The Good and Just

by immortal_katharina99

Summary:

Following the Cats' betrayal at the Witcher Tournament, the witcher schools, realizing that King Radowit II's plot was just the tip of the spear, unite to create a Witcher Nation. All the schools except the Cats, that is. The Cats, having participated in the massacre of another school, are exiled and banned from this new nation.

The witchers isolate themselves in the northern kingdom of Kaedwen, leaving the Cat witchers and humanity to each other for almost a century. Then a bard steals the King of Renedia's pet and smuggles it into Kaedwen.

Notes:

• Inspired by Too Good To Be True by YorkieDee
• Inspired by With a Conquering Air by inexplicifics
• Inspired by [Restricted Work] by Dreamer_of_Improbable_Dreams (Log in to access.)

Obviously, this draws a lot of inspiration from the Accidental Warlord series. The compulsion spell Aiden is under is primarily inspired by "Too Good To Be True" by YorkieDee, though it works somewhat differently.

There are other fandom inspirations, and I'll try to credit them as we move along.

I am mostly familiar with the fanon and the Netflix TV series, just doing my best to stay kind of in canon.

Chapter 1

Geralt, the White Wolf of Kaedwen, as he was called these days, at least in polite company, stared out of the window of his study. On days like this, he missed the simplicity of the path. Even those days when coin and contracts had been scarce, and he’d had to hunt meagre game for his dinner and camp under the stars in foul weather with Roach.

He probably missed Roach most of all, but his girl was long dead. He had a new Roach now, of course, and she was a lovely girl, descended from his last witcher steed before the uprising. But she'd never walked the path with him. Never been his sole companion and confidant for long hours as he’d travelled the continent in search of work. His new mount had grooms looking after her most days. When Geralt did manage to take her out, it was to clear his head for brief rides along the trails around Kaer Morhen. With the Nilfgaardian armies tearing through the south, though, he had precious little time to do that of late.

Temeria and Aedirn had both recently started requesting permission to send envoys to discuss possible military alliances with Kaedwen against Nilfgaard. The Witcher Nation, apparently, wasn't so distasteful when faced with the prospect of Emhyr var Emreis’ invading forces.

For the last hundred years, the witchers' standard response to any requests for assistance from outside Kaedwen had been to refer whoever was asking to the exiles. But the more time went on, the more uneasy Geralt had become with ignoring the increasingly desperate pleas, often from small communities, begging for the northern witchers’ mercy. Villages or towns that’d likely spent a fortune just to get a message sent to them via the traders in Flotsam. It hadn’t taken long for rural areas to become overrun by various creatures once all the witchers save the Cats had retreated behind Kaer Morhen's walls, leaving all but the people of Kaedwen to the mercy of the treacherous school. 

The Cat Witchers who had murdered and betrayed fellow witchers in exchange for the exclusive rights to pursue contracts in Kaedwen were now banished, forbidden from ever setting foot within its borders. But with the other schools confining themselves to Kaedwen, the exiled Cats had had their pick of contracts and employers throughout the rest of the continent. But the Caravan, it seemed, had quickly realized that, vicious though its members might have been, they simply didn't have the numbers to manage to keep, what it had once taken six other schools to manage, at bay alone.

So the few remaining Cats had now mostly attached themselves to the continent's richest and most powerful monarchs and nobles, acting as hired muscle for the continent's elite, leaving the smaller communities to fend for themselves, at the mercy of any lord fortunate enough to have one of the disgraced witchers on their payroll. Judging from the number of appeals for help that they still received after nearly a century of isolation, those lords weren't often benevolent. Geralt had to remind himself that humanity had brought this on themselves, through their own prejudice and hatred. They'd done it every time they'd reneged on a promised bounty or assembled a mob to run one of their brothers out of town.

But it seemed a cruel irony that the humans of Kaedwen, whose king’s actions had directly led to the Witcher Uprising, were now the only ones who reaped the benefits of the witchers' protection. But with Kaer Morhen located in northern Kaedwen, there hadn’t been much help for it, especially after the witchers had marched on Ard Carraigh and Gerald had relieved Radowit II of the burden of rule by releasing the duplicitous king’s head from his shoulders. Though they had had no interest in ruling over the country's people, the witchers had understood they would need to in order to secure the lands around Kaer Morhen. 

Over time, tensions between the witchers and the people of Kaedwin had diminished. Geralt supposed that now that witchers were paid by the crown and dispatched as required, that people felt less inclined to spit at them. They still grumbled about the levies and taxes, but they would have done so regardless. Whether their taxes paid for a human or a witcher army made little difference to the common man. Most had come to recognize and appreciate that when they had need of a Witcher, one would come swiftly and efficiently see to any monsters in need of slaying. 

But these latest missives weren't simple entreaties to kill rampaging monsters. These were earnest attempts to open diplomatic relations because of the very real threat of an invasion from the south, and much as Geralt would like to continue ignoring the other northern kingdoms, he knew standing alone against the Nilfgaardian Empire would be foolhardy. Much as he hated the idea of an alliance with either kingdom, Eskel, Vesemir and even that cold-blooded viper, Letho, were right, if they didn't extend their help to the other northern kingdoms, Kaedwen would end up isolated and surrounded from all sides.

There was a crisp wrap on the door, and Vilfrid, Geralt's private secretary, popped his head into the room. “My liege, your brother is here as...” the former soldier began, as Lambert pushed his way past the man and into the room. Familiar with the younger wolf’s antics, Vilfred just rolled his eyes and continued on. “As requested.” 

Lambert bowed deeply at the waist, extending his arms and waving his hands dramatically, in what Geralt supposed was supposed to be an imitation of a courtly bow. 

“Yes, I am here as requested, Oh great and laconic King Geralt,” Lambert announced loudly. Geralt just sighed. “Oh mighty, White Wolf, Slayer of Kings, Leader of the Witcher Nation, King of Kaedwen and fearsome Warlord of the North, how might this humble servant... Serve thee?”

“Lambert, fuck off.” Geralt shook his head. Vilfred just snorted at that and left the room, closing the door behind him. 

“You look stressed, brother,” Lambert noted, sinking into one of the plush seats in front of Geralt’s desk without leave, and promptly putting his booted feet on Geralt's desk.

Lambert had only just started on the path when the Tournament had happened. Still bitter and angry following his trials, Lambert had told Vesemir to fuck off when he’d been asked to participate, telling his former trainer that he didn’t have any interest in performing like some circus animal for Radowit. He’d set off on the path that year, ignoring their swordmaster’s curses and promises of dire consequences.

Geralt had never been happier for Lambert’s ill temper. He hadn’t even known the young witcher that well back then, but after their numbers had been decimated first by the Cats and then by Radowit's men, Eskel and he had practically wrapped their younger schoolmate in muslin, much to the brash and acerbic young witcher’s annoyance. But Lambert, who despite his insistence that he hated their school for what they’d done to him and countless other little boys, hadn’t hesitated to return when he’d been recalled to the keep after the Tournament. He had begrudgingly let Eskel and even Vesemir fuss over him, like a couple of over-eager mother hens. He also, despite his obvious annoyance, had let Geralt stick close to him after hearing what had happened with Gweld. But he'd absolutely refused to be left behind when they’d marched on Ard Carraigh. 

Once the witchers had overtaken the capital and Radowit and that vile schemer Astrogarus’s heads had been mounted on stakes on the city walls for all to see, what was left of Kaedwen’s government had decided they had little desire for a prolonged conflict with a witcher army. The leader of the witchers was installed as the new king of Kaedwen with little fanfare. That de facto leader, fueled by rage at the massacre of so many of his brothers, was Geralt, much to his everlasting chagrin. His first decree, reluctant as he’d been to accept the crown, had been to have all the soldiers who had participated in the tournament massacre rounded up and executed. He’d felt little remorse when he’d given the order. And only a little bit at the sight of the men's sobbing families pleading for mercy, as the crane witchers had fired their crossbows. He’d irrationally not felt comfortable letting the young wolf out of his sight until the last man responsible for their brother's deaths had been felled.

Even now, having sparred with the little wolf many times and knowing that he was a fierce and competent witcher, Geralt always felt ill at ease when Lambert was outside Kaer Morhen’s walls. Which Geralt realized was ridiculous. Lambert was not only a master swordsman; he was also a skilled alchemist who enjoyed using those skills to sow destruction around him, usually in very explosive ways. Geralt could still remember the one time he’d agreed to go fishing with Lamb. He'd been confused by the lack of poles. Did his brother mean to carve and use spears? He'd wondered. Lambert had just handed him a netted basket and led him to a small boat. He’d sat there gobsmacked as his little brother had laughed maniacally and begun tossing bombs into the water. He’d cackled even harder when the ensuing splashes had soaked Geralt from head to toe. 

But loath as he was to send Lambert away, he needed someone he could trust at the border to check and report back on their defences. And he'd need Eskel and Vesemir’s help with the upcoming negotiations. And well, diplomacy was not one of Lambert’s many talents. He had neither the patience nor the temperament for it. But still, the idea of Lambert alone so close to the border made Geralt uneasy. He’d send Coën along with him, he suddenly decided. The older witcher would keep Lambert from getting into too much trouble, and if nothing else, the griffin’s insistence on using courtly manners would drive Lambert mad. Served the little shit right. Oh mighty, White Wolf indeed. 

“I have a job for you, Lambert,” Geralt began. 

 

Chapter 2

Jaskier would admit that he wasn't known for always making the soundest decisions. He’d certainly had to flee many a bed not his own throughout the years. Oftentimes, he’d only managed to escape a jealous husband’s fists or an outraged wife’s skillet by the skin of his teeth. To say nothing of furious fiancés, bitter beaus or pissed-off parents. It’s not that Jaskier actively sought out those already spoken for; they just seemed to gravitate towards him. And if the occasional innkeeper's buxom daughter happened to flutter her eyelashes at him? Who was he to shatter her dreams? A randy fool, Priscilla had pointed out more than once. If he could just learn the art of judicial and polite refusal, he might not end up tossed out on his ear and sleeping in alleys nearly as often, she frequently chided.

It’s possible that he didn’t have the greatest impulse control. As a youth, Jaskier hadn’t seemed to be able to keep himself out of trouble. Stealing tarts and sweet rolls out of the kitchen and sneaking off when he was supposed to do his lessons. 

He’d nearly gotten himself disowned when he’d run off to Oxenfurt. His father had been furious, but had ultimately told Jaskier that he’d allow him his youthful folly. Julian was young after all, and his father understood that young men sometimes needed to rebel. He would even pay for Julian’s schooling, he’d declared, if his son would agree to take classes in business and tactics along with the seven liberal arts. He’d reasoned that grammar, logic, rhetoric and arithmetic would be of use anyway, so he would support his son’s special interests. 

So Jaskier had gritted his teeth and rounded out his education as his father had insisted. It had taken him a year longer than normal to graduate, garnering much mockery from that unimaginative hack Valdo Marx. His father had been so pleased when he’d graduated, though, that he’d actually embraced Jaskier. To congratulate him on his success, he’d presented Jaskier with a lovely, expensive lute and arranged a place for him at their cousin's court in Tretogor. 

His father had told him he could have his fun being a bard for a while, but at the same time, he could observe how things were done in a proper royal court. He would get to witness firsthand how a great kingdom was managed. He’d be able to take note of how a great lord dealt with his various vassals and fiefdoms. 

Seeing how Vizimir had run his court and treated his subjects was something Jaskier deeply wished he could unsee. It would likely haunt Jaskier for the rest of his days. It had also been what had led him to his most recent ill-advised endeavour. Forget being disinherited, which Jaskier was quite certain he now was. He’d be lucky if he managed to escape the executioner’s block. 

But turning over his shoulder and observing his silent companion, dire consequences or not, Jaskier couldn’t find it in his heart to regret what he’d done. The witcher, of course, was predictably still and silent beside him.  Aiden, he told himself. Aiden was still and silent. Now that he'd managed to get his name, Jaskier refused to simply call him the witcher as though he were discussing a piece of furniture. Not even in the privacy of his own mind.

At this point. Jaskier almost wishes his father had insisted on geography as well. Some trapping and hunting wouldn’t go amiss about now, either. Though his companion seemed fairly versed in those skills. Jaskier just hated sending Aiden off to use them. He imagined a thousand nightmare scenarios. Aiden hurt, but unable to call for help or even to return to camp without completing the task set out for him. Or worse, being found by their pursuers and being unable to defend himself.

It was taking longer to reach their destination than Jaskier would have hoped. He’d been so shocked that his gambit had actually worked that he hadn’t really thought much further than getting beyond the gates of Tretogor. His heart had pounded out of his chest as he’d presented the night watchmen with the drafted letters he’d acquired from Vizimir’s desk. Along with the letter, explaining Aiden’s presence.

He was an envoy en route to the White Wolf of Kaedwen. The witcher? The beast was there to protect him while on route to the Warlords' keep. Once there, the Cat Witcher would be offered up as a tribute to the Witcher King, to show how serious Redenia was about these negotiations. 

The guards, none too swift and stinking of ale, had thankfully barely questioned why Jaskier was leaving for this important diplomatic mission in the middle of the night with only a mute, looming witcher for company, accepting Jaskier’s hushed explanation that the mission was secret at face value. His decision to wait and observe the city's exits had borne fruit. He’d located a small gate manned by a pair of soldiers swaying on their feet. Jaskier was glad he’d taken the time despite the urgency of leaving the city. He supposed he owed his father and Professor Esrock a thanks for the dour man’s lessons in tactics and subterfuge.

The quickest and straightest path out of Redenia was due south and into Temeria through Devil's Ford. Aretuza was in Temeria, and they'd need a sorceress or a mage's help. But even if they made it across the border before Vizimir's men caught up to them, Temeria wasn't likely to be sympathetic to their plight. Rumour had it that King Foltest also kept a quiet witcher at his side. So going anywhere near Vizima probably wasn’t advisable.

The other obvious choice was to head towards Novigrad, where Vizimir theoretically held no sway. If they could get there, they could try to flee on a ship. But Jaskier was certain they'd never make it there before being captured. The thing about obvious choices is that they were obvious to everyone. Jaskier had no doubt that their pursuers would be dispatching men along both the roads to Novigrad and Devil’s Ford.

Jaskier also didn’t think Rinde was a good idea, considering their stance on Magic users. He doubted they’d fail to notice that his companion was a witcher. He also worried that whatever they used to detect magic would likely be set off by Aiden.

The only other option was to take the roads from Egremont or Murivel to White Bridge, which would allow them to make their way to Flotsam fairly easily. Jaskier was pretty confident that if they could manage to get to the trading post, he’d be able to bribe someone to smuggle them into Kaedwen. That could probably get them to Ban Gleán, the Kaedwen Army’s southern fortress. The only problem was that Egremont, sitting on the borders of Kaedwen, Termeria and Aerdin, was heavily fortified, likely by men too smart to fall for the same tricks Jaskier had used to escape the Capital. Murivel might have been a possibility, but Jaskier was certain their description had to have been circulated to the border guards at White Bridge by now.

That had basically only left them with one option. Heading west and making their way through the Kestrell Mountains and into Kaedwen. Not through the northern pass, using the Lutonski Road though. Jaskier had decided that they would cross at the southernmost part of the range, well below the Duppa River, so they could avoid Drakenborg. It was one of the most difficult paths they could have chosen. It was a way only a fool would go, given the alternatives, which is why it was the only option left to them. 

By some miracle, they had managed to avoid detection, travelling off the main roads. They’d reached the foot of the mountain range two days ago. It was difficult going. His gelding, Pegassus, wasn’t having an easy time of it. Poor thing wasn’t designed for adventuring through the mountains. Melody, the mare he’d “borrowed” for Aiden, didn’t seem to be faring much better. 

They’d need to make camp soon. Jaskier had pushed them while they’d crossed Redenia, often riding well into the night. But he wasn’t fool enough to try that now that they were into the mountains. He could only hope that they’d successfully evaded their pursuers.

Jaskier called behind him, spying a small outcrop in the mountainside forming a shallow cave to their left. He decided they weren’t likely to find a better spot before the sun set. It might even be sheltered enough for a small fire. God knew it was cold enough up here.

“Let’s stop for the night,” Jaskier called over his shoulder. Not that he expected any argument from his travelling companion. But he still liked to give the illusion that he wasn’t making unilateral decisions. He cursed himself when Aiden immediately pulled on the reins of his mount, stopping dead in his tracks.

“We are going to make camp right over there,” Jaskier specified, pointing out the small cave he’d found. He watched as Aiden wordlessly directed his mount in the direction Jaskier had pointed. Fuck.

Jaskier knew it wasn’t the Cat witcher’s fault and felt like a heel for even thinking it, but dealing with Aiden was exhausting. He shook his head. He’s sure it was a joy for the mutant as well. He’d been dealing with this for mere weeks. Aiden had been living with this for years. Jaskier shuddered, remembering Vizimir boasting that the witcher had been with his family since Radovid IV's reign. He couldn’t even imagine. 

He steered Pegasus towards Aiden. The little cave was just barely big enough for the two of them and the horses. Hopping down from the white gelding, Jaskier reached into his sandal bag for some rope and quickly hobbled the horse's front legs. Though honestly, Pegasus was such a spoiled, lazy thing that Jaskier wondered why he bothered. Walking over to Melody, he fished another length of rope out of Aiden’s saddle bag and did the same thing to the young mare. 

Looking up his still mounted companion, Jaskier shook his head. “Aiden, come down now, please, and set up your bedroll,” he instructed and watched his dark-haired companion dismount in one fluid motion, before untying his bedroll from behind the saddle. Jaskier did the same, setting up his own bedroll beside Aiden’s on the other side of the cave. 

Walking back to Pegasus, he fetched his waterskin and reached back into his pack for some of their limited food stores, pulling out some hardtack, cured meat and cheese and returned to where Aiden was standing. “Take a few sips of this,” he ordered, handing Aiden the waterskin. He drank deeply and greedily before returning the skin to Jaskier. Fuck, was that enough? Streams and rivers weaved their way through these mountains, but Jaskier would have preferred to find one before emptying their skin. He sighed, 

He took a few sips himself before dividing a small portion of food between them. “Eat,” he commanded, handing Aiden his share. He, of course, obediently started eating his dinner. 

Jaskier blew out a low breath. He should check in with Aiden. He hated doing this. It felt invasive. But he supposed there was nothing for it. Reaching into his doublet, he pulled out a silver medallion and wrapped his fist around the cat-shaped pendant.

“Aiden,” he asked, and inhumanly green eyes snapped to him. “How are you feeling?”

“Afraid,” Aiden responded, his voice rough and gravelly. Fuck, of course he was. This is why he hated doing this. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like.   

“That’s understandable, given the circumstances,” Jaskier told him, careful not to criticize. “What about physically?”

“Sore,” Aiden answered. 

“From riding?” Jaskier mused. 

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Okay, do we need to take more breaks?” Jaskier hoped not. He was worried about their pace as it was. 

“No,” Aiden shook his head. Probably the most lively he’d been all day. 

“Okay,” Jaskier agreed. “Do you know how close we are to Kaedwen?”

“Yes,” Aiden responded, unhelpfully. Jaskier tried not to get frustrated. It wasn’t his fault. 

“Do you know how many days' ride?” He specified. Aiden hissed. Fuck.

“Less than a day?”Jaskier guessed. Aiden’s breath started heaving, and suddenly Jaskier figured it out. “We’ve already crossed into Kaedwen?”

“Yes,” Aiden’s breathing slowed back to normal. Jaskier couldn’t help but let out a relieved chuckle. He’d done it, he’d gotten Aiden out of Redenia. 

“That’s great,” Jaskier exclaimed, though he suspected Aiden didn't agree. He could only hope he was right. Well, on to more practical matters. “Do you need to relieve yourself?”

“Yes,” Aiden answered dispassionately. 

“Alright,” Jaskier nodded, stuffing the cat medallion back into his dublet. “Go outside and take care of that and come back here. Then lie down and try to sleep.” 

Aiden predictably said nothing and got up to obey. 

Chapter 3

It wasn’t that Lambert was bad company. Coën actually found the young Wolf witcher’s brash personality quite amusing at times. His antics were, however, significantly less entertaining when you had been charged with ensuring the fool’s safety. Keep an eye on him, the White Wolf had said. Make sure he doesn’t get into too much trouble. The Witcher King might well have suggested Coën stand in the middle of a river and not get wet. He was so irritated with Geralt right now that he no longer even regretted the drunken evening spent helping Lambert come up with new titles to irritate the white haired witcher.

The scouts patrolling the Kestrel Mountains had spotted a pair of travellers making their way towards Kaedwen. Lambert, who, of course, was already growing bored of inspecting troops, fortifications and various moats, ditches and thorny hedges, wanted to go take a look himself. Coën didn't even know where Lambert had picked up some of the things he'd called him, after he had suggested that perhaps they should leave investigating the incursion to the troops they'd been sent here expressly to evaluate. When Coën was unmoved by allegations about his parentage, which the Griffin witcher was fairly certain were physically impossible, the Wolf witcher had tried resorting to making pitiful eyes at him. Finally, Lambert had just growled at him and petulantly informed him that he was going and that Coën couldn't stop him. 

After much debate and Coën's warning that he would be honour-bound to inform their King if Lambert persisted in this nonsense, and not as Lambert insisted, tattling to his older brother, they had reached a compromise. They would go into the mountains with a small squad from the Beeches settlement… To assess their performance. At the very least, that is how Coën would explain this idiocy if asked. The trick now would be to get his ill-tempered charge, who was clearly itching for a fight, to allow the small group of men to do their jobs.

The plan, Coën would concede, had some actual merit. They would, in fact, be in a better position to determine the men's readiness to defend the border if they accompanied them.  The group from Beeches consisted of a team of ten men, half of them archers and the other half light infantry. They were led by a human Sergeant by the name of Bert Waulden, who seemed to manage the men effectively while maintaining their respect.

Waulden was a middle-aged man who’d spent most of his career defending Kaedwen’s borders. He’d mostly spent the time patrolling the Kestral Mountains, dealing with bands of bandits or smugglers, and the occasional group of non-human refugees who’d opted for the White Wolf’s protection instead of promises of a new homeland from Nilfgaard. 

The Sergeant was too young to have experienced Aedirn’s last attempt to liberate the people of Kaedwen from "the beasts". That had been nearly sixty years ago. It had been a bloody affair. But the Griffin would certainly admit a successful one for both Kaedwen’s human and witcher armies. It had also largely quieted grumbling in Kaer Morhen about the White Wolf’s decision to maintain a human army in Kaedwen. 

When Geralt had decreed that they would rebuild the Kaedwenian Army, there had been much complaining at the northern keep. The entire purpose of the witcher school’s congregating in Kaedwen was to protect themselves from the humans, Ivo of the Bears had argued. Even Coën’s own brother, Raven, had been in agreement with the Bear witcher. My liege, Raven had counselled, would we not simply be wedging ourselves into a corner with knives to our backs?

Geralt had been resolute, though. Powerful as the witcher forces were, he’d reasoned, they simply didn’t have the numbers to defend Kaedwen’s borders on their own. At least not if and when the Armies of the other northern kingdoms chose to unite. They would need additional men to hold the line. Men in great enough numbers that the other northmen would hesitate to breach their borders. Of course, their fearless leader had been right. Powerful as they might be, they likely would have been overwhelmed by the Aedirnian if not for their human forces.

Luckily, by the time the invasion had come, Geralt had been King of Kaedwen for more than a generation, and their forces had successfully integrated. Even the mages of Ban Ard, at those who hadn’t fled to rebuild the Mage’s Academy in the south after the Witcher uprising, had joined their numbers. But none of that would have been possible without Geralt of Rivia’s foresight.

After the uprising and the initial purge of the troops responsible for the witcher slaughter at the Tournament, the Witcher King had tasked the Vipers with vetting the remaining Kaedwenian troops. Vipers were versed in politics and trained in subterfuge and deceit. Coën could admit that they had done an admirable job of weeding out any potential agitators or those inherently loyal to the previous regime. 

They’d managed more than just removing undesirables from the Kaedwenian army, though. They had grouped and categorized the soldiers who had remained. They identified those who simply viewed their duties as a job and a source of coin, who, while unlikely to cause trouble, were equally unlikely to distinguish themselves. They also located those loyal to the Kaedwenian crown, regardless of whose head it sat on and therefore would follow their new King so long as he remained Kaedwen’s ruler. They also found the faction of men who’d suffered under Radowit’s rule and considered themselves well shod of the man. At Letho of Gulet’s recommendation, their King had seen as many of this final group promoted as possible.    

Their King had then called on his Griffin witchers to help recruit and begin to replenish the army’s ranks. He’d reasoned that the Griffins' courtly manners and adherence to knightly principles would appeal to young men seeking adventure. Coën had a small pang of conscience at the thought of the young men he’d convinced to enlist and who’d arrived at training, only to be faced with Junod of Belhaven. The Bear was a competent witcher for certain, but he was indubitably a brute. He shuddered to think about those poor young souls who’d been placed under Lambert’s tutelage. 

They had, however, managed to create a decent force. Companies upon companies of human troops overseen by witcher commanders. It was Gerring of Kharkiv who’d suggested the companies adopt names associated with their commanders' schools. It would give the men a sense of connection to their witchers, the Viper had argued. Coën supposed this made sense. He’d personally been in charge of a company that’d chosen the ridiculous name of Eagle Claw. The moniker made little sense, but the young men had been doing their best and, more importantly, had eagerly adopted the knightly values which the Griffins were known for. 

Gerring hadn’t been wrong about the names bonding soldiers to their witchers. His gambit had created a bemusing rivalry between the companies. His lads in Eagle Claw had been bound and determined to better the young men in Gerd’s Bear’s Growl company. As far as Coën knew, the rivalry still existed to this day, even though the last he’d heard, a Crane now commanded his former company.

Their current companions were from the Crane’s Neck company, originally founded by Ucalt the Vulture, whom, last Coën had heard, was still their commander. The Crane witcher had become strangely attached to the company, though all the humans he’d originally trained were now long dead. Though from what Coën understood, this odd loyalty ran both ways. Ucalt supposedly had men reporting to him whose great-grandfathers had belonged to the Crane’s Neck. Ucalt, it seemed, took great pride in his men. Based on what Coën had heard, the Crane still actively recruited, seeking out young men with prowess in archery, tracking and scouting. Skills the Crane believed would be assets when patrolling the Mountains bordering Kaedwen. 

When they’d met him at Fort Leyda, a small fortress about a week outside of the border, he’d assured Coën and Lambert that they would find his men up to the highest standards. The tanned witcher spoke of his charges with an almost fatherly pride. Having now met some of the men, Coën would concede that Ucalt’s feelings were not entirely unwarranted. The Crane had done an admirable job training these men. Waulden and his men, at the very least, knew their business.

The small squad assigned to intercept the intruders was an odd mixture of humans and elves, and bizarrely enough, a very foul-mouthed dwarf whom Lambert found instant kinship with. They were a strange bunch, but they worked effectively as a unit. 
  
Gannorlun, a sharp-eyed elven archer and tracker, had been trailing their quarry since before the intruders had crossed into Kaedwen. According to the dark-haired elf, they had been moving with haste until they had crossed into the White Wolf's lands and now seemed to be moving at a much more leisurely pace. As though, the young elf mused, they had been fleeing something in Redenia. 

Which didn’t bode well for their visitors. While Kaedwen certainly maintained a tight border, they weren’t completely isolationist. They did allow merchants through for trade, even if the practice was highly regulated. If these men were entering Kaedween through the south of the Kestral Mountains rather than through one of the main roads or ports of entry, they were either smugglers, bandits or fleeing from the law. 

Either way, they would have answers soon enough. Gannorlun was leading them swiftly and quietly to the hills overlooking a small clearing where the men had set up camp for the night. It was the dead of night, not much of an issue for the witchers or the mostly elven archer who’d taken positions in the surrounding peaks. 

Fortunately, for the humans among them, the moon was full, and they knew these mountains from peak to valley. Coën watched as Waulden silently signalled his men into place. Coën and Lambert moved into position themselves. As they grew closer. Coën focused his attention on the two men below. Both seemed to be sleeping; one of them was gently snoring. Coën focused his senses, picking up a slow and steady heartbeat, typical for a man in slumber. His companion's heart, though, was slower. Faster than it should be in sleep, but still significantly slower than a human's. Well, that certainly complicated things. 

He turned to look at Lambert, who stared down at the pair below his jaw set. Having realized what Coën had. One of their visitors was a witcher. 

Notes:

Geralt's name
In Chapter One, Geralt is referred to as Geralt of Kaedwen. In the context of the story, the Witchers have taken over Kaedwen and made it a Witcher Nation. They've lived in relative isolation for about a century, choosing to retreat from the world after the Witcher Tournament.

Since Geralt is now King of the Witcher Nation, and by virtue of that, Kaedwen, he's not referred to publicly by the place of his birth, which is outside of Kaedwen. Additionally, he hasn't walked the path for 100 years, so most humans now just know him as the king of Kaedwen or the Warlord of the North.

Witchers who have known him since before the Witchers took over Kaedwen might still refer to him as Geralt of Rivia privately.

Timelines
A little fudged here and there. The story assumes the Tournament took place in the 1150s and the Witcher Uprising happened shortly after that. Lambert's age has been adjusted so he would have been around just before the tournament. He would have been a baby witcher fresh on the path when this happened. This is mostly to maintain his relationship with Geralt and Eskel.

The uprising in this universe prevented the sacking of Kaer Morhen. So I wanted Lambert to be a pre-Tournament Wolf and not just one of many random new baby witchers.

Chapter 4

Notes:

Written on my cell, so will likely be editing again later.

Lambert barely managed to suppress the growl, building in the back of his throat. One of those fuckers down there was a witcher. Not just any witcher, though. None of his brethren in Kaer Morhen would need to bother with sneaking into Kaedwen through the Kestrel Mountains. If they'd had to leave the Witcher Nation for whatever reason, they’d be able to return through the metaphorical front door. Unless they didn't have the right medallion to present and had no brothers to vouch for them. Like, say they were a thrice damned Cat.

Lambert turned to Coën, his erstwhile minder. The Griffin was tense as a bowstring. He had definitely heard the unknown witcher's heartbeat as well. Irritating as his royal pain in the ass brother assigning another witcher to watch over him had been, Lambert was glad if it had to be someone, it was at least Coën. Underneath all the knightly nonsense, the bird-brain actually had a sense of humour. He was capable of some pretty hilarious limericks once you got some White Gull into him. More importantly, though, he was good in a fight. The Griffin witcher was excellent with a sword, and like most members of his school, his signs were only rivalled by Lambert’s freak brother, Eskel. So Coën was a handy enough guy to have around, only slightly hampered by his stupid honour code.

He understood why his snow-haired, pretty-princeling of a brother had sent them out here. The border defences did need inspecting. And it's not as though Lambert was going to be of much help negotiating with Temeria and Aedirn. He wasn’t self-deluded enough not to realize that he wasn’t someone you’d want around for delicate treaty talks. Not unless the goal was to send the other parties storming out of the room. 

And annoying as it might be, he also knew Geralt had only sent Coën along because he was a neurotic worrywart. Lambert tried to remind himself that the overprotectiveness stemmed from the trauma Geralt had experienced because of the Tournament and wasn’t a reflection of any deficiencies he saw in Lambert's skills as a witcher. He’d all but given up on pointing out how irrational it was to be fine sending Lambert off to deal with wyverns or trolls, but getting all squirrelly when the younger witcher had to deal with a group of outlaws or bandits. Lambert supposed he was a soft touch because he didn’t like seeing how upset and anxious it made Geralt, and more often than not, he’d grumble, but put up with his brother’s idiotic attempts to keep him safe.  

Melitele helped him once his older brothers found out he’d been within a league of a damned Cat. Lambert would be lucky if Geralt and Eskel didn’t try to lock him in a tower under twenty-four-hour guard like some fairy tale maiden. Or worse, the White Wolf might assign Lambert as one of his personal guards as an excuse to cling to him like a barnacle. A counterproductive gambit, since the last time Geralt had tried it Lambert had almost strangled the Witcher King. The older witcher hadn’t relented until Lambert had sabotaged his hair oil with blackberries, dying the White Wolf’s distinctive white hair a ridiculous shade of purple for about a week.

Which is why they needed to take care of this situation with minimal fuss. Maybe when he presented Geralt with the Cat’s head, the older witcher would finally be able to relax. He knew Coën had wanted to let the Crane’s Neck squad handle capturing these intruders. And bored as Lambert had grown over the last few days, he saw the wisdom in his friend’s reasoning. He wasn't stupid. Much as they wished they could be self-sufficient, there simply weren’t enough witchers to secure the border alone. It was the entire reason they maintained these human forces. So making sure they were capable made sense.   

If these had been simple bandits, smugglers or even scouts coming in advance of an invasion or even a pogrom, it would have made sense to let Bert Waulden and his men take the lead. But a witcher was a whole different ball of wax. Kaedwen’s armed forces had spent close to a hundred years under the training and tutelage of the witcher schools. So Lambert would gladly put his money on them against any other forces in the Northern Kingdoms. 

Waulden and his men were under the Vulture’s care. That fucker could shoot a flea off of a gryphon from five hundred paces, and he was almost as good at potions as Lambert himself. Ucalt took a weird amount of pride in his pet soldiers, so Lambert had no doubt that the archers amongst them were all sharpshooters. The squad’s lone dwarf, Penti Kedna, was a foul-mouthed fucker and almost as skilled with bombs as Lambert himself. The Wolf witcher had taken a liking to him immediately and had spent a good few hours talking shop with the crotchety dwarf.

Lambert had no doubt they could easily handle the human below. Based on the horses and what he could make out of their camp, the man didn’t seem like the hardened sort. Maybe some rich fool who ran afoul of the law in Redenia and was trying to make a hasty escape. The Cat, though, was another matter. Lambert wasn’t about to let Waulden and his men deal with one of those vicious bastards. 

Quietly, he beckoned Waulden towards where he and Coën were lying in wait. Lambert would give Ucalt his due. His humans were quiet. Even with his enhanced senses, he barely heard the man approach. Lambert raised a finger to his lips, indicating the soldier should remain silent. Very slowly and deliberately, he pointed towards the men slumbering below them and mouthed the word witcher while holding up his wolf medallion for emphasis. Waulden’s eyes widened, but he nodded.

The human turned quickly, giving his men the signal to hold. Then pausing briefly, gave another signal letting the archers perched in the surrounding hills to stand at the ready. Lambert was almost upset he couldn't grunt in approval. He pointed at himself and Coën, then down at the Cat witcher. He then pointed at Waulden and then down at the sleeping human. Walden tilted his head in agreement. Coën and Lambert would handle the exiled witcher, and Waulden and his men would move in to apprehend the other traveller once they had the witcher distracted.

Lambert and Coën moved as one. They silently made their way into the valley below. Quiet as they had been, the Cat heard them coming and was on his feet, snarling sword at the ready before they’d even managed to draw their blades. The Cat circled, positioning himself between them and his companion's bedroll.

Lambert snarled, freeing his iron sword from its sheath and rounding on the man. He stepped forward, slashing down at the smaller witcher with his blade. The cat parried easily, dancing back and answering back with an attack of his own. 

Lambert dimly heard a yelp behind him, but paid it no mind, trusting Waulden and his men to subdue the other man. The men's horses, who'd begun to neigh unhappily when they had entered the valley, were now screaming with fright. 

Lambert answered the Cat's attack, noting that Coën had yet to join the fight. Damned Griffin. Of course, he would see them simultaneously attacking the other witcher as dishonourable.

The Cat was skilled, if a bit stiff. He’d always heard that witchers from the Cat School were light on their feet. This one was fast enough, Lambert supposed, but if he was honest, he felt a little disappointed. He guessed this was what came of spending years being glorified bodyguards. While the witchers of Kaer Morhem no longer walked the path in the traditional sense, they still went on hunts. Geralt and Vesemir had made sure of that, rotating which witchers were sent to deal with various infestations. Vessemir had always insisted it was important for them to maintain their skills. He’d have to tell the old man he was right. 

The dark-haired Cat blocked his latest thrust, stepping to the side as he raised his guard before sliding his blade along Lambert's and going for his throat. Lambert easily side-stepped his opponent. The fucker practically announced his every move.

“Stop,” a voice cried from behind him. Lambert ignored the man. Some rich Redenian, as he'd thought, based on the man's accent and diction. But it didn't matter. He had a Cat to kill. His opponent froze, and Lambert took the opportunity to attack. The Cat raised his blade a moment too late. He blocked Lambert's swing, but suffered a long gash along his arm. He shook his head and raised his blade in attack. 

“Please, we came here to find you,” the man behind him screamed. ”We don't mean you or the White Wolf any harm.”

“Your kitty cat doesn't seem to agree,” Lambert scoffed without looking back. 

“He's trying to protect me,” the young man pleaded. “Please… I can get him to stop. Just don't hurt him.”

“Lambert,” Coën interjected softly. Soft-hearted fool Griffin. 

“He knows damn well his kind isn't welcome here,” Lambert snarled, pressing on.

“Please, this is my fault, not his,” Lambert could hear the young man struggling with Waulden's men behind him. The man reeked of terror and despair. 

“The Cat knows the penalty for coming here,” Lambert snapped, unmoved. Swinging his blade at the Cat in a wide arc. His opponent blocked the block awkwardly. He was tiring, the cut on his sword arm bleeding freely. He needed to stop toying with this prick and end this.

“You don't understand. I made him come,” the other man yelled. 

“He seems like a big boy,” Lambert barked.

“He’s a slave,” the other man screamed. “We came here for sanctuary.”

“Lambert,” Coën warned him sternly. 

“Well, fuck,” Lambert muttered. Taking a large step back. The Cat made to move towards him, and Lambert raised his blade again. 

“Aiden, no,” the young man screamed. “Stand down.”

The sword dropped from the Cat’s hand with a thud, and he immediately fell to his knees. 

“Fuck,” Coën exclaimed next to Lambert. Lambert couldn't have said it better himself. 

Chapter 5

Notes:

Chapter Warning: This is Aiden's POV chapter. So most of the major warnings are for him.

Now that he’d been ordered to stand down, and was kneeling quietly with his sword lying uselessly in the dirt beside him, Aiden felt strangely calm. The idea of coming here, to Kaedwen, had been terrifying. He’d done his best to explain that he wouldn’t be safe here, that Cats were forbidden to enter the Witcher Nation under pain of death. But the enchantment didn’t allow him to speak freely. It only allowed him to answer the questions of whoever held the medallion as honestly and as directly as possible. He remembered that fucker Stregobor, patting his cheek, telling him that if their masters required information from them, they needed it quickly. They didn’t require the sounds of their slaves’ incessant prattling. So, while he’d managed to get through the idea that Kaedwen wasn’t safe to his new Master, he hadn’t been able to communicate much else. 

His dread had mounted with every mile closer to Kaedwen, knowing every step was bringing him closer to his doom. But wrapped in the enchantment's compulsion, he’d had no other option than to keep his eyes forward and move along obediently. Every fibre of his being had wanted to turn and run in the opposite direction, but he had helplessly, mindlessly had to obey the holder of his medallion, just like he had been forced to for the last eighty years.

It wasn’t even that his new Master, Jaskier, was cruel. He was a vast improvement on his last one. But then again, Vizimir wasn’t exactly a very high bar to clear. Sure, the kid would ultimately get them both killed, but at this point, Aiden wasn’t sure that would be so bad. A quick bit of pain and then it would finally be over. Even if the furious Wolf Witcher decided to twist his sword into Aiden’s guts so that he would bleed out as cruelly and slowly as possible, he would still be free comparatively soon. It’s not as though Aiden wasn’t accustomed to pain. 

He did feel a little bad for his young Master, though. I mean, he was a little thief, but it’s not as if Aiden felt any sort of loyalty to his previous masters. The boy held his medallion now, and it wasn’t his fault that Vizimir had been stupid enough to let the younger man steal it. And really, Vizimir had brought it on himself, with his little power trips. He’d likely still be on his knees in Tretogor, instead of at the edge of the Kestral Mountains, waiting to be run through, if the Redanian King hadn’t decided that it would be entertaining to order his pet to suck off his new court bard in the middle of his throne room.

Aiden knew Jaskier still felt bad about it, and he almost wished he could tell him that it was all right. He’d been made to do a lot worse things than give a blow job to a sweet, good-looking kid. At least Jaskier was clean. That hadn’t always been the case. There had been times when the men that Vizimier had ordered him to pleasure had nearly made him gag. Even so, using his mouth was usually preferable to the alternative, though that was a privilege the Redenian king generally reserved for himself. And that was just when Vizimir wasn’t feeling… creative. 

Redania’s king seemed to be equally enamoured and vexed with Aiden’s ability to heal. It allowed him to dole out an enormous amount of damage, without actually risking permanently injuring his pet witcher. Aiden’s suffering never seemed to last long enough for the King’s liking, though. It frustrated the man almost as much as Aiden’s inability to scream. So yeah, a quick blow job in front of an audience? That was nothing. He was long past humiliation and pride now.

He wished Jaskier had let the Wolf witcher kill him in combat, though. That would have been good. He’d been tiring and, without the ability to train regularly, his skills had dulled substantially. It wouldn’t have been much longer, especially after he'd taken a hit to his arm. Aiden thinks it might have been nice to die like a man, instead of like an animal, placidly waiting to be slaughtered. But he guessed it didn’t matter. Maybe they wouldn’t kill Jaskier. He dimly remembered the Wolves being against that sort of thing. 

It would be nice to have someone remember him… after. Even if it was just for a little while. Someone who didn’t just see him as a pet or a toy. Who didn’t just call him the Witcher, the Cat or the Beast? What’s your name? Aiden…

The kid had been so happy when they’d made it out of Redania. He was an idealistic fool, but Aiden wouldn’t deny that the last couple of weeks had been better than any since… well, since before. He’d gotten food and water regularly. And the bard had even thought to make sure he got to lie down at night. He’d allowed him to bathe a couple of times, and fuck, if he’d been able to speak, he would have offered the kid his mouth again for the privilege of washing Vizimir’s stench off him. 

Jaskier had even made sure to word his orders with care, at least after a thoughtless, “relax”, had nearly made Aiden pass out. He’d already been anxious when Jaskier had carelessly thrown the word over his shoulder. He’d tried to comply, but his frayed nerves had just fed his worry about what would happen if he was unable to obey, sending him into a panic, which the binding spell had bitterly punished him for.

At least Jaskier had been bright enough to figure it out. He had rescinded the order as quickly as he could. Apologizing profusely for being so stupid. By then, Aiden had known the bard hadn’t done it on purpose. Other masters had, in the past, they had given him orders they knew he wouldn’t be able to obey or asked questions he wouldn’t be able to answer, just to watch him squirm in pain. Be happy, Witcher… Be grateful, Pet… Why do you love me, Pet? But Jaskier had been so genuinely remorseful and guilty about the whole thing that Aiiden hadn’t been able to help feeling a tiny kernel of fondness for the kid.

He’d been aware of the men approaching them in the mountains. The scout, an elf if his scent was anything to go by, was good, whisper-quiet, but not silent enough to sneak up on a witcher. But the awareness had been a dim thing. Like knowing a surface was cool, or that the sky was blue and the grass was green. A piece of information that was there, but not anything Aiden was focused on. Without any immediate orders or threat to Jaskier, their presence hadn’t really meant anything.           

When the witchers and their men had finally breached their encampment, Aiden had felt the spell's irresistible pull to protect his Master, and everything had snapped back into focus. He’d risen to his feet and drawn his sword, and it had felt almost like being in control of his own body again. 

Protecting his Master or slaying a monster was the only time the spell relaxed a bit, allowing him the relative freedom to make small decisions. Allowing him not just to move his arm to parry an oncoming blow or to step back to avoid a beast's claws, but to decide to draw a dagger or cast a spell. It wasn’t like true freedom. Aiden wasn’t sure he even remembered what that felt like. But he imagined it felt lighter. Like he wasn’t constantly weighted down. But even restrained as he still was, it felt good to cross blades, to move at least somewhat of his own volition. He’d heard Jaskier speaking to the other witcher. But it had been faint like the sound of rain in the background. Until Jaskier had said the word, Stop. And Aiden had been rendered momentarily frozen in place. The Wolf witcher had attacked then, and Aiden had gotten control of his body just in time to raise his blade, avoiding a killing blow. The wolf's blade had torn into him, though, sending pain shooting along his sword arm. Aiden had ignored it. His Master was still at risk, and the command had been vague enough that he'd been able to continue the fight, especially once the other witcher had resumed his attack.

Then his Master had directed his voice specifically towards him. Aiden, no. Stand Down. Suddenly, his sword had fallen ledden from his grip and he’d collapsed to the ground. He stayed there prostrate, blood dripping down his arm, no longer able to intercede. 

He was dimly aware of Jaskier crying in the background. Things got muddled like this when Aiden didn’t have any active tasks. He wasn’t sure how to describe it. He was dimly aware of things going on around him, but everything was muffled. It was like he was watching the world from the bottom of a lake. Things only became crisp and clear again when his master commanded him. Or if his master was in danger. 

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, genuflecting in a daze, before the world suddenly sharpened again. 

“Cat,” the Wolf witcher, his new master, said, his large fist wrapped around Aiden’s medallion.  

Chapter 6

Jaskier struggled uselessly between the men holding him. Aiden had tried to tell him, with his limited vocabulary, that coming here was a terrible idea. Not Safe. Death. Even after he’d realized that Aiden was incapable of hyperbole, he still hadn’t listened. He’d been so arrogant and confident that if he could just talk to the Kaedwenian witchers, and if they just saw the way Aiden was forced to live that they could be made to understand. But the witcher who’d been fighting Aiden said the word Cat in the same tone people in Tretogor used when speaking about non-humans. Like it was something foul. Like Aiden was something vile.

Now, because of Jaskier’s self-delusions, Aiden had nearly been killed. He might still be ruthlessly put down by this angry cursing witcher. Lambert, the other black haired witcher, had called him. He still loomed near Aiden, blade glinting menacingly in the moonlight, sharp in his hand.

“Coën, keep an eye on this fucker,” Lambert spat, pointing his sword in Aiden’s general direction, before rounding on Jaskier. Intellectually, he'd always known what Aiden was, a mutant, designed for the express purpose of hunting and killing monsters. But he’d never felt menacing. He'd always been so placid and passive the entire time Jaskier had known him; it was easy to forget the dangerous predator that lay just beneath the surface.

Lambert, though, practically exuded menace and violence. It was terrifying, suddenly being the focus of those glaring slitted amber eyes. Jaskier felt frozen in place by that hard, inhuman gaze.

“You,” the furious witcher growled. “Explain yourself.”

“I…” Jaskier, who had never been at a loss for words in his life, just stammered. If the rhetoric professors from Oxenfurt could see him now, they’d demand he return his diploma.

“Perhaps, terrorizing our… guest... isn't the most conducive way of getting information,” the dark-haired witcher, presumably Coën, since he was the only one standing anywhere near Aiden, interjected.

“Shut it, feather-brain,” Lambert hissed angrily. Coën just turned and arched an unimpressed eyebrow, then turned halfway towards Jaskier. “I’m afraid that, as ill-tempered as my compatriot here is, he is correct, friend, we will need you to elaborate.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know,” the young man promised. “Just please don’t hurt him.”

“Who is he to you then?” Lambert demanded angrily. 

“No one,” Jaskier stuttered. It was the truth. He'd had no idea the tanned-skinned witcher even existed a few weeks ago. But the idea of abandoning him now after everything he'd seen, everything they'd been through? No. Jaskier squared his shoulder and met the angry witcher's gaze. “He's my responsibility.”

“Seems you managed to get yourself a fierce little protector, Cat,” Lambert snarled, turning his gaze back to Aiden. He scowled angrily when Aiden just remained silent at Coën's feet. “Nothing to say, Kitty? Going to let the little Lordling speak for you?”

“He couldn't answer you, even if he wanted to,” Jaskier sighed, exasperated. Not that the bard had noticed Aiden's predicament immediately. In retrospect, he felt like a dolt. It seemed so obvious now. The way Aiden had always stood utterly mute, unnaturally still, his expression vacant and empty, should have made it obvious that he wasn't in control of his own actions.

Even after Vizimir had ordered Aiden to suck him in the middle of his crowded throne room, as a welcome gift, Jaskier hadn't fully comprehended the horror of the mutant man's situation. That had somehow taken another three weeks. It hadn't been an especially noteworthy day, slightly cool and overcast, Jaskier remembers that much. Vizimir had been seeing supplicants that morning, affecting a bored expression. Aiden, as always, had been standing stonily on the dais just to the left of the throne, expressionless. A living statue meant to display the king’s power. 

Jaskier had watched in disgust as Vizimir had yawned dramatically when a villager from a small settlement north-east of Novigrad had pleaded for assistance dealing with a group of bandits who’d been terrorizing the place. Apparently, the rogues were being led by some sort of beast, who’d killed at least four men. Vizimir offered the man ten copper to put towards the formation of a militia and sent the sobbing man on his way, before pausing for his assembled courtiers to applaud his generosity. He’d turned to one of his councillors, Count Dijkstra, and commented on how taxing it was having to deal with every little village’s grievances. Dijkstra had merely nodded in commiseration, telling the King that he only had a few more supplicants to see that day.   

The King had managed to perk up when the Earl of Leomenca had appeared, bringing a tribute of two black stallions for his stables as well as a sturdy chest for the treasury. The plump aristocrat had bowed deeply, beseeching the King and asking for mercy for his people. It seemed a monster was raining terror down from the skies and had killed several little ones living amongst the Earl’s tenant farmers. Oh, and several very expensive purebred foals and a mare from his ranching operations. Vizimir, his palms sufficiently greased, had magnanimously agreed to deploy his witcher to see to the situation. Jaskier had watched the witcher stiffly walk out of the throne room, a slight hitch in his step.

Jaskier remembered stupidly thinking it was odd that Vizimir had sent his pet off alone, with no one to watch or mind him. He knew the witcher was under Vizimir’s control. He’d seen it after all, but surely his control couldn’t be that absolute. 

It had taken Aiden almost four days to return from his gruesome errand. When he’d walked back into the throne room, he’d been badly limping, there had been a large, nasty gash running down his right side, and his breathing had been visibly laboured, blood bubbling out of his mouth with each agonized breath. Vizimir, who’d been mid-conversation with his advisors, had waved him off to his usual spot at the foot of the dais. Aiden had wordlessly gone and taken his place and stood there shaking and injured for two and a half hours. Until Vizimir, finally upset by the increasing amounts of blood Aiden had begun coughing up, called for the court sorceress to come and heal him. 

When she’d arrived, she'd sighed, admonishing the King. There was only so much she could do with magic. He'd left the witcher with a punctured lung for goodness knew how long. She’d heal the witcher as best she could, but he’d need at least a couple of days of rest to recover, she’d groused. Vizimir had snapped that he needed her skill, not her counsel on how to manage his pet. If she wasn’t up to the task, perhaps they should reassess her place at court. The sorceress had shivered and proceeded to work on Aiden.

Jaskier had just stared at the witcher's blank face, feeling bile rise in his throat. The witcher had stood there quietly bleeding for what had had to be agonizing hours. Once the sorceress was done, leaving a still pale Aiden standing at the foot of the dais. Vizimir had grumbled, like his pet's injuries were a personal affront and ordered the witcher to retire to his chambers and lie on the pallet there. Aiden, of course, had just obediently started walking towards the door. Vizimir had coolly informed the witcher to enjoy his rest, because he would be taking the inconvenience out of his hide.

At that moment, Jaskier had realized two important things. The first was the absolute horror of the witcher's existence. The second, most important thing, he’d realized was that he could no longer idly stand by while the witcher was treated this way. Jaskier had resolved that day to get the witcher out of Redenia and away from Vizimir’s grasp, no matter what it took.

So it's not as though Jaskier has any right to blame Lambert for not immediately understanding what was happening to Aiden, but somehow, he did. He's irrationally angry at the strange witcher, at his obvious hatred for Aiden despite knowing nothing about him or the life he’d led. 

“Is it a physical injury or is he under some form of compulsion spell?” Coën asked, drawing Jaskier’s attention. Jaskier just stood looking at him open-mouthed.

“What now?”  Lambert huffed, crossing his arms and scowling.

“Lambert, you sliced his arm open, and he didn't make a sound,” Coën rolled his eyes. “You would have been cursing like a sailor. Even Vesemir or the White Wolf would have groaned or hissed.”

“Fair point,” Lambert shrugged. “So, which is it? What's got the kitty's tongue?”

“It's a spell,” Jaskier answered hesitantly, swallowing thickly. He no longer trusted the Kaedwenian witchers to care. He certainly no longer expected them to afford Aiden any sort of grace. But he feared they wouldn't hesitate to kill his companion if he failed to answer. 

“What kind of spell? Coën asked.

“I don't know,” Jaskier answered honestly. There was so much he didn't know about the magical bonds controlling Aiden. 

“You don't know what kind of spell controls your pet witcher?” Lambert scoffed. “You expect us to believe you have a slave, but have no idea how to control him?”

“He’s not my slave,” Jaskier snapped. Which was true from a legal sense, but wasn’t strictly speaking true from a magical one, from what little he did understand.

“You said you were seeking sanctuary from the White Wolf,” Coën interjected. “Are you aware that slavery is prohibited within Kaedwen?”

Jaskier hadn't known that. They knew perilously little about the Witcher Nation. He knew that the weather was harsh and the growing season was short. Before the Warlord of the North had overthrown King Radowit II and usurped the throne for himself, their main exports had been furs, ore and timber from their vast northern woodlands. And it had once housed a boys’ magical academy, rival to Aretuza, at Ban Ard. 

But aside from the fact that the country was controlled by an army of witchers, led by the White Wolf, Geralt of Kaedwen, and that the seat of power had been transferred from Ard Carraigh to the ancient witcher keep of Kaer Morhen, the ancestral home of the Wolf School, Jaskier knew perilously little about modern day Kaedwen or its laws. So he shook his head. 

“So if he’s not your slave, who did you "liberate” him from?” Lambert grinned, showing teeth. 

Jaskier took a deep breath and sighed. “Vizimir.”

Lambert and Coën just stared at him, slack-jawed. Coën just shook his head and then closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. Lambert burst out laughing. 

“You’re telling us that you stole the King of Redenia’s personal slave,” the witcher just snickered. Jaskier just nodded numbly. Lambert stopped laughing. “You stole the King of fucking Redenia’s slave and smuggled him into Kaedwen?”

“Yes,” Jaskier ventured unhelpfully. 

“Fuck…” Lambert cursed. “You just what? Walked him out of the palace?”

“More or less?” Jaskier agreed. 

“How did you make it past the guards?” Coën asked, turning his full attention back to Aiden, who of course hadn’t moved.

“We made our way through the palace separately,” Jaskier answered honestly. It had been harrowing, but he’d known that walking around the palace with Aiden would draw far more attention than sending him off to the stables alone. Aiden going off on some little errand for the King wasn’t all that unusual a sight, so he’d ordered the witcher to meet him outside the stables in the middle of the night. The palace guards, so used to Aiden's unflinching obedience to Vizimir, hadn’t even thought to stop him.

“And he just went along with this?” Lambert sneered. “Did you dangle a ball of yarn in front of him?”

“Lambert,” Coën snapped. “How did you wrestle control from Vizimir?” 

“I may have drugged him,” Jaskier confessed. “I charmed a housemaid into slipping a sleeping draught into the bottle of brandy in his chambers.”

“Melitele's tits,” Lambert muttered. “Has to be more to it than just that. How did you seize control of him then?”

Jaskier closed his eyes. This was it. Once they knew this… What other choice did he have, though? He sighed, reaching into his doublet and pulling out the silver cat amulet. “With this. Whoever possesses this holds complete control over him. Once Vizimir had passed out, I slipped it off his neck.”

“How did you know this?” Coën asked, staring at the medallion in utter horror. Jaskier's eyes couldn't help but drift to the similar pendant hanging around the dark-haired witcher’s neck.

“Vizimir used it in front of me,” Jaskier answered uncomfortably. 

“Used it how? I thought you said he had to obey whoever wears it,” Lambert asked suspiciously.

“He does,” Jaskier agreed. “But… If you physically hold it and ask him questions, he’s compelled to answer them. Vizimir liked making him do that.”  

It was an understatement. Vizimir liked asking Aiden personal, humiliating questions. Sometimes, he liked using Aiden’s inability to lie to humiliate others. 

Does Lord Cedrick have a smaller prick than most of my men? 

Yes. 

I’ve heard tell he tastes quite nasty. Is that true, Pet?

Yes.

“So he can speak.” Coën tapped his lower lip in thought. 

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded, “A little bit. He can only answer direct questions.”

“Good to know,” Lambert huffed, stomping over to Jaskier and unceremoniously yanking the silver chain and medallion off his neck.

“Lambert,” Coën rolled his eyes. “It didn’t occur to you to wait for Yen or Triss to check that?”

“He’s being truthful,” Lambert shrugged, examining the medallion. “For the most part, at any rate. Besides, this entire carrot and stick routine was getting played out.”

Coën just shook his head again, turning to Jaskier's guards. “Bind him. Then secure the area.” He turned back to his companion. “Now what?”

“Now, we get some answers,” Lambert grinned viciously, and it sent a chill up Jaskier’s spine. He sheathed his sword and turned his back on Jaskier, walking over to Aiden, the medallion gripped firmly in his fist. 

“Cat,” he greeted, staring down at Aiden. Aiden’s green eyes snapped to the angry witcher’s face. 

 

Chapter 7

Notes:

Another chapter posted with the phone so will likely make corrections later.

Bright green eyes snapped to him. Lambert had never seen eyes quite that colour, even on a witcher. They were a deep, vibrant green like leaves at the height of summer on a warm, sunny day. The Cat kneeling at his feet had a slighter build than a Wolf or Bear, but shorter than one of those absurdly lanky Cranes. He was also objectively quite attractive for a witcher. Not completely unmarred, none of their kind were. He has a scar running down the right side of his cheek, but it didn't detract from his appearance. Nor did the small scar bisecting his left eyebrow. The other witcher had tanned skin and long, dark brown, almost black hair which fell to the middle of his back in tight curls. Lambert might have mistaken him for one of the Manticores, if not for those distinctive eyes. 

Lambert, whom Eskel had often accused of having no tact and whom Vesemir had frequently admonished to perhaps let his thoughts filter through his brain for a couple of damned moments before letting his mouth unleash them into the world, said the first thing that popped into his head. “You're a pretty thing for a witcher, what did old Vizimir keep you around as a bed warmer?”

“Yes,” the Cat answered tonelessly. Well, fuck. That was… Well, the lordling, who was currently being dragged off by Waulden and his men, had said the medallion compelled him to answer. But still.

“He had a witcher for a slave, and he just used him for sex?” Lambert sneered, not really addressing the question to anyone specific. 

“No,” the Cat answered anyway in the same monotone way he had before. 

“What else did he use you for then?” Lambert asked, not even sure he wanted to know. 

“Hunt, kill, hurt, steal…” The Cat answered flatly. It was like having a conversation with a hungover Geralt, only with less grunting and groaning. With years of experience speaking to his monosyllabic brother, he was able to parse out quite a bit.

“He used you for assassinations, to rough up and steal from his enemies and sent you on the occasional monster hunt?” Lambert clarified.

“Yes,” the Cat confirmed. The exile didn't seem to feel anything about it one way or another, which was bizarre. Lambert would have expected some sort of distress. The little Lordling had practically reeked of fear.

“You're a man of few words, Kitty Cat,” Lambert shook his head. The other witcher didn't respond. 

“We should find out how long Vizimir has had him,” Coën prompted.Yeah, fuck Coën was right.

“Well?” Lambert growled in exasperation when the Cat stayed silent.

“If I understood his companion's explanation correctly, he can only answer questions from the person holding his medallion,” Coën sniffed, clearly finding the entire idea distasteful. 

“Well, that isn't very fucking convenient,” Lambert groused. 

“Perhaps, not,” Coën shrugged. “But it would very effectively prevent him from spilling his owner's secrets if captured.”

“I suppose,” Lambert grumbled. If the Redanian King used the cat as an assassin, he wouldn't be able to spill any information if captured. Even if tortured. ”Still seems like more of a nuisance than it would be worth. Alright, Cat, how long did you belong to your last master?”

“Nineteen days,” The Cat answered. That was it? That didn’t make sense. It would have taken him and the kid that long just to cross… Oh, for….

“How long did you belong to King Vizimir?” Lambert asked. Secrecy be damned. There was no way this was worth it.

“Twenty three years,” The Cat replied. That was a long as Vizimir had been… Damnit.

“Was Vizimir your first… Master?” Lambert asked, rubbing his eyes.

“No,” The Cat answered. Lambert was never calling his brother monosyllabic again. Getting information out of this prick was like pulling teeth. Even when Geralt grunted in response he subtly gave more information than this 

“How long have you been enslaved?” Lambert asked. Apparently he needed to be specific in his questioning.

“Eighty one years.” the Cat responded woodenly. Sweet Melitele. Eight decades stuck this way. Lambert nearly felt sorry for the poor bastard.

“Are you the only Cat the Redenians have enslaved?” Lambert swallowed. Fuck if this was an isolated incident it would…. Still be really bad, but if this was something more pervasive.

“No,” the Cat answered. Well Fuck. Of course this wasn't just the work of some rogue mage who’d gotten lucky. Fuck…

“Wow many more of your brothers are slaves?” Lambert asked. Not that he especially cared what happened to those traitorous cunts, but they needed to get an idea of the scope of this mess. The Cat didn't answer. He didn't move, didn't so much as twitch, but his heart rate suddenly picked up, as did his breathing. 

“Well?” Lambert tapped his foot impatiently, but the Cat remained frustratingly uncooperative. The kneeling witcher's breathing noticeably picked up, turning into noisy little pants. His scent turned sour with pain. “Kitty Cat?”

Wet eyes refocused on him, the shine making them glassy, but still the Cat said nothing. His heart was thumping fast. Too fast. If Lambert hadn't known, couldn't see that he was a witcher, he would have assumed the heartbeat belonged to a human.

“Why are you fighting answering?” Lambert asked squatting down so he was no longer looming over the smaller witcher. Now that he was closer, he could see that the Cat was shaking ever so slightly. “It’s obviously hurting you to do so.”

The Cat opened his mouth to answer, but only a strangled gasp came out. With apparent difficulty, the other witcher shook his head from side to side. Lambert dimly heard a muffled commotion from several feet away. The lordling whom Walden's men had thrust up and gagged was making a racket in the background.

“No, you won't answer?” Lambert pressed. He could see small beads of sweat forming along the other witcher”s hairline. The Cat let out another little strangled noise and shook his head. 

It was the Cat’s funeral. He was obviously hurting himself. Why he’d want it to keep information about the Cat school a secret after his brothers had left him in captivity for eighty years. What he knew probably wasn't even, up to…. Fucking donkey balls.

“No, you can't answer?” Lambert asked, tilting his head towards the sky and releasing a deep breath. He almost missed the Cat’s strangled nod. 

“Because you don't know the specific information I asked for?” Lambert guessed. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin, when the Cat whispered a garbled.”Yes.”

“Alright fair enough,” Lambert grumbled, noting the Cat’s breathing beginning to even out and his heart rate returning to normal. Well, this complicated things. He didn't especially care about the Cat's comfort, but it would make getting information difficult if he had a fit every time he couldn't answer a question.

“Are you not able to just say I don’t know?” Lambert asked.

“No,” the Cat answered. It had become fairly obvious by this point. The cat had continued to show signs of pain until Lambert had guessed the right answer. Even though there was no love lost between his school and the Cats, Lambert couldn't help but feel the restriction was needlessly cruel.

“Do you know if it's more than five?” Lambert ventured. If he was honest he didn't know how many of the exiles had actually survived the Tournament or if they'd managed to create more witchers following that debacle.

“No,” the Cat replied. There had to be an easier way.

“Are you aware of any Cat witchers who are still free and operating in Redania?” Lambert asked. That should be specific enough. Either the cat did or didn't.

“No,” the Cat answered dully. Okay so if he wasn’t the only witcher slave and the Cat wasn’t aware of any free witchers, that probably meant the Redanians enslaved any witcher who entered their lands. That was bad. 

“We need to let Geralt know about this,” he said, turning to Coën.

“Indeed,” Coën agreed. Then he tilted his head towards the kneeling witcher. “But, what do we do about him?”

“You know, what we're supposed to do,” Lambert growled. He knew the idea would make Coën uneasy. In truth it made Lambert's guts churn angrily. 

It had been one thing when that fucker Brehen had snuck into Kaedwen almost fifty years ago set on assasinating Geralt. He'd had no  qualms watching his brother put that bastard down. Though given recent revelations, the Cat witcher's venomous last words made a nauseating amount of sense now.

You're all fine leaving us to suffer. While you and yours are safe and warm behind Kaer Morhen's walls. Hiding from the world like a bunch of craven cowards. Deciding your Witcher Nation is only for the good and the just. Never giving a second thought to those you exiled from its borders. Right damned hypocrites. Hope you get exactly what's coming to you.

But this new Cat was just kneeling there, bleeding from the cut Lambert had inflicted earlier. If the Lordling was telling the truth and Lambert had no reason to believe he wasn’t, then the Cat hadn’t violated the banishment of his own volition. 

“Yes, but your brother also guaranteed amnesty to any slaves fleeing persecution,” Coën pointed out.

“He didn't technically ask,” Lambert grumbled.

“His companion asked on his behalf,” Coën pointed out. 

“I suppose,” Lambert conceded. “Fuck, it doesn't really matter does it.?”

“Hmmm,” Coën asked.

“We can't have the Redanians walking around with the means to magically enslave witchers,” Lambert groused. 

“No, we cannot,” Coën agreed.

“I don't know what I was thinking,” Lambert lamented. “That crazy witch would have both our balls roasted and served in a pepper sauce if she found out we knew about this and didn't bring him to her.”

Coën made a face at the imagery, but didn't disagree. Sighing, the other witcher walks away and begins rummaging through his pack. Finally, he turns holding a little ornate box. Of course, he was. 

Lambert should have known Geralt would send him all the way out here without a quick means of retrieving him. Well, he'd be able to give Geralt a piece of his mind soon enough. 

“What are you waiting for,” he asked, gesturing towards the Xenovox. “Call the witch.”

Chapter 8

Notes:

Sorry for the delay took some time to work some things out.

Yennefer, like most people born outside of Kaedwen, had grown up on tales of the beastly witcher army of the north. They were savage creatures barely kept at bay by the fearsome fighting men of Aedirn. They would, in turn, steal children from their beds, cause farmers' crops to fail and were responsible for the holes in your socks. 

They were inhuman, unfeeling monsters strong as ten men, with fangs and slitted demonic eyes. Janka had been terrified of one of them snatching her from her bed. The most nightmarish of all of them had been the White Wolf. He was said to be the strongest and most bloodthirsty of the witchers, a creature mad with power and hate, set on butchering all of mankind. 

When Yennefer had first seen an actual witcher in the flesh, she'd been fresh out of Aretuza. By then, she'd known they were merely men, enhanced and twisted by magic certainly, but still at their core men. The witcher had been a much smaller man than she would have expected, but he'd had a cruel, bitter edge to him which had filled her with unease. 

The next witcher she'd met had been far less intimidating. He'd been a handsome man with auburn hair, a spattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose and bright apple green slitted eyes. He'd flirted with her, but it had been almost perfunctory. Yennefer had gotten the distinct impression that he felt uneasy around her and was eager to be out of her presence. The next day, he'd vanished without a word to anyone. The nobles she'd been staying with had been quite miffed.

Witchers had always been an unfortunate necessity, they’d said. Very nearly as troublesome as some of the creatures they hunted. Ever since that upstart in Kaedwen had decided to get ideas above his station, things had only gotten worse, the old lord had told her. The few witchers that travelled to Aedirn weren’t at all reliable. Though if he was honest, he’d told her, if it hadn’t been for the Cockatrice that had been pestering their farmers, they would never have welcomed the damnable creature into their lands. Now that there were so few of them, the Lord complained that these witchers demanded exorbitant sums, exploiting poor, honest souls who had no choice but to deal with them.

Yennefer hadn’t mentioned that while the rotund lord certainly hadn’t appeared to have missed any meals of late, the witcher certainly hadn’t seemed to have been living a life of leisure. He’d been on the thinner side, and his armour, while well-maintained, had shown clear signs of wear. Yennefer got the distinct impression that once his query had been slain, the witcher would no longer have been welcome on the man’s lands, promised purse for the contract or no. Which is likely why the Cat witcher had decided to just cut his losses.

It hadn’t taken very many more years for Yennefer to sympathize with the witcher. Things had progressively gotten worse and worse for the magic users on the continent. A sect out of Novigrad was making inroads through the rest of the continent. With more and more beasts beginning to filter into populated areas and not enough monster hunters left to keep the population under control, anti-human sentiment had begun to grow, and old prejudices had started to fester. Yennefer, who was both a magic user and had elven blood, had been twice damned. 

She and Triss had very nearly ended up being lynched in Novigrad. They’d only escaped with their skins intact by the use of magic, which hadn’t been strictly legal. But when faced with the prospect of a furious mob, the magistrates of Novigrad could burn as far as Yen was concerned. 

It had unfortunately resulted in her and Triss Merigold becoming wanted women. Triss, who, despite her flaming hair, had less memorable features than Yen, with her violet eyes, had, after weeks of hiding in basements, managed to pay some less than savoury individuals to smuggle the pair of them out of Redenia. 

They had been aiming for Temeria, hoping to make their way home to Aretuza, but had ended up being delivered to the White Wolf's doorstep instead. Or at the very least to Ban Gleán, where a large, dark-haired witcher wearing a medallion with the roaring head of a bear had stared down at them and started cussing. 

The witcher, whom Yennefer would eventually come to learn was named Gerd, had left in a huff, swearing under his breath about not being a sodding customs officer as he went. He'd eventually been replaced with a witcher, who had bowed to them and introduced himself as Raven. He'd then ever so politely inquired as to their business in Kaedwen 

Triss had taken one look at the witcher’s Griffin medallion and given the witcher a frankly ridiculous courtesy and begged the witcher's protection, explaining that they were refugees in need of the White Wolf's sanctuary as though they were helpless storybook maidens. It apparently had been the right gambit. Because the next thing they'd known, said witcher had been escorting them to Kaer Morhen.

The White Wolf, Geralt of Kaedwen, hadn't been what Yennefer had been expecting. He was a massive man, true, far more in line with what she’d always thought a witcher to be. He was attractive, in a lumbering sort of way, with a quiet and imposing presence. The only thing that had truly lived up to the stories Yennefer had heard as a child was the witcher king's snowy white hair.

There had been some mistrust at first, but eventually and despite Triss's nearly instantly acrimonious relationship with Geralt's foul-mouthed brother Lambert, they had quickly become valued members of the Warlord of the North's court. 

Which was fortunate, because it hadn't taken Yen long to figure out that while Geralt might be a fine general and warlord, as a king and ruler, he was utterly hopeless. Meletelei only knew what would have happened if she and Triss hadn't shown up to save the idiot from himself. 

Which she supposed wasn’t fair, Geralt hadn’t actually sought out the throne when he’d marshalled the witcher school together or even when they'd marched on Ard Carraigh. He'd just wanted to put down the man responsible for the death of so many of his brothers. The fact that the ensuing power vacuum would destabilize Kaedwen hadn’t even occurred to Geralt. Frankly, they were all lucky that what had been left of Kaedwen’s government, following the Witcher Uprising, had been cowards and had almost immediately capitulated after Geralt had slain Radowit.

It wasn’t that Geralt wasn't intelligent. He wouldn't have survived all he had if he didn’t possess a keen mind. Rather, it's that politics and court intrigue were not part of a young witcher's education. The Wolf School, in particular, had always made it a point of pride not to involve itself in the affairs of men. A habit she and Letho had been trying to break the man of for going on fifty years.

Sometimes, Yennefer privately thought things might have been easier if someone more politically minded, like Letho, had been at the head of the witcher army. But Letho himself had once pointed out the very things that made him a savvy operator would have made him ill-suited for the role. No, he’d told Yennefer all had worked out as it should. The White Wolf had been and still was the figurehead they needed. A man who could inspire others. He and his Vipers operated best in the shadows. Besides, someone had to protect Geralt, even occasionally, from himself. And that the huge Viper had grinned was a role they were both uniquely suited to.

At the very least, Geralt was smart enough to realize where his gifts lay. More importantly, he was wise enough to surround himself with people who were gifted in areas where he was deficient and to seek counsel from those people. He didn’t always heed their counsel, but he always listened and took it under serious consideration before coming to a decision.

Case in point, Yennefer. Geralt knew his expertise didn’t lie in politics. But he’d walked the path long enough to know that the sorceresses of Aretuza had been advising the kings of the north for years. He also knew that, given the current anti-human sentiment, Yennifer was unlikely to opt to leave Kaedwen anytime soon. So he’d given her a spot on his council as an advisor. 

That had been nearly half a century ago. If Yennefer hadn't already been well and truly settled as a sorceress in the White Wolf's court, the arrival of Geralt’s ward certainly would have cemented her as a Kaedwenian. When the Lioness of Cintra had realized they would not be able to hold off the Nilfgaardian forces banging at their gates, she’d instructed her court mage, Mousesack, to spirit her only granddaughter and heir, Cirilla, to safety. Mousesack, who had once saved Geralt's life, fled with the girl to Kaedwen. The moment little Ciri had arrived, all the missing pieces of Yennefer’s tattered soul had slid back into place. And with Geralt already considering making Ciri his heir, as well as Calanthe’s, well, Yennefer knew she would defend Kaedwen and its royal family with everything she had.

At the moment, this included going over the initial proposals from Temeria and Aedirn with a fine-tooth comb. Eskel, Vesemir, and Letho were all doing the same with their copies of the documents she knew. But she and the Viper were the most likely to spot any traps. 

Her reading was interrupted by a buzzing sound, coming from an ornately carved box on her desk. She flipped open the lid distractedly. And jumped when a voice she wasn’t expecting boomed into the room. 

“Witch, we need you here,” Lambert groused. “I’m not going to get into the entire fucking thing, but it’s urgent. Fate of the realm, urgent. So get your shapely backside over to Beeches as soon as you can.”

Notes:

Had a bit of a struggle figuring out how to get Yennefer to Kaedwen, considering I have the witchers there for decades. So Geralt wouldn't have been in Rinde to meet her. Considered just making her older and having them meet before the tournament, but I'm glad with how this turned out.

The other struggle was if they did reach Kaedwen later, how would Triss and Yennefer not know? I finally decided that the capture and subjugation of the witchers would have been a gradual process. Aiden was one of the first captured. But it would take time for things to spread across the continent and for all of the cats to be killed or captured (or possibly to escape) and for the practice to become public and accepted, Triss and Yen fled before this occurred.