Chapter Text
Eskel very nearly loses his last scraps of composure when the noblewomen are herded into the great hall and Marta de fucking Roggeven draws herself up imperiously and demands to know by what right he has been so unforgiveably rude to such important persons as herself and the Princess Agata?
“By what right?” Eskel snarls, stalking closer to loom over her. The fear-scent from the gathered ladies grows a lot stronger all at once. Good. They can remember why, precisely, Witchers are fucking well feared.
“I am the right hand of the Warlord of the North,” he says, soft and cruel. “And Princess Agata is lucky she wasn’t gutted and hung from the battlements, my lady. She took a knife to our bard, you see, and if he’d died, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now, I’d be helping sack Vizima. Frankly, I’d prefer that, but here I am instead.”
“Jaskier?” someone asks, in tones of great distress, and Eskel looks away from Marta de Roggeven to see her sister has her hands clasped in front of her chest, eyes wide and full of tears. “She hurt Jaskier? Is he alright?”
Huh. She smells genuinely worried.
“He’ll live,” Eskel growls, and Milena’s shoulders sag in relief. “But we are done with this nonsense. None of you will ever win the Wolf.” He glares at each of the remaining husband-hunters in turn, and is bitterly pleased when they flinch from his eyes. “And you have worn out our patience. If any of you actually want to stay, you can swear yourself to the Wolf - and I will know if you swear falsely. So will they.” He gestures at the Witchers gathered around their little group, all of them glaring, all of them armed. “If you cannot swear, then get you gone. If you’re not out the gates within the hour, I will fucking well throw you out myself, and I will not be careful how you land.”
Marta de Roggeven goes white; the two countesses go an interesting shade of green. Their ladies-in-waiting clutch at their hands, drawing the countesses away towards the hall doors, looking panicked and desperate and very ready to be gone from Kaer Morhen.
Milena de Roggeven glances at her sister; glances at Eskel; swallows hard.
Eskel doesn’t want to say anything. He wants them gone, all of them, these greedy noble bitches who want nothing but power and don’t care who they hurt along the way, who look at Ciri like an obstacle and Jaskier like an enemy and Geralt like a prize to be won. But. To be fair.
He doesn’t want to be fair.
He promised Jaskier.
To be fair, Milena de Roggeven is Jaskier’s friend. Is utterly uninterested in wooing Geralt. Is fond of Lambert, of all the Witchers she could have chosen to adore.
“Milena,” he says, and her head comes up and she meets his eyes with only a bit of a flinch. “Jaskier spoke well of you.” He can’t quite bring himself to encourage her, not now, but - well. He promised. He also can’t bear to think of telling Jaskier he drove away a girl who might be Jaskier’s friend.
Milena glances at her sister again. Her sister glares, and twitches her skirt, a clear beckoning gesture. “We are leaving,” Marta de Roggeven hisses. “Move.”
Milena de Roggeven takes a deep breath and sinks to her knees in front of Eskel. “I would swear to the Wolf,” she says, voice shaky but clear. Her sister draws in a sharp breath to yell, and strangles the sound in her own throat when Eskel snarls at her.
“Go on,” he says to Milena.
He’s not quite sure what he expects. Witchers don’t swear fealty, really; they acknowledge Geralt as their leader, but in actions more than words. The closest he’s ever heard to an oath is the chorus of “White Wolf” that greets Geralt’s commands. Jaskier never really swore formally; his words to his father were oath enough, with the truth ringing through them like a bell.
So Eskel is a little taken aback when Milena says, “I beg you bear witness, Witchers all, and you who are the Wolf’s right hand: I swear upon my life that I will be faithful to the White Wolf, Warlord of the North, never cause harm to him nor to those under his protection, and will observe my homage to him completely and without deceit.”
There’s a long moment when Eskel - and, he’s willing to lay good money, every other Witcher in the hall - is just...completely speechless with surprise. It’s not just the words, though those were startling enough. It’s the truth in them, clear as a mountain stream.
He honestly didn’t think she could swear, not truly. He didn’t think any of these pampered noblewomen would be able to genuinely give their loyalty to the Warlord of the North. But he trusts his own nose, and his own ears; and the other Witchers are all looking just as startled as he is. Gascaden catches his eye and gives a tiny shrug and a nod: he heard it, too.
“In the Wolf’s name I accept your fealty,” Eskel says, slightly boggled at his own words, and jerks his head at Gascaden. “Take her down to the Wolf’s rooms, she can sit with the bard,” he orders quietly, and turns to the other noblewomen. “Well? Stop sputtering and get gone.”
Marta de Roggeven squeaks and flees - not running, but walking very fast - with the rest of the little cluster of noblewomen on her heels. Gascaden offers Milena a hand up and ushers her away; she looks - and smells - rather astonished at her own daring, but Eskel is also fairly astonished, so that’s fair.
Most of the Witchers follow the noblewomen to make sure they do nothing but gather their baggage and their guards and leave. Eskel leans back against the high table and waits, taking comfort in this brief moment of quiet between crises.
Huh. A noblewoman sworn to the Wolf. Eskel has no fucking idea what to do with her, but with luck, Jaskier will already have a plan. Worst comes to worst, they can just seat her next to Lambert at supper and enjoy watching the poor asshole completely fail to flirt. Or maybe Triss needs an assistant, or...they’ll come up with something.
One random noblewoman, and one who has her eye on Lambert not Geralt, can’t possibly be more trouble than the whole pack of husband-hunters were. Might even be useful, somehow. Who knows? If nothing else, having a friend around will make Jaskier happy. That’s worth a little hassle.
Once the noblewomen are gone, he should go look in on Triss, make sure she’s really fine, and check to see if the corridor’s been scrubbed down - Yen magicked it, but having someone go over it with a soapy brush will make Eskel feel better - and thank Jan for keeping his wits about him, and then -
Then maybe he can just sit here and meditate until Geralt gets back.
Look at him being all practical and sensible and shit. Eskel snorts softly. Geralt owes him a drink. Possibly many drinks. If he’d known how much trouble being the Warlord’s right hand was going to be, years ago when he claimed the title…
Well, he’d still have done it. He’d do it again today, knowing everything he knows. He’ll be at Geralt’s side until death, and thank the gods that he’s been lucky enough to spend his life at the White Wolf’s side.
But Geralt definitely owes him something like a fucking barrel of mead.