Lettenhoven is easier than they had anticipated, none of the fire fight and rock thrown like years before their kingdom was built. Villagers wave through windows as they pass, Egar having been sent ahead with other wolves to warn the civilians of the approaching Warlord of the North Mountains.

            The welcome leaves them in good spirits for what lies ahead.

            Even in the face of battle, the men around him find excuses to laugh these days. No longer were they the tortured monster hunters of the past, but a community that grew stronger each day.

And of course, Lambert took every opportunity to get on his last nerve and get the others going.

            The plan was simple. Get in through every window and door, spare the workers, kill the fighters, and find the Lettenhoven family. Be wary of panicked civilians, as they were not there to harm nonpolitical entities.

            “His boyfriend may be in there!”

            “Shut the fuck up, Lambert! You’re first in!”

-

            The Mansion of Lettenhoven falls according to plan, soldiers wet behind the ears and not expecting to be the first front of attack. The front is grand and dotted with shrubs, dead to cold, and practically bare of guards.

            He sends Lambert and his cat’s group up the walls first, scaled easily and in the blink of an eye. Listening steadily for the slowing of heartbeats, he moves along the outer edges and with a signal, the rest of them follow over the walls.

            Aiden is already picking off the front doors-men, silent and quickly moving to hide the bodies behind shrubs. The rest span out around the outside of the mansion, pairing off and retrieving gear from the bags upon their backs.

            He grabs his grappling hook from his bag, and with a mighty swing most of them sling their ropes to the roof. A tug to make sure it’s sound, and with a heft Geralt starts to walk his way up the wall, shoes grinding in rough stones.

            Across the lands of Lettenhoven, all was quiet and still. Not even the horses outside the mansion walls could be heard.

            And with a short count down, Lettenhoven Artisan Windows smash under the body weight of angry witchers, searching for a certain viscount.

            Geralt finds himself in an empty room, obviously used for storage with lines of shelves that domino with an easy push. Doors down he can hear the clear yelling of battle, filled with excitement and adrenaline, and the clanking of swords as witchers make their ways to hallways and meet head on with soldiers.

            Moving into the hallway of the mansion, he braces a sword coming for his neck, using his other arm to send the guard sprawling off his feet. Another quick defense and a jab, and Geralt jogs off to leave the man to bleed to death in the hallway.

He twirls out of the way of a long sword, coming up next to a woman who has pressed herself back into the wall as fighting continue around them.

            “Where’s the stairways.” He didn’t think her face could drain of color more, after all her apron was already gruesomely stained no doubt from tending to someone, but she shakily points down one hallway, filled with more guards and witchers than the one he had just come down.

            Sighing, he nods to her, gesturing for her to go down the hallway he had come from. With a ‘meep’, she goes quickly, straight through blood and tripping over fallen objects and people in her way.

            Geralt stops to aid a brother, kicking assailants and send men in red coats sprawling to the ground. Most he leaves to their own fights, content with letting them warm up for the attack on Tretegor. Grimacing he pasts a wolf witcher dragging a struggling council woman towards the front room, her cries hysterical despite the man’s calm assurances that she will be let out unharmed.

            Up the staircase is quieter, the clanging of swords hidden by the larger stones as he climbs the tower. The hallway walls have blood streaks, but no bodies lay strewn across the ground. Picking up his pace, Geralt makes his way towards the large double doors at the end of the corridor, no doubt the family’s wing.

            Inside the sitting room Aiden and several of his cats are arguing passionately, small knives still in hand, blood streaked on their faces. Around them Lettenhoven guards are in various states of injury, most unconscious, all tied up with rope.

            Seeing him, they stop talking, but Aiden keeps his carefree smile on his face. “White Wolf. Pretty sure that room right there is the Viscount’s and his wife’s. Doors locked. All the other rooms are empty. Should we pick the lock or just break it down?”

            “Boss, I just got a new lockpick kit.”

            Geralt can feel his brow tighten and raises his hand to rub the crease in his forehead. The men before him look questioning, but he finally sighs out, “just break it down.”

            With heavy stomps he pushes his way towards the door, weaving around soldiers and stepping on laying ones. Setting his shoulder to the wood, he can hear the stuttering sound of two heart beats, and braces his shoulders.

            The door comes down after 5 rams of his body, Aiden taking a turn as he pauses, no wood door a match for a group of determined witcher. Dropping down to the floor as the door gives way, he dodges a barrage of rifle bullets as the Viscountess of Lettenhoven screeches to the high heavens.

            Rolling the rest of the way in, he seizes the gun from the Viscounts hands, now empty of bullets and useless. Tussling, Geralt slams the man that Jaskier so much resembles against the vanity covered in trinkets. China and silver crashes to the floor. The man’s wife gives off another bone-rattling screech, and he winces as he sends the man over the side of the cabinet, wrenching the gun from his hands as he falls.

            Tossing the rifle to the side, Geralt watches as the man attempts to get to his feet under him, swinging forward with a loose punch. It takes almost nothing to dodge it, close his own fist, and land it on the man’s jaw.

            He goes down limp, jaw hanging loosely from his face as the Viscount De Lettenhoven bleeds on his own wood floorboards.

            It’s not quite satisfaction Geralt feels, blood on his hands again.

            Across the room, the screeching hit whistle tones before warbling off. In Aiden’s arms the Viscountess begins to vomit at the sight of her husband, quiet and motionless on the ground, bleeding profusely from his nose and mouth. Teeth next to him.

            Heaving her out of the room is difficult. She writhes and grabs, shouts and sobs, crying that she’s never done a thing wrong in her life. Behind her, her husband the Viscount de Lettenhoven is being dragged, hands and feet shackled, to the front room to stand their war trials.

            Outside the windows, he can see the torches of the village begin to light up, dotting the streets and calling people outside.

            The dungeons below cleared of elves and young, the newly released prisoners and workers were asked to spread the message of their arrival and the lands new ownership. Those who could not swear to the White Wolf and Kaedwen were welcome to leave.

            Many chose to stay around the castle to watch the proceedings. Others were drawn to the items littered outside the mansion walls; fine furniture and clothing thrown for the villagers to claim.

            Down in the front room the witchers stood at attention, those who seemed to be important taken prisoner and lined up in front of the head council chair at the front of the room. Around the mansion some of his men start to clear away the dead, intending to line them up near the front for their families to collect.

            “White Wolf” His men chorus as he enters the room.

            At the sight of Geralt, several of their hostages weep louder, including the heir to the Lettenhoven estate, clutched around his knees. Off to the side, wives and children have been gathered and given blankets to strive off the last of the winter chill.

            Standing in front of them all, he stays silent, mentally checking off who is kneeling in front of him. Lines of clumsily dressed knights and guards, nervously twitching council members, and a sniveling heir. There’s a noticeable absence, Jaskier nowhere to be seen.

            Geralt growls and makes his way before the Lettenhoven heir, the only conscious leader currently available, “Where are your siblings.”

            The beard upon the man’s face does not hide the paleness of his complexation, and he struggles to get his words out, “I umm… my brothers, well you see… my one.. one is supposed to be here, uhhhhh the other is… is married…to some uhhh.. my sister married off years ago you see… ummm in Kov.. um Kovir?”

            “Was that a question.”

            “I really don’t know! It was years ago!”

            “Geralt, is that.. That may be one of them.”

            Eskel’s face is grim as he comes over to him, clasping a strong hand on his shoulder and squeezing. He tilts his head to the other side of the room, where their men have begun to sort out the important dead by their clothes.

            A few of them are larger men, clearly taken down in battle. Another with a slit to their own throat. The man on the end wears the Lettenhoven seal above his heart, chest coved in blood and gore.

            Geralt’s spine is chilled and stiff as he makes his way across the room, but a couple yards away, he turns away from the cold body.

He shakes his head at Eskel, too large of a man.

His swords goes to the neck of the heir, the shivering continuing.

“Who was Julian married to.”

“Some.. s.s..some lady in si. Siel. Siel. Sielce.”

“You can’t have the whore!”

The shout makes them all turn, the Viscount trying to get his hands under himself. He’s too shaky, and ends up staying prone besides son.

The sight of the man speak makes Geralt’s neck itch, and his spins the sword within his hand, laying the tip at the man’s neck.

“I do not tolerate unnecessary cruelty, or those harming my people.”

The Viscount attempts to gather enough spit in his mouth to throw.

“For that you will lose your head.”

 

Notes:

Warnings: Yelling, Detailed scenes of abuse with both physical and mental violence (no sexual assault), Conversation about not having sex without consent talked about it passing, Women discussed as possessions, Female and male abusers, Female and male victims of abuse, Beheadings

Chapter 8

Notes:

Y'all ready for the end? Some love and gore? Maybe a hug?

Sorry for format issues, i'm tired of it

Please read the end description if you are sensitive, stuff gets messy

Jaskier’s never had goosepimples the way he does now, stood up straight and tall behind a highbacked chair.

 Countess Herta had spent what must’ve been an hour on his hair today, having perched him in her own rooms and directed the stylist herself. And of course, she had taken over after about ten minutes of shouted orders, carding small hands covered in gel and perfumes through his hair.

The petting would’ve been wonderful if it was anyone else.

Now with his hair, face, and outfit perfectly tailored by the woman sitting in front of him, he’s facing the unending stare of Master Pelo of Troy himself.

He’s mousy in a very unflattering way and he’s staring straight at him as if seeing Jaskier’s soul. Upon his face sat one of the largest moustaches Jaskier had ever seen, twitching and dancing with his muttering.

            Jaskier hopes that the man’s depiction of him in the portrait is accurate, or maybe at least a tad spruced up. As much as he doesn’t want the image itself, he would prefer not to be mocked in a portrait that will be hung up for centuries.

            He has always wanted a nice portrait of himself, but not in these circumstances.

            To his right, Countess Herta sits regally in a fine chair fit for a queen, perched in a mock white lace gown as her wedding dress is being continuously worked on before the wedding. The date was arriving in a matter of weeks and workers were in a hurry to get everything done on time.

            The anxiety of the mansion was palpable even from within the sheltered walls of his room and the Sielce Family Library.

            Their chaperone got more bug-eyed by the day, and he had still not introduced himself.

            Jaskier did his best to stand still, but as lunch came and went, he continued to stand beside the chair, knees beginning to shake.

            His marriage clothing was clean and simple. Blood red with trims of white around his collar and arms. The corset beneath it all kept his spine straight and crushed his ribs. He had suffered being pricked and prodded, and now the clothing sat tight across legs.

            The tapping of his feet is what ended the day’s painting session. Countess Herta having stormed off spouting curses at the general annoyance of others after trying and failing to shout him into submission.

            His anxiety is too great for that. He misses his lute. He misses Geralt.

~…~

            Their welcoming was vast as the passed through Malta, Lettenhoven, and Mirt. Villagers in raggedy clothing - looking starved - lined the streets. As winter gave way to spring, rations are low, and nothing is offered but watchful eyes and smiles. Further south towards Drakenborg Geralt rallies them all together again, crossing grassy stretches of land. Skirmishes along the route had not stopped, and they camped very little, but together their energy kept them moving like the well-trained army they were.

            When he had rallied the school together all those years, Eskel and he worked hard to settle everyone into one large keep together. Old grudges were fought, brawls started, but eventually the familiarity of training together kicked in. The common fight proved useful to stitch them all together into one group, one keep of witchers, against the world.

            Geralt had been desperate to save his brothers from being wiped off the continent, but he was more desperate to keep his child surprise safe.

            The battles at Nilfgaard were bloody, ruthless fights. Schools still stayed together, protecting bonds formed long ago that they could never shake. This time, he can see the bonds shift and stretch. New friendships had formed over the years.

            They moved as one over the stretches of hills behind Tretogor, crossing through unattended-to swamps and brush. The drowners infesting the waters slowed them none, most moving passed them with little acknowledgement as more experienced witcher’s warmed up by clearing them out for everyone. Only some of the younger ones, fresh from training, stopped to watch the men work.

            Tretogor’s frontlines men are just as untrained as the guards in the villages, Vizimir no doubt throwing young men towards the frontline.

            Geralt’s careful to knock out one of the advancing soldiers, leaving the man prone with no less than a concussion.

            The firing squad from the far tree line does not get the same mercy, Cats dropping from the branches above. As the sun starts to make its way below the tree line, they find traps and carefully kept paths made for the servants who set up what nobles consider hunting. The crumbling outer walls of Tretogor are visible through the thinning trees.

            The walls were easy to scale, even with their gear on their backs, and they knew they would be. After the whole fiasco of Lambert catching a guard in his room, he had been taking ‘walks’ around the castle’s perimeter. He had also been peeing on a few of the bushes by the shorter wall areas, content in his attempt to remove them.

Yennefer and Eskel take a group with them to enter the town in front of the Tretogor castle, intending to cut off the main road leading out if the King were to try to run. They would then move into the building itself to aid the others, no doubt that the King Vizimir’s court mage will be joining the fight.

The other side of the wall holds food gardens and animals, and very few guards. They fan out, some walking along the top of the wall itself, to surround the backside of the castle.

As they move towards locked gates and doors, others go over, the church bells begin to clang repeatedly in the distance and the battle horn sounds from up ahead.

With their presence known, their need for silence is gone, Aiden standing atop the wall to send a rock crashing through a nearby window.

Through the next wall and the next, Redanian red’s pour out from the up-ahead doors, swords held aloft. Geralt takes no satisfaction as he moves forward, leaving bloodied bodies behind him as he makes his way inside.

             The inside is already chaos. He attempts to move through the crowds of fighting people, but again and again groups of Red try to get a jab in. In quick succession he tops the men in front of him, blocking swords and daggers. Geralt’s shoulder is starting to throb from a glanced arrow, someone high in the raptors firing at random, but he gives it no notice as he moves. The dance of the fight is instinctual, and he carefully picks his way towards the stairs.

            Grouping up behind him is Egar and Lambert, along with a good number of cats, and together they pick their way up the dramatic staircases, through long twisting hallways, through grandiose bedrooms to the hidden turret entrance of the most defensible part of the castle. Yennefer glides past them to place herself beside the door, and the rest of them clear to the sides of the hallway.

            With a blast of her magic, purple and bright, the door gives way to answering burst of magic, flame orange and fast.

            Yenn moves quickly, the rest of them filing in behind, flinging chaos back at the court mage as the man backs towards the window.

            Geralt moves towards the eldest son, standing firmly in front of his parents and siblings, face terrified as he held his sword aloft and steady.

            “Back down now”

            His sword clatter against the others’, and he pushes the man back. From behind him, Vizimir makes a run for the space between him and Yenn, towards the staircase the had just come from. Lambert stands blocking the doorway, Egar to his left, dodging the slash of a sword.

            The heir to the Redania throne does not stop at the promises to spare his life, twisting out from their standoff to take an offensive stance, face enraged. The man’s slashing becomes erratic, and Geralt dodge through the chaotic attack. His upper arm sting from a lucky blow, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the man tried to use his sword as a knife, at the expense of his own hand.

            At the sound of glass shattering, shards spilling out over the floorboards, the prince startles and goes rolling in defense to his side, sword held awkwardly, Geralt following to wrestle him down.

            It only takes a second for him to knock the sword out of young man’s hands, moving to grab the man’s grasping hands. A wet gasp attract his focus, the man jerking, and his eyes land on the large bloody wound across the man’s neck. Geralt let’s go of the man’s wrists, still straddling his waist, and moves his hands to the man’s neck to apply pressure to the wound. The prince hands grasp at his wrists, trying to wrench him off.

            Someone is screaming from the other side of the room. Yennefer is aiding Lambert in restraining the Vizimir, the man going cursing to his knees.

            “YENNEFER”

            At his yell her eyes snapped up, immediately moving away from the king and towards him. Without hesitation or question, she drops to her knees beside him. Her hands take the place of his, Geralt moving to hold the man’s wrist away, when the prince gives a violent gurgle.

             She stares at the prince as she lifts her hands from the man, blood dripping down her wrists. Neither of them move for a long moment, before Yennefer gives a long sigh.

            “I’ve got to get Triss to tutor me in healing chaos”.

Lambert and Aiden have already taken the pleasure of hauling the King off to the opulent entrance to the walls of the Tretogor Castle. Someone else had collected the Queen, following after the others. Eskel and Egar collected the remaining children of the royal family, separating out the older two to be escorted towards the front with their parents. The younger children were escorted to the nursery room, and after pointing out their nannies, were left with them and a couple witchers as guards.

The court mage was nothing more than a bloody heap on the castle grounds outside.

Yennefer watched him as he carefully got up from his position. He didn’t look at the expression on her face as he lifted the slowly cooling body of the first prince into his arms.

            The two of them took their time picking through the staircases and hallways in the Tretogor castle. Outside the walls church bells rung through the city, yelling sounding from the streets. Geralt wasn’t quite sure if it was a call to attack or witness King Vizimir’s beheading. He and Yennefer stopped to survey a glamourous sitting room or two on their way, fights ended, and the bodies of guards starting to be swept away and piled outside.

            They would be left for their families to claim and bury, or they would be left to rot.

            Outside the walls the cheering was clearer now, the bells having not stopped and now being accompanied by clashing musicians. At the bottom of the stairs his men were holding off the people of Tretogor from the proceedings, pushing back the lashing few.

            Eskel joins him as he passes through the doors. “Everything’s cleared out and sorted. Egar made sure the Council was all accounted for, just got to sort the bodies.”

            At the top of the steps, Geralt stops, overviewing the chaos below them. He carefully places the body in his arms down, letting it softly slump to the step.

            The crowd below them gives a dramatic cry.

            At Eskel’s questioning look, he can’t help but be honest with his brother, “Own sword”

            Eskel’s hmm is sympathetic, and he clasps a large hand on his shoulder.

            “Ready for this brother?”

            Geralt just hums back in response.

            Moving down the stairs, he removes the sword from the holster on his back in a practiced movement, letting the rage show on his face. He comes to stand on the halfway landing of the staircase, where Lambert and Aiden hold the King and Queen of Redania on their knees facing the crowd. To their right, kneeling in a small group, was the second and third princes, as well as the recently portaled in Duchess Aura of Redania.

            She was still crying.

            Geralt looked towards the crowd of people before him, dressed in everything from rags to imported silks. He held his sword tight, not wanting to drop it as his hands sweated at the sight of so many eyes on him.

            “Your King, King Vizimir III of Redania, as well as his family and council, lured the kingdom of Kaedwen into a peace treaty under false pretenses, further plotting the deaths of myself, my men, and his own niece, Duchess Aura of Redania.”

            “As the Warlord of the North Mountains, I do not allow anyone to harm my people. Our lands demand loyalty, and betrayal is not tolerated. For this disrespect I will have their heads.”

            With that Geralt decides to waste little time. Upon his approach both attempt to squirm from the holds on them, but Vizimir was an old man and had little chance to escape Lambert’s death grip.

            Their heads came off easier from their shoulders as he swung, the crowd below gasping along with the movement. The bodies laid at his feet, blood starting to pool and drip down the stairs.

            “This land is now under the protection of the White Wolf, Warlord of the North Mountains.” He gestures to his right for Eskel to bring forward Vizimir’s second son, “Your current heir will swear loyalty as a Vassal for the lands to me as his king or suffer the same fate.” Geralt roared over the front grounds.

            The boy couldn’t be more than nineteen, but he makes an effort to look up from the floor. “I-i-i swear loyalty to you, yo-your Highness, as a Vassal for the North M-Mount-tains.”

            “Do you swear care for your siblings as wards, and guidance on their loyalties.”

            “I-I swear.”

            Geralt nodded, satisfied.

            Turning to the front, he lets his voice ring out loud over the crowd.

            “The lands of the Wolf are not known for their mercies; loyalty is the reason for continued survival.” He pauses, “Those of you who have broken the Northern Kingdom’s laws should expect to face harsh punishment, second chances are earned.”

            “War was brought upon by your King. The former treaty is null and voided by Redania’s continuous breaking of signed upon agreements, and thus the marriage in which sealed the treaty itself is annulled. As punishment for her participation in the attempt on my kingdom, Former Queen Aura of Kaer Morhen, now Duchess Aura of Redania, is ordered to be sequestered within her family’s private estates.”

            “Swear loyalty to me, or leave these lands at once.”

            He turns away from the eyes on him, gestures Lambert towards the council for their own swearings, and heads back up the stairs to the entrance to the walls, behind him he leaves the others to collect the bodies of the King and Queen. Once inside, their heads to be put on posts for the front walls.

            Eskel follows behind him, Yennefer comes up between them, fast on their heels.

            “I know you want to get going, but there is so much to do here.” Yennefer’s look is not quite pitiful, maybe sympathetic. Geralt doesn’t know what to do with it.

The trip to Sielce would take a eight days, maybe a week if they did not camp. There would be other skirmishes on the way, leaders not willing to accept that their king is dead. They would need to visit the town and villages, see who could swear loyalty and who sent their guards at the first sight of them.

            Eskel steps up to his right, fixing his sleeve for him to cover the small gash in his arm. He reaches up to clasp Geralt’s shoulder with one large hand, grimacing at the blood on it before wiping it on Geralt’s shirt and moving it further down his arm.

            “Why don’t you do what you need to get your head straight. You did good, I’ll take care of the rest of the political shit as you call it. Some of the other’s still need to work out the fight in them as the news spreads, there’s sure to be some sort of uproar.”

            Again, Geralt can’t be more thankful for his brother.

Eskel makes eye contact with Yennefer, a long silence held as neither looks away. Finally, she rolls her eyes.

             “Ugh, I might have the energy to be able to cut a couple days off your travel.”

~…~

            The morning was quiet.

He could already feel doom lingering behind him, the last days ticking down. The wedding was drawing nearer as the last of the winter gave way to rain. His guard had increased steadily as the event approached and Jaskier had not seen any of Marchioness Herta’s family in several days now, stuck as he is in his room.

Guests would be arriving by the end of the week.

Jaskier had woken up with the first rays of the sun, body set on a schedule. Lounging in bed, he picked up the book he had set aside the night before to wait for the maids to hustle him about. Without his lute, reading helped pass the time till he was next beckoned.

It takes about an hour for him to come back to reality; stomach making hunger known, gurgling unpleasantly. The sun continued to rise outside his window and still his door did not fling open with the rush of morning workers and servants. Breakfast had not been served to him. By the position of the sun, Jaskier’s guesses lunch has passed too.

Brushing aside his unease, he takes the opportunity to choose his own clothing and works quickly to get dressed unassisted. Still, no one enters the room.

Moving towards the door of the room, Jaskier slowly attempts to turn the doorknob, but it unsurprisingly stands still. He’s usually locked in this room when they want him out of sight. Sadly, the door does not give him any answers to his questions as he stands there staring at the old beaten wood.

Surely, they hadn’t decided to starve him to death before the wedding.

Jaskier paces circles on the floor, passing by the window to fling open the drapes to gaze out on the horizon. Far above the rest of the mansion, he can see past the walls and trees into the farmlands and town surrounding them. Cows and horses dot the pastures. The air is peaceful and sweet, and he heaves a large sigh as he begins to tap his fingers on the windowsill to ease his anxiety.

It’s not like he’s caused a fuss lately, too focused on keeping his head low. But maybe that’s just it.

Jaskier’s stomach drops. They must’ve found his closet and coins.

            Going back to stare at the door locking him in, he raises his chin high and breaths deep. The days he would sit on the floor with an ear pressed to the door, listening for the sound of footsteps, anyone’s footsteps, coming to get him, are long in the past. He would not let himself be that small boy again.

Instead, Jaskier eases himself across his room once more, slowly, as if he was being stalked by a great monster. The sudden free time leaves him jittery, but what else can he do but pick his book back up.

            It’s at least another hour before he hears anything.

            The change in sound would be hard to miss, even an old housecat with one ear would be running at the volume. The pounding of feet is audible, men moving fast through the hallways of the Sielce mansion. It must be at least 3 groups of men who pass by his door, each unsteady and panicked during what sounds like running, not pausing at his door. Jaskier clenches his book to his chest, listening, and flinches heavily as his bedroom door is flung open with a crash and five Redanian Reds poor into the room, faces pale. He doesn’t recognize any of them, and he scooches back in his bed as each large men enters the room in a flurry.

            “Umm, hello there?”

            Jaskier receives no response, and though he is used to it. He is, however, not used to being manhandled by strangers. Two of the men flank him, each grasping his bicep and dragging him from his bed before steering him towards the door with fervor, not waiting for him to get his feet under himself.

            “Hey! What the hell!”

            He’s tripping, over his own feet and the others, as the men at his side list side-to-side with the effort to carry his body weight and move faster down the halls.

            “Sir, we must hurry. Enemies have breached the wall; we must get you to the others.” The man’s eyes are a bit wild under his fancy hat, moustache and beard doing nothing to hide the translucence of his face.

            A clatter up ahead is followed by a bellow, glass breaking.

            The man to his left veers hard, changing courses down another smaller hallway. Up a set of stairs and past tons of open doors, they pass fast around a corner, coming face first with a red carpet-lined hallway filled with brawling soldiers.

            A yell to his right startles Jaskier back, watching as one of his supposed guards is knocked off their feet by a bleeding Redanian Red. In the doorway ahead, a very large man in a black cowl bats another Red off his feet and into the wall.

            Jaskier takes the opportunity presented to him, ripping his arm away from his other escort, catching the man off guard. The Red makes a grab for him as he drops his weight, dodging around him and under a large wooden table thrown their way. He runs the way they had come, searching quickly for the staircase and jumping down the steps multiple at a time. From behind he can hear shouting.

Of whom, he does not particularly care, as long as no one is dragging him somewhere.

            He moves fast down corridors that already show signs of scrimmages; historical swords stolen and broken windows with glass on the floor. Focused more on moving farther away from the sounds of death, Jaskier curves hard around a corner, not quite expecting a rather large man in heavy arm to be just on the other side.

            “Woah, Fuck!”

            He braces his fall with his arms backwards, and finds himself with new pains as his elbows hit stone and glass. Flinching hard he rolls himself to his left, barely dodging the man’s hands as he leans down for him, a long knife in one hand.

            “Uh, shit.”

            Pushing himself up quickly on his hands, he spins back around to stand talk and square his shoulders, his eyes flashing back to the knife in the man’s hand, his arm covered in blood but only a small gash at the shoulder.

            The redheaded man’s eyes narrow quickly at him, squaring his shoulders and making himself larger.

            “Okay now let’s not make this difficult, just chill out.”

            When the man takes a step towards him, Jaskier’s body decides for itself and wills up all it can it a fist to stick the side of the man’s head. The man gives a heavy grunt but doesn’t go down as he was hoping for. Instead, he feels that maybe only a few more swings and his knuckles would shatter.

            The man is fast, faster than he was expecting, and he’s quickly wrapped in a bear-hug-like grab to restrain his arms to his side. Despite being relatively, the same height and only being slightly narrower, the man’s strength quickly becomes apparent as he starts dragging Jaskier struggling down the hallways to the main rooms of the mansion.

            Despite being carefully kept away from the gossip in the world outside the Sielce Mansion, he still technically bears the title of being the next in line as Marquess. If the man holding him knows, this may just be an execution walk.

            “Augh, stop wiggling!”

            The walk is not an easy one; Jaskier refuses to go to the throne room easily.

            “Fuck!”

            Jaskier squirms as much as he can, letting his legs loose to off-balance the large man attempting to grab him. His efforts are futile, and the man only heaves him high in an impressive lift, wrapping large arms around his own to pin them to his side, and starting to move him down the hallway the way he had planned to go himself. With his head still uncaptured, he flails and attempts to bring his head close to the man’s arms, but he only gets jostled and shaken for his efforts.

            The man gives a cackle as he does it, clearly entertained by shaking him like a naughty cat.

            The hallways of the Sielce Mansion pass by them, some hallways clear and clean, others filled with chaos, knocked over art, and blood. The man doesn’t stop, walking like he knows the directions through the mansion. Neither does he stop to check his surroundings, despite the evidence of previous violence.

            Jaskier is out of breath at this point, the adrenaline is beginning to sicken him.\

“Where are we going”

            “Eh, just the front room. Gotta get ya checked out before ya go.”

            He just hums in response, trying to not think of the possibilities in front of him. The large doors to the front hall are swung wide open, as well as the door to the front entrance halls. Jaskier keeps his eyes level, refusing to recognize anyone in the corpses that now guard the doors.

            The large man dragging him sets him down just outside, growling out a “No running.”

            His hands stay heavy on his shoulders, before removing one and using the other to heavily guide him into the room.

            “You’ll be fine, we don’t kill for no reason.”

            Jaskier can’t help but dig his heals in a bit as the crowd of people in the room part to let him past, his escort at his back. The room is visibly grim and cold, and he hopes he’s not walking towards the gallows.

            All the men around him are large, very large. Dressed in black and lined with silver swords and daggers. He feels naked in only his doublet, not even buttoned correctly, and he can feel the eyes upon his back.

            Up ahead, kneeling before the throne, the Countess of Sielce is curled in on herself. To her far right, before the crowd of onlookers, the Count of Sielce is hissing from his knees.

            And then a swing of a large silver sword, the man’s head goes rolling from his shoulders.

            “Fuck, my bad dude”.

            Jaskier wonders if this could get any worse for him.

~…~

            The mansion of Sielce was not keen to fall under the North Kingdom and refused to yield despite their King’s head rotting on a pike back in Tretogor. It pissed Geralt off to no end that despite everything, stupid lords still tried to get their jabs in.

            They moved in quickly and quietly, Cats climbing over walls and the Griffins making use of a tunnel they found outside town.

            Much less bloodshed is had in the halls of the mansion, many of the lower guards and trainees taking off at the first sight of the Warlord of the North. Despite the blood and gore, the haggard group cowering off to the side just released from the dungeons, and the movement of swords, Geralt could still smell him.

            Faint, but Jaskier’s blueberry scent was here, lingering in the dining room and ballroom.

            He had prepped his men for civilians, informed them that no one was killing any nobility but him, and he hopes that enough for Jaskier to come out of this unscathed. Geralt had not known him as much of a fighter, but he was wily and strong, and would strike if it meant his freedom.

            A majority of his men are still fighting in the outskirt halls, slowly piling bodies off to the side in long hallways. Lambert nods to him once, a smirk on his face, before splitting off at a south hallway. The witcher’s speed picks up as he goes.

            Up the winding staircases, wolves spilt off for middle floor, Eskel and himself continue climbing higher.

            In the family wing of the mansion, the lines of Redanian soldiers look prepared for their arrival, shoulders squared, and feet set.

            Geralt removes his steel sword from his back, prepared to keep moving quickly.

            For once in this stupid and blood-filled war, blazing a path across Redania, he can feel himself smile. Despite only fighting men who will not yield to their change in leadership, the dance of the fight with Eskel at his back comes naturally. Their days of training, surviving, together, and the trust of working with a man who is good at what he does.

            Geralt steps aside for Eskel to bust the door to the tower down, locks giving way with one strong shove of his arm. Eskel follows as he creeps up the spiral staircase, listening for the sounds of breathing and footsteps.

            Only anxious breaths can be made out, small and gasping.

            Geralt sheaths his sword at the sound of another inhale, the stairs creaking, and slows his pace. No one above smells like rage nor fight, although past traces still lingered.

            Two small boys sat crouched in the corner of the turret room at the top of the stairs, both pale-faced and tear streaked. Both so young, one younger and one older than Cirilla.

            His heart clenches at the thought of them alone up here in the dark, screams sounding out downstairs.

Geralt holds his hands up, attempting to shrink in on himself in the already tight space. As he couches two sets of dark eyes follow him.

“You’ll be okay. No one will hurt you, I promise.” Geralt’s voice is a low growl, but he can’t help it, doesn’t know what else to say, besides giving them promises they probably don’t believe.

Behind him, Eskel watches, face solemn and gentle.

            Upon eye contact, he just gestures his head towards the little boys, letting the Warlord lead.

Geralt gives a heavy sigh.

Carefully coaxing the boys out from under a desk and behind wooden boxes takes time, but he moves slowly. His days of handling wild colts and horses out in the barns helping; his movements slow and voice reassuring.

Geralt gets them both in his arms, dumbfounded for a second as the smallest leans into his chest, shaking softly with their thumb in their mouth. The older one is still cautious, looking over his shoulder at the swords on Geralt’s back, but he stays still and quiet.

Back in the throne room Aiden and Yennefer are chatting, next to them the adults of the Count’s family kneeled with their heads bowed low. On his arrival, his people greet him with a rumble of ‘White wolf’, everyone’s eyes curious as he carries two children up to the front. Setting them carefully upon the stairs, he turns to who has been gathered for their trial.

            “Found them in the cellar rooms, something was built into the back of the dungeons for a safe room. No mage, but we didn’t really expect one besides the wards. This one’s the Count.” Aiden jabs a thumb in the large man’s direction. The man was praying in soft words.

“The wife”. A blond woman sits on her heels; makeup smeared over her entire face and hair sticking in every direction.

“And I suppose the extra brother”. While not ugly, the man’s sniffling into the floor does not help his appearance.

“And his wife”. She was the only one not making a scene, sat up straight and neutral faced in a long white dress. If anything, the woman looked tired.

Geralt gives them all the look over, standing before each of them in turn. The sniveling man starts to bow obnoxiously as he makes his way close, muttered prayers and whimpers leaving his mouth. His wife gives a gentle bow from her knees.

Over her head, he looks at Yennefer.

“Where are the others.” Geralt growls out, not too keen on this taking longer than necessary.

“Courts almost all accounted for, but the other siblings...”, Aiden trails off.

Eskel says it for him, “Jaskier and his wife as the heirs would’ve been first up there, then there are the three younger ones…”

Geralt turns to him, “Yet it was only them”

On the steps before the large chairs, opulent and made to draw eyes to the center of the room, the Sielce boys sat wrapped around each other, both wide eyed in shock but not weeping. Their eyes were scanning the room from top to bottom, watching witchers go in and out the side doors and entrance.

Eskel’s eyes are sad, “I’ve got someone looking into it. Windows open… first son… and the declared heirs. Fates can only imagine.”

Geralt grimaced at the idea. Nobles always said witcher’s were the one’s willing to spill the blood of anyone in their way.

Eskel’s dark eyes shine, no doubt thinking the same.

He makes eye contact with Yenn again, eyebrows scrunching, words enough for him. She only deems to roll her eyes at him, before making her way over to sweep the brother’s wife and the Count’s children from the room into the kitchens behind them. Neither of the little boys glance back at their parents, instead they have begun to cling to their aunt’s white skirts.

At their departure, the sniveling man starts to sob, gasping upon air.

Geralt gestures for the Count of Sielce to be moved forward, so all in the room can witness the proceedings. He can’t keep the growl out of his voice; well aware this is the man that had agreed to continue the torture of the Jaskier at the behest of his parents.

“Count of Sielce, your King has been defeated and his armies disengaged, and yet your men have been ordered to fight their new rightful ruler. What do you say of this.”

The man’s large face screws up, red and turning black and blue, “You’re just a fucking mutant.”

“Can you swear loyalty.” Geralt’s eye blaze.

Making watery eye contact, the Count whispers through his teeth, “I’ll kill your whore first.”

And with that, Geralt swings his sword down upon his neck.

~

            “Fuck, my bad dude”.

            At the sound of his younger brother’s curse, Geralt turns and looks up from the splayed-out body on the floor next to him. His shoulders are still heaving, the tiredness of the war setting into his spine.

            Lambert’s face is sheepish, if not a bit anxious, turning to the man he had just dragged into the room.

            Geralt doesn’t know what to make of Jaskier’s expression, somewhere between dismayed and disgusted. His face is less pale than he last saw him, back those few weeks in Tretogor, but the eye bags had stayed. Blood splatter covered his legs, but Geralt could not smell his blood on him and the man appeared on steady feet.

            Geralt himself was covered in blood streaks and rips, his armor getting caught more often than his skin. He knows his eyes must be blazing still with the fight and the death of another terrible leader. He probably looked as monstrous as he had been feeling.

            “Oh my fates, Geralt, thank fuck!” Jaskier heaves out in one breath, feet moving forward, picking up pace. At his movements Lambert flinches, ready to grab the bard and haul him away, but backs off as Geralt’s moves first.

            The bard flings his arms around him, getting tangled on the hanging weapons upon his armor but only readjusting. He’s laughing, head back with tears in his eyes.

            Geralt only grunts as he takes on the man’s weight, and leaning to press deep kisses on Jaskier’s open mouth, standing wrapped up in the center of the blood spill.

~…~

            “This is so fucking gross”

            A comment from behind them brings them away from each other, although the feeling of the Geralt’s lips lingers on his. The red-haired man who had brought him to this room is standing with his arms crossed, obviously annoyed by what he was witnessing, face scrunched and angry.

            Jaskier practically flings himself back, placing as many inches between him and Geralt as he can despite the arms still around his waist. Geralt looks disappointed by the loss of contact before dropping his eyebrows down to crowd his face.

“Fuck off, Lambert”

The man, apparently Lambert, gags, “Just because you want to enjoy your war bride, I have to shut up? Bollocks”.

Herta’s mother gives out a sob from behind them, fingers brushing through her hair and sending it up in crazy tufts. Below her, her dress is stained, and Jaskier feels bad for thinking that she’s crying more over that then her own soon-coming fate.

            The adrenaline in Jaskier’s blood is still singing, battering his heart, but he takes his time to glance over the room.

The large men around the room are still moving about, talking to prisoners and servants, others carrying out the dead. Now he can see past the dark cowls and armor, to gold and amber eyes with slitted pupils. Faces with smirks and smiles as they go about their work.

            The Count’s younger brother is kneeling off to the side of the front table, just a couple meters away, sniffling into the cusps of his shirt. Jaskier feels pity for the man, in a sense, having not gotten to know the man but he had heard enough. His story was very much the same; useless brother with no discernable noble skills, pushed off to the side and berated for wanting any sort of life or happiness. Now, Jaskier was not as sheltered as this man, clearly made into a nervous wreck, and for that he counts his blessings.

            Geralt’s large hands are still on his waist, fingers caressing as if to prove to himself that Jaskier was here, in front of him. Jaskier almost doesn’t believe it as well, thinking that perhaps he’s dreaming or Herta’s put something in his cup.

            With a bush of lips on his forehead and a squeeze of his waist, the witcher lets him go slowly, backing up step by step till they’re too far apart to touch.

            “I have to finish this.”

            The Countess gives a cut off scream, screeching like a cat touching water. Her hands have moved from holding handfuls of hair to dragging her across the floor, still on her knees, towards where Jaskier stands. He takes a couple steps back from her grasping hands, which only enrages her more.

            “Why does he suffer nothing! He’s the bloody Count now! Kill him to!.”

“Not like I wanted to be! You people dragged me into this marriage so your daughter could play dolls with real land and lives!” Jaskier tries hard to stop himself from shouting, “We’re not even married yet!”

            “Can you swear to the White Wolf.” Geralt growls.

            She continues her crawl and grasp, “It’s all the boys fault!”

            “Can you swear”.

            Her answer is a shriek, throwing herself forward in a desperate grab for Jaskier’s ankle, fingertip inches away.

            With a quick sword to the neck, she lies silently alongside the body of her husband.

            The Count’s brother, still kneeling, does not look up from the floor.

            Geralt stands before him, towering over the small and skinny noble, chest vibrating and audibly rumbling in anger at the show. His voice is a deep growl, sounding more like the reaper himself, “Can you swear loyalty to the wolf?”

            “Yes. Yes, yes I can. Please your highness. Please, please.” The guy’s gasping, eyes bulging out at the White Wolf’s shoes, hands clasped.

            The witcher sighs, running a hand over his face tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

            “Can you swear to act in place of your nephew, now Count heir, till he reaches adulthood?”

            The man’s yeses are breathless and raspy. His face is purple from not taking a breath, thanking and blessing the white-haired witcher as he bows for sparing his life and allowing him to maintain his family.

            “Lambert, take him to his wife.”

            Despite the red head witcher’s grumping, he moves, stopping to grasp Jaskier hard on the shoulder for a shake, before taking the new Count Regent by the arm and dragging him off towards the kitchens. One tall man follows him, other witcher’s moving forward, dragging what was left of the bodies of the former Count and Countess towards the front doors, heads in the other hand.

            Jaskier’s wrapped his own arms around himself, squeezing tight. The pressure against his ribcage feels comforting, but it only pulls at the long scars across his shoulders.

            Geralt’s eyes are bore into his, eyes dark, eyebrows scrunched.

            At the witcher’s worried glance, Jaskier becomes more aware of his breathing; fast paced and shallow. Despite his ability to avoid more of the fighting, he swears he can feel tackiness of blood across his face. He struggles to keep his eyes off the long blood streaks on the floor.

            Geralt’s face has drawn tight, swords abandoned on the floor by the dais of the now half-wrecked mansion. His hands are held up as he approaches slowly, as though trying to calm a wild horse.

            The thought makes Jaskier cough out a laugh, a bit historical. He thinks if Geralt’s eyebrows got any lower, he wouldn’t be able to see. The shaking of the ground was most likely his own fault.

            Only feet away, Geralt tips his arms open wider, and Jaskier pulls on all the trust they’ve built.

            Letting his legs wobble, body sore and drained, he lets himself fall forward into the bulk of Geralt’s chest. The man takes his weight, wrapping his own airs around Jaskier as he holds himself.

            This close to him, Jaskier can more clearly make out the witcher’s heartbeat, slow and quiet within the barrel of his chest. He times his breaths to it, stuttering and shuttering.

            “Please tell me you didn’t kill the Count of Sielce for me”.

            Geralt hmms, “I didn’t kill him for you.”

            Jaskier leans his head back to catch the man’s eyes, Geralt’s lips twitched at the corners. “I really shouldn’t be asking questions.”

            “Best not to.”

            The silence is nice for only a second.

            “I’m not a War bride.”

            Again, he only receives a hum.

            From the corner of Jaskier’s eye, he makes out a large man, tall and dark, quiet enough to walk up to them undetected. Across the man’s face a rather incredible scar bisects his eyebrow and eye. An injury that was most definitely painful, but clearly the man had survived and would have a tale to show for it. He barely recognizes him from the Tretogor Treaty Ball, having been more focused on the dark and dangerous woman seen at his side.

            The witcher’s smile is kind as he nods to Jaskier before turning to his leader, face more solemn, “Bodies were found at the bottom of the tower. Yennefer wants to move towards Devil’s Ford, but there is more likely to be more push back from Guamez out west.”

            Geralt hasn’t let go of him as he turns to address the man, “Smaller group to Devil’s Ford and Micar in the south, more split off together to Guamez. Reynolds has never been fond of change. Thank you, Eskel.”

            As the witcher walks away, Jaskier pulls his face from Geralt’s chest again, “That was Eskel, what did they put in the water in your secret keep to make you all so beautiful!”

            The eye roll he gets in return answers nothing.

            He sobers a bit, reality hitting him a bit at the current situation he finds himself in. He finally unwraps himself from his own arms, sliding them around Geralt’s waist.

 “I don’t understand why you’re not heading for Tretogor, surely Vizimir’s sent thousands at you. And while I may not have married the woman, heaven’s bless, I could’ve sworn I just heard you hand my title off to the Count’s sniveling little brother. Do you even have that say?”

“Vizimir’s dead.”

That makes Jaskier pause again, just how much has been kept from him?

“For how long?!”

“About four days.”

Enough time for word to spread around the continent. Enough time for soldiers to be told to stand down and to expect the arrival of the new leadership, not defend in the name of a dead king who could not help them anymore.

“Last thing I would let happen now is you marrying a woman who holds you in a cage.” Geralt’s eyes are dangerous. “She and the first-born son were found dead below the high tower. Not many heirs would take well to their title being stolen from them.”

            He can feel his face drains of blood, his head faint. Jaskier couldn’t quite parse through his own emotions. Was he sad for her? Was he glad it set him free? Harris had been volatile but surely was not suicidal.

            The large hands on his shoulders are gentle, starting to guide, less forceful than that night in Tretogor. The other witcher’s in the room move around them, acting as if they were not sneaking glances up at the two of them, smile on some.

            “I am so confused. Geralt, last time I saw you, you got married.” The jolt of remembering sends Jaskier almost out of the witcher’s grip, but his arms stay firm around his waist.

            “Treaty’s broken, marriage isn’t consummated, she’s off to whatever family member of hers will take her. Whole thing was a shit show.”

            Jaskier laughs tiredly, “Ah, I believe I can understand an unwanted marriage.”

            Geralt’s smile is soft, and he takes a moment to lean down, placing his forehead on his, breathing in slowly.

            And thankfully, when Jaskier slips for third time on the blood pooled on the floor, still tacky under his boots and tired legs, Geralt hefts him up into his arms and carries him from the Sielce Mansion.

 

~~

 

            Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever had a bath as warm as this one, heat seeping into his tired bones and muscles. His back was aching, but he could feel it slowly loosening. He lounges his head back against the rim of the tub, content to soak, and avoid all the thoughts in his head.

            The picture in front of him helps. Pale skin with little silver scars like freckles. Grey chest hair covering a chest sculpted from marble and polished to perfection. Long white strands of hair framing a chiseled face, damp and frizzing in the heat of the small bathroom. White eyelashes fanned, hiding golden eyes.

            Jaskier can’t help but take the opportunity to poke the witcher with his big toe. Geralt doesn’t open his eyes, only grabs the offending foot before tugging him further forward in the bath. He giggles as his shoulders go under, but Geralt doesn’t let go.

            It been a long time since Jaskier’s had this kind of intimacy with another person without sex being involved. The only physical affection he’d gotten in years past was from secret lays and his own hand. But here he was, sitting face to face with Geralt in a tub slightly too small for the two of them, and he was content and smiling.

            Thumbs moved over the arch of his foot. He tried not to flinch, although Geralt’s hands stayed firm.

            “I can’t believe you came all this way to save me, and you don’t bring my lute with you.” Jaskier can’t help but tease, still slightly disappointed, despite knowing his instrument would not be useful in the witcher’s battles.

            “You’ll just have to come to Kaer Morhen to get it.”

Notes:

Warnings: Yelling, Detailed scenes of abuse with both physical and mental violence (no sexual assault), Women discussed as possessions, Female and male abusers, Female and male victims of abuse, Beheadings, Deaths of original characters, Death of a minor discussed (Kinda was in self-defense, kinda wasn't, you decide)