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There were certain things in Jaskier's life that fell prey to exceptionally high standards. His students at Oxenfurt, the wine in Toussaint, or the longevity of the colours of his doublets to name a few examples. But all of them were dwarfed by the looming shadow that was the ruin of Kaer Morhen.
But honestly, who could blame him? Everyone knew he had a soft spot for history and legends, he was a bard after all. And what was Kaer Morhen but the decaying visualisation of said stories? What were witchers but living and breathing ballads and epics?
He vividly remembered his days in Lettenhove when his tutor had first mentioned the ancient castle that was now crumbling beneath the crushing burden of centuries, still defiant even after being sacked nearly a century prior, but rotting. The waves of time lapped at its foundations and soon it would see its end, consumed by the ocean of the ages that eventually wore down everything created by humankind. That evening he had stolen the tome his tutor used to torture him and practically inhaled the section about Kaer Morhen.
And then he had met Geralt — of course he had met Geralt, of all witchers, who suffered from selective muteness whenever he tried to ask him about his childhood. The little information he had been able to glean had barely been enough to conjure up an even more grandiose image than before.
In his dreams Kaer Morhen was an enchanted fortress, frozen in time and ice and snow. It was cloaked in an eerie charm, abrasive and inviting at once. Maybe there were even some vines encapsuling it in a thorny coffin, like in that fairy tale he had been told as a child. In any case it was majestic. Monumental. Mind-blowingly magnificent, even.
He had never experienced a worse disappointment in his entire life. Alright, maybe he wasn't quite fair to the damp old thing, but after weeks of freezing his balls off while traipsing through the late autumn Kaedwen mountains he really shouldn't be blamed.
Despite Geralt equipping him with a whole new wardrobe fit for a winter up-north both of them had arrived shivering and soggy. Never in his life had he been more thankful for a bed with scratchy furs and lumpy pillows.
Since then a week had passed, but he hadn't quite forgiven the castle of his dreams, the frankly heinous journey it preceded yet. Not only was Geralt's home in the middle of fucking nowhere, it was also icy and drafty and, on a bad day, even snowy.
Jaskier had known, of course, that Kaer Morhen was a ruin. He just hadn't imagined it quite so... ruined, if he was honest. Nor had he imagined himself being tasked with aiding in the never-ending string of repairs that appeared to fill the majority of the winter days for the four remaining witchers of the wolf school and Coen, the last of the griffins. 'Oh, that's a title for the songs,' he thought as he handed Geralt a hammer.
"Are you alright?" the witcher asked from somewhere above him, where he was fixing a broken beam of the truss.
"Who, me?" Jaskier answered and tucked his frigid fingers into his armpits. "Of course, why are you asking?"
There was an alarming creak from above followed by the CLANG CLANG CLANG of a hammer. "Because I can hear your jittering from here. Are you dressed warm enough?"
He scoffed. "Who are you? My mother?"
The hammering stopped. "Well, are you?"
Jaskier couldn't help but smile. "Yes, Geralt. I'm a good lad who's wearing his undershirt, knitted sweater and lined gloves."
"And the woollen hose Vesemir gave you?"
"And the woollen hose Vesemir gave me."
"Good. Let's go back, it's getting late." There was some shuffling that meant Geralt was packing up. Moments later he dropped out of the rafters to land before Jaskier.
"Gracious gods!" he squealed and leapt back. "Geralt, you know I hate it when you do that!"
"I know," he said with a smile and began walking down the hall, "and you know that you mustn't get sick here. There's only so much we can do about pneumonia up here."
"Hmph," he answered and hurried after him, "I'm trying. Which is why you don't see me complaining."
Geralt shot him a condescending look.
"Alright, alright," he amended generously, "I'm only complaining a little. But honestly, why didn't you tell me I'd freeze my buttocks to the benches if I sit down too long?"
He snorted a laugh. After a short pause, he added solemnly: "I thought you wouldn't want to come, then."
"Not want to come? Have you listened to a word I've said since meeting you? I mean, of course you haven't, that's a rhetorical question, darling, but still. I've wanted to come here since... forever! And even if you'd told me, do you seriously think I'd have listened? Don't be ridiculous, I never listen to your warnings."
"True," Geralt agreed. "Still, no one comes to Kaer Morhen on their own volition."
"Do I look like no one to you?"
He squinted at him to size him up. "Hmm."
Jaskier laughed and punched his shoulder. "Arsehole."
"Perhaps I am," Geralt answered with a sly smile.
"Probably you are."
"Maybe."
"Definitely!"
The witcher pouted, which, quite frankly, looked ridiculous. "Don't be mean, Jaskier. You're a guest, after all."
"Ugh," he said and rolled his eyes, "fine."
"Fine," Geralt agreed and opened the door to the Great Hall. It was the only room in the whole fucking keep that was reasonably warm, so Jaskier felt confident to remove at least one layer of clothing while Geralt put his tools away. He was in the process of folding his sweater, when he spotted Lambert and Eskel in the corner, tightly curled up against each other.
"Oh, uh, Geralt?" he whispered.
"Hmm?"
"Your, umm, your brothers. Should we better leave?"
"Bard," Lambert answered, "you know that we can fucking hear you, right?"
"Right!" he answered quickly. "Sorry. Geralt?"
But his witcher was already on his way to the two of them. Once he reached the layer of furs and carpets that blanketed the floor, he stripped his boots and sweater and flopped down unceremoniously on top of them.
Jaskier couldn't help but stare. Not for long of course, no stares could go unnoticed for long when it came to witchers, but still.
Eskel raised his head with an amused smile: "What? You won't join us?"
"So, that's how you keep warm!" the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "I was already wondering how all of you survived these winters as children."
The three witchers shared an awkward gaze. "Not all of us," Eskel answered.
"Oh," Jaskier said. 'Oh shit,' he thought. "Well, uhmm, I'm leaving, then. Yup, that's me. Leaving this room. Sorry. Again. Or for the first time. Have a nice evening!"
"Jaskier," Geralt growled and lifted his head from Lambert's back, "don't be an arse."
"Oh, uhmm, I'm trying not to be," he laughed nervously. "Well, you know me. I'm always trying. Sometimes I'm even successful. Yay..." He was suddenly feeling much too warm, despite the freezing temperatures.
"Then stop fussing and get the fuck over hear," Lambert grumbled. "I won't listen to Geralt's bitchin' for another evening. Fifteen winters is more than fucking enough."
"Mhmm," Eskel agreed and yawned noisily. "Fifteen years of 'Ohh, Jaskier gives the best hugs' and 'He smells so nice'. Wouldn't shut up about you..."
"Excuse me?" he squeaked undignified. Jaskier awkwardly cleared his throat. "Excuse me?" he tried again.
"Geralt," Lambert hissed and kicked him into his stomach, "I think we broke your bard."
"Hmm?" he answered and turned his head sleepily towards him. He blinked a few times before his gaze cleared and his eyes focused on him. "Fuck," he muttered and slowly at up. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing!" Jaskier assured him too quickly. "It's, umm... it's just that this situation is a tad awkward. For me. You see, I never think before speaking, and sometimes words slip past that were never meant to see the light of day and I'm truly sorry for offending you-"
He was interrupted by bellowing laughter at that. "Oh, he's cute," Eskel said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
"Fuckin' adorable," Lambert agreed. "Look, bard," he said and leaned onto his forearm, "we're witchers. It takes a whole fuckin' lot more to offend us."
"I know, I know, believe me!" He rolled his eyes. "It's one of your most infuriating qualities. And the competition is hard, just so you know. I've-"
"Jaskier," Geralt interrupted him gently. "Just come over here? Please?"
He huffed and uncrossed his arms. "Well, if you ask so nicely." Despite his prevalent discomfort he crossed over to them, sighing when Geralt wrapped his arms around his waist. "That's nice..."
"Mhmm," he agreed and dropped backwards, pulling a shrieking Jaskier with him.
"Geralt," he complained loudly, writhing in his arms, "warn me for fuck's sake! I could've crushed someone."
"Unlikely," Geralt declared and began pulling off his boots, before rearranging the surrounding limbs, until Jaskier was safely snuggled between the three witchers. For the first time since he had set foot into the Kaedwen mountains, he was finally warm again. Slowly, he felt himself drifting off to sleep.
It was almost too easy with three warm bodies curled around him, all of them intently listening to his breath evening out. He was almost asleep when they finally dared to speak up: "Fuck," Lambert whispered and cuddled closer, "he does give great hugs."
He couldn't help but smile and tighten his grip on his waist a bit.
"Yeah," Eskel agreed, "don't think I'll ever get up again."
"Don't think I'll give him back," Lambert said. Geralt growled and he laughed quietly. "What do you say, bard? Come with me in spring?"
Jaskier smiled and turned around to hug Geralt instead. "Not a fucking chance."