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    It is Jaskier’s third Season at Court. His introduction to Society was considered “passable” by his parents  and he had managed to skate through the last couple of years with minimal scandal. He has made a small handful of pleasant acquaintances but no new real friends since his days at Oxenfurt. As the youngest de Lettenhove, he at least is under minimal pressure, although clearly his Father and Mother would prefer to see him making some use of his time beyond “that damnable lute”, as they tend to call it. Being as music is very much a part of who Jaskier is , and it's really what he's good at, he naturally is quite happy to stay clear of the family estate and avoid the miasma of disapproval.

    Jaskier’s siblings are all either married or courting and staying with friends in the City, so Jaskier has the whole of their Tretogor townhouse to himself aside from the cook, the valet, one groom, and two maids. Considering that the household staff are rather overtrained by his Mother, they tend not to interact with him much, so it really does feel like he’s alone most of the time. It’s - nice. Jaskier spends his days composing and his evenings socializing and is largely content. Today promises to be especially exciting. Priscilla is on her way over for a light dinner, and then they will be attending a ball at the Palace. It’s not the venue that makes the occasion special, though, but the company . The Warlord of the North, the White Wolf himself , is in Tretogor on a diplomatic visit. By all accounts, the Witcher-King has no particular interest in such things, but normally visiting monarchs are customarily feted, and so the Warlord is being treated likewise. Jaskier has to see this. 

There are rumors about the White Wolf. About fifteen years ago, he and his army of cat-eyed warriors descended upon Kaedwen. They somehow managed to get over the wall into the Capital, into the Palace, past the guards, and nobody seems to know how they did it but the end result was King Henselt beheaded on the field outside Ard Carraigh. Then the witchers took Kovir and reached a client-state arrangement with the half of Aedirn that they inexplicably chose not to conquer, and now everyone at Court is assuming that Redania is next . Apparently once a fellow gets that conquering momentum going, it's difficult to stop.

The news coming out of the nascent Wolflands has been patchy, which means that the nobility of the neighboring countries have reached their own conclusions. Witchers are utterly devoid of emotion, or so Jaskier has been told. They are cruel, greedy, and destructive. Sometimes, it’s whispered, the White Wolf takes a pretty young lover of whatever sex and then kills them- either by being careless with his inhuman strength, or out of malice like a great predator playing with its prey. Jaskier would find this a lot harder to believe, except that he has met nobles who really are exactly like that without the benefit of an unfeeling witcher nature, so it’s not even a stretch. Tonight is his chance to see if there is any truth to the rumors. It’s the safest way to do so, as well, in a nice public well-lit ballroom surrounded by guards and witnesses. If he’s lucky, Jaskier might get material for a new song out of it, too.

     The early afternoon passes in a whirl of gossip and fretting about clothing while consuming copious amounts of tea so strong it gives Jaskier the jitters. He has a really good feeling about this whole adventure. Pris, as always, looks radiant.  She’s from a merchant family, not a noble one, but you’d never know it by looking at her. She’s always the pink of fashion and her manners are flawless. For his part, Jaskier has poured himself into a lovely  new scarlet doublet and between Pris and his trusty valet they’ve arranged his unruly wavy hair into something that looks more deliberately-rumpled and less accidentally-dishevelled. Despite this and a near-disaster with Pris’ rouge, they climb into their carriage on time and rattle down the road toward the Palace as the sun sinks slowly down against the rooftops of Tretogor, painting the city in gold. 

    Jaskier surreptitiously scans the crowd as he and Pris are bowed into the ballroom . He spots two- no, three of his former dalliances, but none of them see him and they’ve no friends in common. If he’s careful, he can avoid them altogether. The band strikes up a waltz. It’s new to  Tretogor, and simultaneously scandalous and thus all the rage. Obviously, Jaskier mastered the steps the instant he was able. He winks at Pris, who returns a secret little smile, and whirls them into the dance fluidly. 

“I’ve spotted Julia de Ruyter in the back with Horst Borsodi”, he confides quietly. Priscilla’s face twists into a moue of disgust that smooths out almost immediately. “They look startlingly absorbed in conversation and I don’t think they’ve seen us”, Jaskier soothes. “Perhaps they’ll get together and have repulsive adder babies.” Priscilla barely stifles her snort of amusement. 

    “If it keeps that lumpish brute away from me, I’ll be pleased”, she admits. “Although I won’t go so far as to say I wish them joy. Wait, is that-” Two steps go by, three, and Jaskier sends Pris out on a twirl so she can catch a better look at whatever she’s seen. She slides back into his arms with all trace of amusement gone. “It’s Valdo. It looks as though he’s taken a position with de Rinde; he’s in their colors. That overstuffed, pompous- ugh . Just let’s keep well away from him, alright?” 

Pris’ pleading tone is not unwarranted. For much of their time at Oxenfurt, Jaskier and Valdo Marx orbited around one another in a tumult of mutual fascination and spite. Neither of them was happy about it. On one spectacularly drunken night following a competition in an Oxenfurt tavern, they’d even had the bright idea to try to “fuck it out”. It was an utter debacle. A good time had been had by literally nobody. Since that night, their mutual fascination turned into revulsion, and now every time they see one another it’s just ugly . 

    Jaskier realizes he’s going to have to be the bigger person. How tiresome. “Alright”, he concedes, to Pris’ visible relief. “I won’t start anything. I’ll even try to avoid him.” As the waltz winds to a halt, they fetch up on the outskirts of the dance-floor. Jaskier lets Pris wind her arm through his and sneaks them back so that they’re partially concealed behind a pillar. “Look over by the benches,” he nodded toward the corner of the ballroom. Their good friend Shani is there with her mentor, Professor Milo “Rusty” Vanderbeck. She looks rather bored in her nicest blue dress with a half-empty wine glass. Pris brightens. “Excellent, there’s no better company for us,” she enthuses. “Old Rusty can drink himself insensible and I’ll stop Shani from stabbing anyone!” Though their doctor friend is far too intelligent to bring a weapon into the Palace,  Jaskier is confident that  Shani has at least one scalpel tucked away somewhere. A little caution is justified. 

    Pris ensconces herself next to Shani. They launch immediately into conversation. Shani’s current research project is nearly concluded, and Pris has a new ballad she’s been working on for the last week. Ordinarily Jaskier would be quite happy to settle in and participate, but his parents have been after him lately about making an effort to socialize with others of his class. Not that Jaskier cares about that sort of thing, really, but a little compliance from him will hopefully buy him time until his parents start to pressure him about marriage. He makes his excuses, promises to look in on the ladies periodically, and goes off in search of a Society-approved dance partner. 

    He spends the gavotte with a young Countess. She’s not a raving beauty, but she is intelligent and a passable dancer. They talk for a few minutes about the latest trends in fiction and he escorts her back to her companions with no particular regrets. The minuet sees him with the Duke de Roggeven’s eldest daughter. The awful little minx is slumming it with him, he’s far beneath her station, and while she’s clearly very well schooled she’s also an utterly uninspired dancer. Jaskier makes the most boring conversation he can and escapes her clutches as quickly as possible. He’s met the middle daughter before as well, once, and she seemed rather better, but she’s not in attendance tonight. 

Then there’s the cotillion, which Jaskier would have gladly joined except that he sees Valdo lining up for it as well. Mindful of his promise, Jaskier instead buries himself in conversation with five or six younger minor nobles he knows - Karol, Dawid, Oliwia, Hanna, Natalia, and Aleksander. They’re a few years younger than himself and mostly very naive, but it’s not a bad time. Another two dances go by while Jaskier chats with them and he surreptitiously scans the room for gossip fodder or a new dance partner- and then he sees something remarkable out of the corner of his eye.

    It’s a man, not terribly tall, with ruddy hair and some very interesting scars. That alone wouldn’t be quite enough to pique Jaskier’s interest, but the man is armored in the Palace and his eyes are such a shocking shade of yellowy-orange that he can see it from clear across the ballroom. The man is leaning at his leisure against the wall, making no attempt to mask his boredom. This must be a witcher, one of the White Wolf’s unstoppable army. Jaskier flicks his gaze back to his companions to see if they’ve noticed, and when he looks back, the man is gone as if he’d never been there at all. Well, that’s not terrifying or anything. Jaskier snags a glass of wine and tries to settle his nerves. Normal normal normal, everything is perfectly fine and normal here thanks, no mysterious vanishing witchers at all, he thinks emphatically. 

    Jaskier goes back to dancing when he’s finished his wine. Maybe the movements, ingrained in muscle-memory, will help him keep his composure. It’s another waltz next, so that should be fun.

    It’s not. He’s partnered with a Baroness half again his age. The woman has no rhythm at all and is stiff and uncomfortable. They manage to scrape through all fifteen agonizing minutes and then mutually flee with the barest of courtesies. Going back to Pris and Shani, or even to Karol and Natalia and their lot, does not look easy. The crowd has shifted over time. He’d have to weave back through the crush to get to any of them, and in so doing he’d pass right by Valdo Fucking Marx. That’s not what he needs right now. That’s not what anyone needs. Jaskier elects to duck out onto the balcony instead. It’s just a few feet away, out the ballroom and across the hall to a wide pair of glazed double doors, and there’s nobody between him and his exit except for a servant holding a tray of wine glasses. Slipping past quietly, Jaskier takes another glass for himself on his way out the door, and then he’s off into the quiet night. 

    The balcony in question is not terribly high, but it is wide and moon-drenched and lovely. It’s also evidently deserted, thank you gods . He makes his way to the ivy-covered railing and leans against it, hands digging into the leaves a bit. His breath curls up in wisps of steam and the half-full moon is wonderfully bright in the cold, thin air. Early Spring in Redania is still quite cold. Frost limns the gardens surrounding the Palace even as the trees fight to put out their earliest leaves. Jaskier is going to regret being out here without a coat if he stays too long, the more so if he finishes his drink, but at least he can watch the stars a little and figure out how he’s going to get back to his friends without causing an Incident . 

    A few minutes pass with Jaskier toying idly with his glass, giving the crush inside a chance to circulate and reconfigure itself, and he’s still blessedly alone. Naturally, he does what he always does when there’s no-one to object: he sings. It’s a slower, softer piece than the lively ballads and dance-hall tunes in which he specializes, but the words bubble up in his mind and spill from his lips into the crisp night air. It’s a song about the predicament that besets every intelligent young person of noble birth, required to set aside their talents and ambitions to stand beside or behind someone who likely will not have any special affection for them. “Not for me the hidden life, nor yet the pleasant lie / if hope’s a winged thing, then let me fly,” he concludes. 

To his absolute horror, there’s a sound from the darkened right-hand corner of the balcony against the Palace wall, just out of view. He spins, beyond embarrassed, and - oh NO . The man in the corner is huge. He’s of a height with Jaskier or a little more, broad and fit and every inch the warrior, with ice-white hair and his face - it’s beautiful, is what it is, hewn from rock pale as starlight and utterly expressionless. His eyes are slitted catwise, a most unusual shade of gold. There’s a thin silvery coronet about his brow and, equally worryingly, a silver medallion in the shape of a snarling wolf on his chest. This isn’t even a witcher, not even the alarming man he’d spotted earlier. This is- this must be the White Wolf . He seems oddly alone. Jaskier doesn’t see any attendants, bodyguards, or hangers-on; just the arrestingly beautiful Witcher-King. The moonlight makes his eyes seem to glow. He pushes himself away from the wall and moves ( like a stalking wolf , Jaskier thinks with a rising sense of panic) to stand at the railing but further from the door. Jaskier shifts to beat a hasty retreat and is forestalled by the White Wolf’s hand rising to beckon him over. 

He’s not only armored, Jaskier realizes, he’s armed; beneath the gray fur hood of his cloak, Jaskier can see the hilt of more than one sword. Wonderful . He goes as bidden, stopping a couple of paces away to the White Wolf’s left and bows politely. “Your Majesty”, he says quietly. Maybe a little too quietly, but there’s an odd stillness, a momentary peace on the balcony. He’s loath to disturb it, even for a visiting monarch renowned for his ruthlessness. “Sorry to intrude, I can-” 

The White Wolf waves one pale hand dismissively. “Stay”, he says firmly, in a voice like a rockslide. “You don’t want to go back in there yet. No more than I do.” Which is accurate, but it makes Jaskier’s nerves go from a pizzicato pinging to a strident finger-vibrato, shrilling up his spine. “You were having fun earlier, at the ball. What happened?” The White Wolf looks like he’s maybe a little surprised at himself for having asked. His voice is low and rusty, like it doesn’t get used often. 

“Ah, thank you, Your Majesty. I really was, but then I saw- wait, sorry, how do you know ?” Jaskier blurts. Certainly the White Wolf hadn’t been in the ballroom. If he had, Jaskier would have spotted him instantly. 

The Witcher-King’s face moves just enough for his lips to quirk a little at the corners. “Lambert says you spotted him”, he rumbles. “Difficult to do, when he’s minded to be subtle. Don’t be evasive, little songbird.” Jaskier quickly calculates his odds of surviving if he just - sprints for the door. They’re not good. The White Wolf has legs as long as his, and appears to be mostly muscle. He’s probably going to have to stand here and talk to him and just hope he feels like letting Jaskier go unscathed. 

    “My rival from Oxenfurt is here”, Jaskier admits nervously. “Valdo Marx. It looks like he’s found a position with the Duke de Rinde, which is quite a coup for that uninspired brute. If we have to interact there’s going to be a mess of some kind. I tried to avoid him but the crush swung around and now I can’t get back to my companions without going right past him.” 

The White Wolf huffs out a short breath. “And so you came out here to wait it out”, he concludes logically. “What’ll you do if you go back in and he’s still there?” Jaskier plucks a little at the ivy leaves on the balcony as he thinks through his answer. It’s not worth dissembling. He’s certainly never going to see the White Wolf again, and it doesn’t look like courtly intrigue is exactly in the man’s wheelhouse. “If I can’t avoid him, I’ll just keep it as brief as I can, I suppose”, Jaskier concludes. “Though he might cut me. If that happens I pretty much have to duel him later, which isn’t likely to go well.”

One white eyebrow goes way, way up. “He might what ?”, the White Wolf asks flatly. Jaskier laughs a little, startled. “Oh, no no - not literally , Your Majesty. It’s a social term. I hadn’t thought it would be unique to Redanian society, sorry. It’s when you see someone you really should acknowledge, at least in passing, and instead you look right past them and address whoever they’re with or don’t say anything at all. It’s considered extremely rude. Gentlemen shouldn’t ever do it to ladies, and when it happens between noblemen it’s considered cause for a fight.” Jaskier cannot tell if the White Wolf is developing indigestion, or possibly just has no appetite for courtly subtleties. There’s a little wrinkle between his brows and all terror aside, Jaskier has the wildly inappropriate urge to reach over and smooth it out. He restrains himself with an effort. 

“You don’t think you can beat him?”, the Witcher-King asks, propping himself up with one elbow on the balcony like it’s his Palace instead of Vizimir’s. The slight loss of height does make him seem less intimidating, and he wasn’t offended by Jaskier’s response, which is encouraging. “Honestly, no, Your Majesty”, Jaskier admits. “I’d always rather make friends and avoid fighting altogether. Valdo’s just a bully, and he’s much, much better with a sword than I am.” 

The White Wolf seems to unspool a little more at his words, which is an odd reaction but at least it’s positive. “Won’t take a rapier to your rival, but you’ll stand around on an isolated balcony talking to a witcher without turning a hair”, he notes with what might be amusement. “First person who hasn’t lied to me today, too. Is Valdo the foppish one in green? The one with the mustache?” He mimes twirling a ridiculous mustache, which is exactly what Valdo Marx has spent half his time doing since he grew the damned thing. Jaskier can’t help laughing, more genuinely this time. “That’s the one!”, he says brightly. 

The White Wolf shakes his head. “Met him, don’t like him. Smells disgusting. Also he does a thing with his voice that I don’t like. Rinde was at the treaty meeting this morning, had him playing for ambiance .” His voice drips with distaste. 

Jaskier smiles, wide and relieved, and takes a fortifying sip of his wine. This is going so, so much better than he’d feared. “You mean the thing where any note longer than half a bar falls flat by a half-step at the end? It’s awful! Worse than you know, Your Majesty. It’s not an accident, it’s a style choice ”, he says, long-suffering. “He thinks it adds pathos , and he goes into the biggest snit if you challenge him on it.” 

Shrugging, the White Wolf stands back up and reaches around behind himself for his own wine glass. “Don’t know much about music but I can smell pompous assholes from several leagues away”, he says. “You’re not one. Call me White Wolf, or Geralt- almost anything but ‘Your Majesty’, he commands. “I don’t use that style at home and it doesn’t sit comfortably. What’s your name, bard?” 

The- Geralt - that’s really his name? Really? Everyone’s knee-knockingly afraid of a plainspoken warrior named Geralt ? It just seems so- Jaskier’s not sure what to think. He doesn’t even use the Royal We! Of course, then he makes eye contact again, and suddenly Jaskier understands. Those golden eyes look right into him, pinning him where he stands like a butterfly in a glass case. “If that’s what you want, White Wolf. I’m Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove - but call me Jaskier, if you please”, he breathes. The sheer burning presence of this man. Gods. Jaskier understands so much now. Geralt had to become the Warlord, clearly. He’s obviously naturally born to rule, but there wasn’t an extant Court on the Continent that could handle his sheer intensity. Maybe this little interlude really is a terrible idea. Maybe he will drag Jaskier off to his mountain fortress and ravage him to death, or something. But what a way to go! 

The White Wolf leans in the littlest bit, dragging in a deep breath through his nose and vaguely trying to hide it behind his wine glass. He drains it and sets the glass aside on the balcony railing. “You’re missing something”, he says. That avalanche-voice is low and dark and it’s turned oddly intimate in the chilly solitude of the balcony. He gestures at the little clutch of flowers pinned to Jaskier’s doublet. Confused, Jaskier looks down. All seems to be in order - buttercups for charm, and because they’re his flower; blue hyacinth for sincerity. When he looks back up, puzzled, Geralt is snapping an oak leaf from a branch that hangs over the balcony, growing up from the gardens below. “Oak’s for courage, right?”, he asks, turning back to Jaskier. 

Jaskier nods woodenly. “I mean- yes, White Wolf, but I literally just spent several minutes telling you all about a very stupid fight I intend to avoid because, and I cannot emphasize this enough, I’d lose ”, he points out, picking absently at his sleeve and withering inside because as usual, his nerves have set him to babbling. Geralt shakes his head. A shorter lock of white hair falls out of its tie and slips toward his face despite the coronet he wears; Geralt ignores it. Jaskier increasingly thinks he cannot stand how unwittingly poetic he finds everything about this terrifying, fascinating man. 

The breath catches in Jaskier’s throat. The White Wolf is reaching out - one hand grasps the little bunch of flowers on his doublet, careful not to crush them. Jaskier, frozen as if by magic, watches him slide the pin out of his doublet, work the little new oak leaf in behind the other flowers, and put the whole thing back together as if it had been that way all along. They’re standing quite close now, which is clearly inappropriate, but their hiding place is still so empty and quiet and with no-one to see or object, Jaskier can’t quite bring himself to back up. There’s a warmth radiating from Geralt and the gentle brush of his fingers makes a shudder climb up Jaskier’s back, but it’s different to the moment he was first summoned to the White Wolf’s side. “Thank you”, he says tremulously. Jaskier defies anyone to be this close to Geralt and sound collected. 

With an impassive nod, Geralt reaches up to the pin of his own cloak. “Tell me true, little bard. Who’s scarier, Valdo Marx or me?” He asks, matter-of-fact and evidently unbothered by Jaskier’s reaction. 

Oh, that is a bad question. That is a question with possibly no correct answers. Jaskier is going to have to tread very, very carefully. While the White Wolf pulls his cloak off in a wash of black fabric and gray fur, Jaskier marshals his courage. “I mean this in the kindest and most respectful way possible, but- you are, White Wolf. Much, much scarier.” He forces himself to meet the- Geralt’s - eyes. If this is his moment, if this is all he gets, then by Melitele’s heaving bosom he is going to die with dignity. To his continuing confusion, Geralt nods in evident approval - and swirls that heavy cloak around Jaskier’s shoulders, settling it so it doesn’t disarrange his flowers.

“Just so”, Geralt agrees. “Cold out here for a human. Keep that a while; witchers run hot and I’ve got my armor.” His hand is still warm and heavy and curled around Jaskier’s shoulder, thumb resting at his throat just below where his pulse runs like a Nilfgaardian racehorse. Jaskier’s eyes are wide and he gapes a little at him. Geralt’s residual warmth lingers in the cloak. He wasn’t dissembling, witchers do apparently run hot. Jaskier would nestle into it happily if only he could bring himself to move . His face is on fire, spreading up to his ears and probably all the way down into his doublet. “As you say, White Wolf”, he agrees automatically. It’s a real struggle to not lean into Geralt’s hand. 

Geralt gets that little lopsided quirk of a smile again. His hand slides from Jaskier’s shoulder in a faint, surreptitious caress. “Yen’s been after me to do more courtly bullshit while I’m here”, he says bluntly. “Can kill two birds with one stone. When you decide to go back in, I’ll go with you. Can meet some people and if Valdo tries anything I’ll be right there.” 

Abruptly, Jaskier has far too many things to think about, and even more things to feel about those thoughts. First of all, and perhaps most urgently, the White Wolf wants him. Jaskier isn’t a fool - he knows attraction when he sees it, when he feels it. Secondly, though, and very nearly as importantly, either Geralt is a master of deception, or a significant chunk of the rumors about witchers are very wrong . The White Wolf has been kind . Gruff, to be sure, and rather taciturn, but kind. “Thank you”, he says again. “Maybe just a little longer, and then I’ll have to sneak over and see where Valdo’s gone, make sure my friends are still alright.”

Shaking his head minutely, the White Wolf disagrees. “You’re not made for sneaking”, he points out. “Bright colors, and making noise is literally your job. Leave it to us. Ealdred’s been hoping he could go in and join the ball for a while. I’ll have him or Lambert scout.” 

Jaskier doesn’t know Ealdred, obviously, but if he’s a witcher, then Jaskier is hard-pressed to imagine him dancing . “What- what’ll they do if Valdo is-” Jaskier trails off, not sure how to explain the variegated bullshit to which Valdo Marx is prone without being insufferably rude to someone . He forces himself to still his hands, not fidget, not itch for a lute or something, anything to distract him from this increasingly peculiar situation. 

“Well, you’re the bard”, Geralt points out mildly. Or, as mildly as a heavily-armed gigantic barbarian king can do. Gods, but that baritone rattles Jaskier’s bones in all the right ways. He is an idiot . “They’ll tell you the lay of the land. You figure out what kind of entrance you want to make.” 

Jaskier genuinely cannot understand how this is happening. He’ll roll with it, revel in it, of course- but what? Any right-thinking bard would kill or die for this opportunity. “Gladly, White Wolf”, he replies immediately. “I, ah, not to question my good fortune, but- why? Not-” He gestures between them, indicating the whole conversation, since the why of this is pretty self-evident- “But why help me like that? The class of nobility I run with are nowhere near your level of importance and if I flub it in any respect it could make you look…” 

The White Wolf almost laughs, Jaskier can see it. He maybe treasures it a little, the crinkle at the corners of his golden eyes and the minute scrunch of his nose (which is perfectly lovely as well and has been broken exactly enough times to add an air of rakish charm). “Jaskier,” he says patiently. Jaskier tries very hard not to get distracted but he’s so handsome and his cloak is so warm and he hasn’t done anything even a little bit awful, he’s just majestic and brutally honest and- Jaskier shakes himself a little. He’s talking, gods, pay attention! , Jaskier chides himself. 

“Jaskier”, he repeats. “I am a literal mutated witcher warlord. Don’t make that face, it’s true. I care not a bit for how I look so long as I get results, and if I really had any interest in courtly matters, would you have found me lurking outside?” 

“You have a point, White Wolf”, Jaskier concedes. He’s uncomfortable with the mutated barbarian warlord thing, but it is factual, and no less than what he’d thought prior to meeting the man. Now that he’s out here, having an actual conversation with him, though, he finds himself wishing that the White Wolf wouldn’t talk about himself that way. Later, maybe Jaskier will take a moment to be fucking well dizzied by how quickly he has gone from “This is a terrifying person I wish to observe and write about” to “This is a wonderful admirable man I wish to protect at all cost”. It’s a little ludicrous to think about, a skinny young bard protecting the Witcher-King from anything, but ... There are battles, and then there are battles , and Jaskier has never hesitated to use his chosen weapons to defend the people he considers his.  

A sharp whistle from the White Wolf causes witchers to melt out of the shadows all around them. There are eight, including the redheaded one Jaskier spotted earlier. That’s- actually quite a lot of witchers. It certainly feels like more than eight when they’re all clustered around looking at him like he’s interesting. They’re all heavily armed, cat-eyed, and clearly extremely dangerous. They form a little knot around him and the White Wolf. 

Jaskier brings his attention back to the White Wolf. “Have they been here all along?” He asks. Then he looks back to the double doors and sees the Marchioness de Roggeven surreptitiously watching them from the hall with the ballroom door cracked behind her. “And more to the point, has she? ” 

Lambert snorts laughter at him. “Not so observant with Geralt to distract you, huh. She’s only been there a moment. Don’t worry, she missed all the good stuff.” He makes a rude gesture in the direction of the Marchioness and she flounces off in a huff. “Been wanting to do that for a while,” he grins. He doesn’t say whether they’ve seen everything , but by the looks on their faces Jaskier is guessing they did. Well, shit. 

“Well, any subtle plan I had has just leapt off the balcony and is now running into the night,” Jaskier says ruefully. 

The witchers collectively look a bit relieved at that. One, a pale, dark-haired man with a griffin on his medallion, squares his already-boxy shoulders. “I suppose I needn’t scout, then. Alright, Bard Jaskier. I am Ealdred of the Griffins. Of course you know the Wolf, and you’ve seen Lambert of the Wolves. These are our brethren, Frank of the Wolves, Orvyn of the Cranes, Cedric of the Cats, Gerring of the Vipers, Theo of the Manticores, and Bran of the Bears. We would be much-honored if you would make us known to your people.” He sweeps a very elegant bow indeed. 

Surprised and pleased, Jaskier returns the bow. “It would be my pleasure,” he replies. “Since we have lost our element of surprise, we may as well all form up and go in at once. Have you much longer until your negotiations are done?” He directs his attention back to the White Wolf. “If you’ll be in the City a little longer, I’d be happy to be a local guide.” Jaskier is making big hopeful eyes up at the Witcher-King, who shakes his head in the negative. 

“We’re about done,” he says. “I’m taking the draft version home to read through with the Council. We leave in the morning.” Jaskier’s heart sinks slightly, but he’s gratified to note that the White Wolf looks faintly dissatisfied as well. Jaskier forces himself to pluck up a bit. “Then we’ll make sure you leave better-connected than you arrived”, he says sturdily. 

Leading a band of witchers into the royal ballroom is one of the strangest experiences of Jaskier’s young life. It lends the entire evening an air of even greater unreality than simply being alone with them. The entire crush grinds to a halt. The band doesn’t falter, but half the dancers are in immediate danger of tripping over themselves and one another in their haste to see - and to scurry out of perceived danger. Luck being what it is, of course Valdo is holding court right next to the spot Pris and Shani had chosen for themselves. Of course he’s taking full advantage of that proximity to loudly spread gossip about Jaskier, his proclivities, his talents, and his taste in friends. 

The White Wolf and the rest of the witchers do not appear to like this. At All. A couple of them (Lambert, Cedric, and Orvyn mostly) growl very quietly as they pass through the crowd. Jaskier is still wrapped in the White Wolf’s cloak and plenty of the assembled nobility are commenting on it in a scandalized susurrus. They come to a stop between Valdo and the ladies, shielding them somewhat from his verbal effluvience. 

“Ah, Your Majesty”, Valdo declaims grandly, as if he wasn’t just talking about how the entirety of the Kaedwen hinterlands are utterly unlettered and unwashed ( Lies , Jaskier thinks; the White Wolf smells fucking amazing and while he hasn’t stuck his nose in any of the others’ cloaks they seem perfectly reasonable to him. “How very gracious of you to join us.” Seeing Jaskier, he turns his nose up even higher and lets his eyes skate past the top of his head in a perfectly executed Cut Sublime. “I’ve just been talking with His Grace, the Duke de Rinde, about the evening’s entertainment. Would you favor us with an opinion as to the waltz? It’s such an interesting new dance and I find myself wondering whether it will take off in more - ah, rustic courts.” 

Jaskier is abruptly angry. That was a trap question, in multiple ways, and it’s one he can’t reply to because Valdo very predictably cut him. A large steadying hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up, and the White Wolf is looking down at him very seriously. “Did you just hear something, Jaskier?”, he asks in a rumble. “I thought someone might’ve been talking to me, but-” 

    Delightful. He’s a quick study. Jaskier beams approval up at him. “Can’t say as I did, White Wolf”, he replies brightly. “Let me introduce you to my dear friends.” He turns his back on Valdo and the group of witchers turns with him, spreading out to surround Pris and Shani and block out the noise of the crush somewhat. 

    While Valdo Marx splutters behind them, Jaskier makes introductions. “Dear witchers all, these are my closest friends. Priscilla, called Callonetta onstage, is my occasional duet partner and fellow mischief-maker-” Pris scoffs in an exaggerated fashion, batting her big blue eyes innocently. “-And Shani, of the Oxenfurt College of Medicine, a medic and alchemist of superlative skill. Ladies, I have the very rare honor to introduce the White Wolf, as he prefers to be called. His companions are-” Jaskier points them out, being very careful to get the right name attached to the right face. 

The White Wolf obviously does not bow, but he looks pleased enough, and the other witchers manage bows ranging from flawless (Ealdred) to extremely unpracticed (Gerring and Bran). Then Lambert engages Shani and Theo in a discussion about potions-making and the optimal time of year to harvest hellebore, Orvyn gets into a rant about Skelliger sea shanties with Pris, and Jaskier? Jaskier stands at the White Wolf’s left, leaning just a little against him and telling Frank and Bran a wild story involving a taxidermied bear, three drunken University students, and the roof of the Oxenfurt Observatory. 

Jaskier has perhaps a pleasant hour of watching his friends and the White Wolf’s people at their leisure. He’s just beginning to think that he has somehow managed to get through the evening without major incident. Valdo has fucked off somewhere, which is great news. Jaskier has managed to coax Aleksander and Oliwia’s group to join them, as well. To his unending amusement, Ealdred asks Shani to dance, and they return from their minuet arm-in-arm and laughing as if they’ve been friends for years. 

The slowly-growing circle of witchers and young nobles parts to admit Ealdred and Shani. Hot on their heels comes Valdo - plus a dozen Palace guards, and a very out-of-breath Duke de Rinde. “It’s indecent ”, Valdo exclaims. “See, Your Grace? He’ll subvert half the youth of the Court if we let him! Milady Marta was quite right. I’ve always said that Julian is too impressionable and here we see him, halfway to becoming a catamite in the service of a foreign power!” 

Jaskier feels a sickly, white-hot anger start up in the pit of his stomach. It burns hotter than the anger he’d felt at being cut, at being the butt of scurrilous gossip. What he’s being accused of is worse than just being “unmanly”. It’s treason . Valdo evidently has decided that he’s alright with Jaskier swinging from a gibbet for- for what? Hitting it off with a foreign monarch? Upstaging his uninspired ass in a way that can’t be equaled? Getting ahead by being himself? A venomous retort is rising to his lips when he feels the White Wolf’s hand grasp at his elbow, stilling him. 

The younger nobles all exchange frantic glances, clearly trying to calculate where they will be safest. On the one hand, Valdo, the Duke, and the guards are known quantities; on the other hand, the present situation does not exactly show the nobility of Redania to good advantage. Dawid and Karol urge the others to cluster up in a little group behind a living wall comprised of Bran, Theo, and Lambert. If positive relations with the Witcher-King are sufficient to doom Jaskier, after all, then they too are attainted. Pris and Shani both look exceedingly uncomfortable; they don’t have noble status to protect them, after all, so it’s pretty clear that their safety rests in the hands of the witcher delegation. 

“Enough.” Geralt’s voice is flat and all of the amusement has drained from his golden eyes. “You cut my new friend here. I was willing to let it go, because this is supposed to be a peaceful visit. Now-” He cuts off with a growl and gestures sharply to Ealdred, who steps forward with a predatory glint in his eye. 

Ealdred smiles. It’s not a nice smile - it’s flat and thin, glittering like the edge of a knife. “My liege would gladly answer your insults personally, but it wouldn’t be much of a contest - and he prefers not to allow a foolish few to start a war that would impact innocents. Your Grace de Rinde, do you stand behind your man’s idiocy? We must demand satisfaction either from you, or from him directly.”

De Rinde does not look best pleased. He pulls at the neck of his doublet as if it’s choking him. Spinning around, he hastily grabs one of the guards by the collar. “Go and tell His Majesty at once ,” he hisses, shoving the guard on his way. He turns back to the witchers. “This is highly irregular. Nonetheless, I must agree that - Julian, was it? Clearly has questionable loyalties, and it would be a shame for the stain of his putative treason to linger upon the gently-born youth he seeks to corrupt. Since His Majesty of Kaedwen has seen fit to appoint a champion, I shall do likewise. What terms do you seek?” 

Looking over his shoulder very briefly, Ealdred exchanges a speaking glance with the White Wolf. “First blood is acceptable to us”, he says as he turns back. “As to the forfeit, you and Master Popinjay seem quite eager to be shut of Bard Jaskier, and very quick to judge his associates. We will accept a public apology from you and your man, and should they wish it, he and his companions are welcome to return to Kaer Morhen with us. We much misdoubt that they would be safe, should they remain in your lands.” 

A collective shudder grips the young nobles behind him. Little Oliwia and Hanna both break down weeping very quietly. Pris and Shani finally move from their position to join them, murmuring encouragement. The witchers surrounding them bristle and take up a more obvious defensive formation, hands free but clearly poised to reach for hidden weapons. 

This, of course, is when King Vizimir arrives with another detachment of much larger and more heavily-armed guards. “What is the meaning of this nonsense?” He booms. Vizimir is not a large man, but his crown and robes of state make him look a lot more imposing and he is clearly irritated at having his evening interrupted. De Rinde gabbles something Jaskier doesn’t really parse; it’s all something something treason, blah blah despoiling the youth . He’ll worry about it later. Right now he’s just utterly spun by the fact that Valdo is trying to get him killed and if half a dozen noble youth (some of whom haven’t even had a debut yet) are collateral damage, apparently he and de Rinde are fine with that . 

The White Wolf looks increasingly irritated. “Short version: this fool-” he points to Valdo Marx, still looking self-important - “first cut my new friend here. They were rivals at school, Jaskier says. Then he and de Rinde’s eldest daughter decided it would be fun to accuse Jaskier of treason, and me and my men of corrupting the youth, or something. I’d ignore it if it were just words, but as I understand it, treason is generally a hanging offense, so it looks like there’s going to have to be a duel about it. Duels are less messy than wars, so I’ll take it. You wanna appoint a champion for de Rinde? He hasn’t settled a forfeit yet but when we win we’re taking Jaskier and whoever else wants to come back with us.” 

King Vizimir looks like he’s getting a headache. “Fine. We will select a suitable champion. Our terms will be as follows: You concede the first three points of contention in the treaty, we order an investigation, and upon its conclusion the young Viscount and his - friends - face Our judgment. We will allow two hours’ time to prepare, and the duel will take place in the back gardens. We must insist that no magic be used and that all participants adhere to the laws of honorable combat. Acceptable?” 

“Fine”, the White Wolf agrees shortly. “We’ll be in the lesser council-room until then.” As Vizimir nods and stomps off, he turns to address the increasingly nervous group of humans. “It’ll be alright”, he says, trying to sound soothing. “We’ll find a Palace courier and get word out to your families. You’ll be safe with us. Maybe things will calm down quickly and it will be safe for you to return.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and passes it to Oliwia, who accepts with shaking hands. The White Wolf ushers the group through the thick silence that’s fallen on the ballroom and back toward a council room Jaskier has never been in. 

The room is clearly the space set aside for treaty negotiations and it hasn’t yet been tidied up by servants. Jaskier shakes himself out of his stunned stupor and starts passing out pieces of parchment and pens. “Quick, everyone”, he urges. “We’ll need to let our families know - first of all, that we’ve been obliged to leave, and second that they really ought to avoid the Court and the Capital generally until things cool down.” His own letter home is painfully brief. He dashes it off and folds it into neat quarters, nicks some wax from the table, and seals it with his ring. 

Pris and Shani don’t bother reaching for parchment. “At least we two don’t have noble families to fret about. I can write songs anywhere, and even witchers can use an experienced medic, surely. But here’s a thought,” Shani offers. “Rather than trust a courier, we could have the letters passed to Rusty. He’s doubtless looking for an excuse to leave right now anyway, and he’s well-connected enough to get them sent on with haste.” 

Hanna weeps over her letter, and Aleksander looks on the verge of tears as well. Cedric tsks sympathetically. “Poor kits”, he says unhappily. “You lot didn’t ask for this.” He crouches next to the table, putting himself at eye level with Hanna. “You can ask any witcher here, or the Wolf himself. No harm will come to you in our care, be it for a week or a year or however long it takes. We don’t know what to do with nobles, generally, but we’re not the monsters everyone in Redania seems to think.” 

Hanna forces herself to meet his gaze with an effort and pushes her letter aside. “What if - forgive me, my lord, but what if your man loses? The Duke de Rinde is the Secretary of the Privy Seal. His words carry tremendous weight. He really could have us exiled, or killed, or - whatever he wants, really. Not to mention it’s certain to be war if it goes badly.” 

Cedric smiles ruefully. “If the Wolf wanted a war, it would be over by now”, he says very gently. “We are made to slay monsters, including the ones who happen to also be men. The Wolf wants an honorable duel, so we’re sending our expert in that kind of combat; the Griffin school are into that knightly virtue stuff. If it goes well, you’re safe; if it goes badly, we get you all out of here and then come back in force.” 

Behind him, Ealdred nods. “Lest you worry for your kin, you should know our methods. We are not interested in punishing those who have offered us no harm. Any quarrel we have is with Vizimir, de Rinde, and the fool he calls a bard. I have no intention of killing my opponent, for that matter.” 

Aleksander appears to gather his courage somewhat as he finishes writing. “It is passing strange,” he reflects. “That you should be invited to craft a treaty, but be expected to hold yourself so completely apart from the Court. The ball was theoretically to honor the negotiations, after all; did His Majesty think that you would not attend?” 

Jaskier scowls. “I think he assumed that they’d make fools of themselves by not understanding etiquette”, he concludes. “And then, further assuming that witchers have the same values and priorities as noble humans, they’d be on the back foot for negotiations later. He may not have intended this specific result, but from where I stand, it doesn’t look like Redania was negotiating in good faith.” 

A short chuff of laughter beside him surprises Jaskier. “That’s alright”, the White Wolf says. “The next round of talks, if everyone behaves themselves, will be at Kaer Morhen. If making people quietly uncomfortable is truly the name of the game, I think we’ll be well-equipped to win.” 

As the eldest of the group of nobles, Dawid is the one who collects everyone’s letters. He ducks out of the room with Orvyn as a watchful bodyguard in a hurried search for Professor Rusty and gets the stack of correspondence into his hands and the man himself out of the Palace. When he returns, he approaches Ealdred. “It seems we owe you a debt of gratitude for protecting us from our own liege,” he says uncomfortably. “Will you need any assistance in preparing for the duel? I am no knight, but any help I can offer is yours.” 

Ealdred looks surprised and pleased. “That’s very kind, young milord, but I have all that I need. If you wish to be of assistance, you could ensure that the rest of our new friends are ready to decamp. Not to sound arrogant, but even if I hold myself to the range of human ability, it will likely be a short fight.” 

The White Wolf shakes his head. “This is one of the dumbest things I have ever seen humans do. Borrow my sword, Ealdred. Makes it look more official, right?” He unslings one of his two swords and passes it over, taking Ealdred’s in exchange. 

Jaskier nods approvingly. “That’s how it’ll be interpreted, yes. No different than your signature at the bottom of a letter. If anyone were wise enough to pay attention, it could also be construed as a sign that Ealdred is high in your favor since you trust him with your honor and your personal arms.” He pulls out a chair next to Oliwia and flips the edge of the White Wolf’s cloak over her as well. “It’ll be obvious you had no part in anything improper”, he murmurs encouragingly. “Nobody will lay a hand on any of you. We’ll have a nice little vacation in the North, it’ll be an adventure, and you’ll be home none the worse for wear as soon as the buzz dies down.” 

“If it takes more than a couple of months, I’ll miss my debut - but to be realistic, if I stayed I’d probably not get one at all. I’d be lucky to be permitted to take holy orders instead, to restore the family’s honor.” Oliwia concludes sadly. 

Orvyn scowls. “There’s nothing wrong with having a vocation, but I mislike this business of forcing young people into convents for reasons of honor. If it’s not done willingly, it’s just not right.” He nods to Theo and Cedric. “Let’s go set ourselves up outside. We’ll want to establish some security on the dueling ground.” They show themselves out, dickering quietly about line-of-sight and which of them ought to be up on the rooftops.

After a momentary search through his pockets, the White Wolf pulls out an odd little metal box. It’s about palm-sized, with a hinged lid and a wolf engraved on the top. He looks at Jaskier ruefully. “I mentioned Yen wanted me to be more political. She’s our way home. Now I get to explain all of this to her. Brace yourself; she’s bound to have opinions and they might be loud ones.” He pops the lid open and talks into the box. “Yen, you there?” 

A slightly tinny female voice comes through the box. “You’re early. What’s wrong?” Geralt sighs. “I did what you suggested. It went badly. Met a bard, met his friends, got accused of corrupting the youth or some shit. Now there’s gonna be a duel and everything is relatively fucked.” 

“ You what .” Whoever Yen is, she sounds very long-suffering. Jaskier is sympathetic. “You are never doing diplomacy without me or a similarly skilled person present, ever again. ” She kindly ignores the White Wolf’s muttered “ Thank fuck for that ”, and continues. “So, what I’m hearing is, this is now a rescue mission. How many do I need to portal home, and who’s managing the duel? It had better not be you, Geralt.” 

The White Wolf, Warlord of the North, looks sheepish . He scratches at the back of his neck and fidgets a bit, one of his boots nudging against the leg of Jaskier’s chair. “Um, eighteen in all”, he admits uncomfortably. “Jaskier and his friends. Some of ‘em are younger; we couldn’t leave them to be accused of treason or whatever bullshit just for talking to us. Ealdred’s handling the duel. Got about - three quarters of an hour? We’ll be in the back gardens.” 

Yen says something in Elder that Jaskier is pretty sure is obscene. “I’ll set the portal between the back gardens and the stables”, she decides. “That’s close enough to reach in a hurry, and I know the area well enough to be precise. Tell Ealdred to check his left cloak pocket and for the love of the gods don’t do anything else stupid, alright, Geralt?” 

The assembled humans are mostly stunned. This is how the White Wolf’s advisors talk to him? He lets them? The White Wolf laughs shortly. “Thanks, Yen. I’ll shout when it’s time.” He closes the box just as Ealdred fishes a black satin ribbon out of his pocket with an expression of astonished joy and ties it about the pommel of the borrowed sword with reverent hands. Geralt just smiles at him. Frank pats him on the back approvingly. “There, got your lady’s favor and everything, just like a tale”, he grins. Ealdred has gone from Concerned to looking like he could walk on air. It takes years off his serious face. Despite all of the commotion, several of Jaskier’s friends seem a bit charmed, which is reassuring. 

They have just enough time remaining to review the plan. Jaskier, Pris, and Shani are to group up with the young nobles. Bran, Frank, and Lambert will take up guard positions around them, with the White Wolf at the front. Theo, Cedric, and Orvyn will be scattered around the grounds, watching for any sign of perfidy. Assuming that all goes according to plan, when the duel is over they’ll make their way to the area between the gardens and the stables, pass through a mage’s portal to Kaer Morhen in the Blue Mountains, and then - Jaskier has no idea what then . Probably anything would be better than the tender mercies of the dungeons of Tretogor. They’ll have to figure it out when they get there. 

By the time the two hours are up and everyone is in place, it is quite late. A small crowd, mostly the Duke de Rinde’s allies, have gathered to watch. The witchers are careful to position their charges at the end of the gardens closer to where their portal will open. There’s an air of coiled tension about them, as if their weapons might leap into their readied hands in an instant. It shouldn’t be a comfort to Jaskier, but it is. 

King Vizimir, naturally, has selected his biggest and most imposing guardsman as a champion. The man is in heavy plate armor, nearly as tall and broad as the White Wolf himself. He clanks onto the field with a massive shield and a sword that’s less a blade and more a giant chunk of iron , Melitele be kind. Jaskier fervently hopes that Ealdred is as good as he seems to think he is. How anyone is supposed to get first blood on such a heap of steel, Jaskier has no idea. 

Ealdred steps into the clearing looking utterly unruffled. He’s much more lightly armored, in scale rather than plate, and his borrowed sword is easy in his hand with the black ribbon fluttering in the night breeze. He doesn’t deign to react to the apparent mismatch. Frank and Lambert have no such restraint; they look between themselves and mouth “ Really? ” with an air of disdain. “Grieg will squash the freak like a bug”, someone calls from the crowd. King Vizimir raises a hand for silence. 

“This will be a duel to first blood”, he calls out. “Should the witcher win-” the crowd titters until Vizimir raises a hand again- “the White Wolf will take Julian Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, and his associates with him upon his return to his territory. Should Our champion persevere, the White Wolf will be obliged to grant concessions in Our treaty, and Lettenhove and his companions will be brought to justice before Us. Witcher, are you ready?”

“Aye, Your Majesty”, Ealdred says calmly. Vizimir turns to his champion. “Sir Grieg, are you ready?” The massive suit of armor responds with a rumbling affirmative, and King Vizimir steps back and drops his hand. “ Begin. ” 

The fight looks nothing like what Jaskier would have expected. Reason would seem to dictate that Ealdred would be best advised to stay out of Grieg’s reach, as one blow from that massive sword would surely be enough to lay him out. Instead he stays just within range. His sword flicks out in a series of testing blows, seeking holes in Grieg’s guard. He shifts around the larger knight smoothly, steps flowing like water around stone. A long moment passes, and then Grieg seems to lose his patience. He raises his shield and takes three hurried steps forward as if to clash it directly against Ealdred, making the crowd gasp in unison. 

Ealdred stands his ground. Jaskier’s stomach sinks to see it. Just as the shield is due to make contact, though, Ealdred slides inside Grieg’s guard and puts his back to the other man. Now inside the shelter of that shield, but with the terrible momentum of all that armor bearing down, he hooks a foot around Grieg’s leg and drops one shoulder. 

Propelled by his own bulk, Grieg goes flying over Ealdred’s shoulder and lands turtled on his back some feet away. His gauntleted hand is still stuck fast to his shield, and the edge of the shield is now firmly pushed into the partially-frozen lawn. He thrashes a bit as Ealdred approaches, but he can’t move. Ealdred pulls Grieg’s helmet off to reveal piggish angry eyes, a massive beard, and a snarling mouth with truly horrifying teeth, and proceeds to just barely graze the man’s cheek with his sword. The blood beads up almost black in the moonlight and the tiniest drop clings to the blade. Ealdred snaps his wrist to one side, dislodging the drop of blood, and reaches out to offer Grieg a hand up. “I believe that’s settled”, he notes mildly. 

Grieg elects to spit at Ealdred rather than accept. “Rude”, Ealdred chides. Jaskier is holding his breath until he knows any danger is passed. Beside him, the White Wolf steps forward. “There’s your answer,” he growls. “We’re leaving. I’ll expect your delegation at Midsummer to discuss the final draft of the treaty. Keep a handle on your nobles, Vizimir. If I find that any of their families run into trouble-” he gestures broadly at his soon-to-be guests- “I’ll be back, and this time I won’t bother being polite.” 

“Redania keeps its word”, Vizimir snarls. The witchers begin herding their charges carefully toward the designated portal spot, rearranging themselves with Frank and Bran taking up the rear since they make such an effective living wall. The White Wolf slings an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders as they walk and pulls that odd little metal box from his pocket again. “All set, Yen. We’ll be there in a moment.” She acknowledges him briefly, and he snaps the box shut and puts it away again. 

“Shall I write songs about you?”, Jaskier asks, looking up at Geralt hopefully. “It’s best to keep bards busy, you know. Pris and I will get up to no end of mischief if we don’t.” The White Wolf smiles one of those tiny inscrutable smiles as the portal yawns open before them. “Write whatever you please, little songbird”, he says. Jaskier can’t suppress a shiver. Even now, fleeing his homeland and everything he knows, surrounded by a crowd who think him - what was it, ah yes- a treasonous catamite , the White Wolf has a way of making him feel like it’s just them in this crystalline bubble of a moment together. Then Jaskier is watching Pris and Shani and Aleksander and their whole little group step cautiously through the black-and-purple swirl in space, only the White Wolf beside him and witchers behind, and it’s his turn to pass through. Despite the circumstances, he wonders if this might really be for the best - a liege to serve who values all of his people, and the freedom to write whatever he will, and all of the stories he could ever wish. 

Jaskier steps through the portal with a new song already beginning to bubble up in his mind, notes ready to shape to fit his next and greatest adventure. 

Chapter Text

    Yennefer has to be in the great hall to manage the portal, of course. She also has a notion to chew Geralt out a bit for making a hash of diplomacy, but the best time to do that is not when he’s surrounded by young noble guests that might pass out en masse if confronted by an irritated sorceress. She settles for mouthing “Later” at him to make him wince while he’s trying to climb into his cute pet noble’s pocket or meld with him somehow or whatever he thinks he’s doing. 

    Ealdred comes through early, obviously looking for her. The ribbon is wound about his wrist, which is pleasing to see, and he smiles wide and sweet when she beckons him over. He holds out the hand with the ribbon and when she takes it, he presses a kiss to her knuckles. “How did you know? When did you do it and how did I not notice?” He asks, releasing her hand with great reluctance. 

    Yennefer could tell him. She could admit that she knew from the beginning that sending Geralt to do his own negotiating would be a twelve-cart pileup on market day. She could tell him that she’d crept down to his rooms a solid week before they left, had put just the tiniest bit of chaos into the ribbon and animated it to slide under the door. Had known just where Ealdred’s cloak hangs on a peg next to his armor stand, and wiggled her fingers like a puppeteer to silently sneak the ribbon into the hidden pocket. She could even tell him, if she wished, that she scampered back to her room and collapsed into her favorite chair giggling like a girl of half her years afterward because he never checks his pockets and so was bound to miss the gift until it was needed. 

    Yennefer does not do any of those things. She just smiles inscrutably and takes the trailing ends of the ribbon to lead Ealdred out of the hall. He follows, of course, shortening his stride to match hers. “I knew because I know you, and I know Geralt, and more to the point I know nobility - but if I tell you when and how, it’ll take all of the fun out of it. And I know how you love a mystery. Now come and see what Triss and I have been working on and tell me all about how ridiculous Tretogor is.” 

    Ealdred's face goes thoughtful. He turns his hand in her grasp so she’s not pulling on the ribbon quite so much as they head up to the research space she shares with Triss. “It was very strange, actually,” he admits, rubbing his long fingers over the back of his neck. “The treaty seems… Not quite right somehow. There’s a lot of very murky language I can’t make heads nor tails of, and even though they invited us to negotiate and threw a very formal ball about it, they accused some of their own people of treason just for talking to us. Or, I suppose, in Bard Jaskier’s case, for flirting with the White Wolf quite hopelessly.” He grins down at her as he swings open the door to the laboratory. “I wish that you could have seen it. It was adorable.” 

    A bard. Marvelous. Actually, probably it really is a good thing, and potential entertainment besides. Yen smirks. “Oh, if it’s a bard we’ve kidnapped, I’m sure it will continue to be adorable- a penchant for the dramatic being part of the job, I would imagine.” She shoos him across the room to an armchair in the corner and goes rooting through the table for their new prototype while Ealdred drapes his cloak over the back and sits. “Here we are!”, she exclaims triumphantly. 

    It’s a little thing, the pendant they’ve come up with. Just a shiny little bluish crystalline bauble on a simple chain. Yen is disproportionately proud of it. She glides over and loops it around Ealdred’s neck. The gem glitters a little as it lands against his chest. 

    Ealdred looks bemused, but instead of asking what the point is or something horrid like that, he just - waits. “It’s very pretty”, he notes. That’s nice. He never rushes Yen through her explanations. It makes her feel beneficent. 

They’ve been on a merry mutual chase for nearly a year. He leaves her sneaky little gifts of hard-to-find components and relics and books, and she lets him into her research space and doesn’t turn him into a slug for alphabetizing her manuscripts or being a terrible bore and insisting she do such plebian things as eat and sleep when she’s on a tear. His patience does merit some kind of reward, she thinks. 

    So Yen settles across his lap on the armchair with her knees kicked over one armrest. Her arm curls about Ealdred’s neck and after a moment’s shock his wraps gently around her waist. He looks confused and delighted, which is a very good look on him. “It’s a tracking pendant,” she tells him proudly. “It reports the owner’s overall state of health and location, alerts if taken by force, and if broken it sends a signal that will alert both me and Triss no matter what condition we’re in.” Ealdred is built leaner and rangier than Geralt, but he still puts out that low cozy warmth and they fit together just so. Clearly, this armchair situation is win-win. 

    She’s done it again, she notes gleefully. He’s giving her that look again. The first time she saw it, she thought it was just that he found her beautiful. Then she thought it was because he liked her intelligence. Now- it’s been clear for a while that it’s more than that. That this isn’t meant to be a flirtation. It’s courtship. At some point, Yen went from gratified by the homage, to actively desiring Ealdred’s attention- and she has taken all of the care and attention he has given, and thrived on it. That’s… Quite a thought. 

    “You’re brilliant”, Ealdred confirms. He’s purring a little, low in his chest where Yen’s side is pressed against him. “How difficult is the process? What applications do you have in mind?” He pulls her just a little closer and leans his cheek against her shoulder. Probably taking sneaky sniffs of her hair because all witchers are ridiculous. 

    Yen can’t really purr, but there’s an unaccustomed warmth in her voice when she replies. “I’m so happy that you ask reasonably intelligent questions,” she tells him. “It’s gratifying to be listened to properly. They need refinement before we’ll be able to produce enough for all the patrol groups, but that is the eventual goal- and for any further diplomatic excursions, obviously.” 

    “Naturally,” he agrees. “Where do we get the materials?” Yen knows what that’s about. If she tells him, Ealdred will go to Eskel a discreet day or two later. Then, a week or so after that, he’ll just happen to pull a patrol out to wherever the crystals are mined, or whatever, and come back with at least one minor injury and a great sack of the things. In theory, that’s fine and lovely, and sometimes she allows it. In practice, sometimes she just wants to see his fucking face when she wants to see it, and in those situations she hides her notes, stashes her lists, and keeps everything with the same degree of security she’d have used in any other royal court. 

    “Send someone else,” Yen orders. She thinks for a moment about letting her fingers glide through the shiny black waves of his hair, and then firmly shelves the idea for another day. If they can exist in close quarters for the duration of a Project without wanting to kill each other, maybe then. She slithers off Ealdred’s lap- he lets her go the instant she moves- and she grasps his hand to pull him up with her. Ealdred gets up blinking at her, obviously trying to figure out if he should continue to pretend neither of them knows where all the gifts are coming from.

    “If I must,” he ultimately agrees, but he looks confused and maybe a little sad. Once again, Yen finds herself being magnanimous, because Ealdred’s kicked-puppy face is so much worse than anything Geralt ever directed at her. “I’d rather have you home for a while,” she explains. “You can keep notes for us and help with the testing phase. Also you know the blacksmiths and jewelers in town, that’ll help with the chains and bits.” 

    Raw, unfettered victory flashes across Ealdred’s face, but he’s quick to pack the expression away. Shit, maybe he’s learned to interpret her. That’s terrifying. “With great pleasure,” he purrs, unable to stop his lips turning up at the corners. It’s a good thing he’s pretty. “I’ll talk to Eskel tomorrow. Where are we going?”

    Yen tows him toward the door by the ends of her ribbon until he catches at her fingers, lacing them with his. “It’s so late that it’s actually early. You’re walking me to my rooms, and then you’re off to bed,” she informs him as they leave the laboratory. “We’ll reconvene on the pendants tomorrow afternoon.” She schools her voice carefully to stay even despite the warm little thrill she gets at the thought of keeping him to herself for a while and kind of wallowing in his company. 

    Ealdred just catches up to her and moves to tuck Yen’s hand through the crook of his elbow, smiling down at her like she hung the moon. “As you say,” he agrees easily. When they reach Yen’s door, she pauses and curls her fingers firmly into the fabric of his sleeve as she speaks. “I’ll expect a full report on gossip and politics at dinner tomorrow. After that, you’re with me.” 

    He kisses her hand again. That’s also irritatingly nice. “As I always will be, whenever duty permits and you desire my presence.” The words are neutral on the face of them; they could be empty courtesies. Ealdred’s voice imparts a level of intimacy, though, an earnest admiration that makes Yen feel almost giddy despite herself. If she stands in her doorway and watches him go, just savoring the rush of letting him that little bit closer, there’s no one to know. 

    And if he stops the instant he’s out of human earshot and waits to hear her heart steady and slow and then the swing–creak-click of her door closing safely before he makes his way to his own bed, there’s no one to know that, either.

Chapter Text

Geralt knew going into the trip that setting up a treaty with Vizimir was going to be a shitshow disaster. He’d have better odds of success at an embroidery competition, if such a thing exists. Yen didn’t come along - too close to a breakthrough in some research or other. Vesemir didn’t come along, because someone has to keep the place fucking standing. Eskel didn’t come along because first of all, someone has to be there for Ciri, and second, someone has to keep three-hundred odd witchers in order. The whole affair couldn’t be postponed, either, because if they waited another couple of weeks then all the patrol groups would be out for the Spring and the Kaer would be reduced to, not quite a skeleton staff, but definitely not enough to respond to a Situation. So Geralt’s really not surprised that it was overall a pretty terrible time. Honestly, he’d be outright pissed except that he’s coming home with everyone hale and safe, a draft of the treaty in his pocket, and with a sweet little bard tucked under his arm as a well deserved reward! 

The portal spits them out into the great hall. It’s fairly empty at this hour and, unlike most of his excursions, this one has not ended with a tiny blonde tornado with little legs flying at him at speed. Ciri is definitely asleep. That’s fine. He can look in on the cub as soon as this nonsense is settled. Settled-ish. Whatever. Geralt eyes the rarely-used throne and looks over the Redanians he’s apparently decided to take in as refugees or some shit. If he sits in that stupid arse-numbing chair, he will end up annoyed and these baby nobles will probably mostly faint. He releases Jaskier and waves for the nobles to congregate in the open space in the center of the hall. “Everybody, please, gather ‘round”, he says, trying to sound friendly. A couple of them pale, but at least they listen and cluster nervously around him like little birds with weird plumage. “Alright. It’s late. Let’s make this quick. I’ll need you all to swear right now that you’ll do no harm to any of my people while you’re here, including servants and any other humans. Then we can find you all rooms and hope to fuck we can make sense of things in the morning.” 

Jaskier steps up promptly, reaching out to Geralt with both hands. He takes them confusedly. “I’d better start,” Jaskier suggests, “since it’s not likely I’ll be going home no matter what happens to the others. I swear upon-” 

Geralt shakes his head, squeezes Jaskier’s hands carefully. “I already have your promise,” he tells him quietly. “Told you, I can smell a liar. Meant it just the way it sounded.” He smiles a tiny, crooked smile. “We can talk once we get everyone settled. It’s alright.” He keeps Jaskier right next to him when he releases his hands. The bard stays, stealing glances at him as if he can’t quite comprehend his own good fortune.  

Clearly recently rousted from bed, Eskel shambles over with Yennefer sailing dramatically in his wake. “How does this happen to you, Wolf?” Eskel asks bemusedly. He bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s sympathetically. Geralt gives him a Look which he correctly interprets as woebegone. Then Yen scowls and mouths Later from around the bulk of Eskel’s shoulders, which is just uncomfortable enough that Geralt shifts in his chair unhappily. “Alright, young milords and ladies,” Eskel says, “Let’s start with you.” He gestures at Dawid, being the oldest of the nobles, and one by one they give their word to do no harm to the Warlord’s people. Several of them are incredibly nervous, but nobody actually faints and none of them are lying. The blond bard woman and the redheaded doctor even sound relatively happy about it. Geralt can’t help being a bit relieved by that. He’d been quite sure of Jaskier, of course, but that doesn’t mean that all of his friends are gems of the same water. 

Jan, bless the man, appears exactly on time to help Eskel gather up the noble ducklings and herd them off to unoccupied rooms. As he introduces himself and they all go through their proper little folderol, Geralt finds himself catching Jaskier’s sleeve to stop him following them out of the hall. “I’ve got a place in mind for you”, he finds himself saying. “Gotta keep an eye on you, right?” 

Jaskier turns and swings into step beside him instantly. “Of course, White Wolf!”, he agrees brightly. They start right down the first corridor instead of left with the others, and he looks up at Geralt questioningly. “Why didn’t you want my fealty? Or even the same promise the others gave? Am I- I’m so sorry, this is dreadful but am I misreading?” His eyes are a shade of blue that actually burns a little, and he should be going out of his mind with fear but he still smells mostly happy and a little confused. It’s a citrusy bright smell that mixes with rosin and ink and the whole cocktail should be disgusting but Geralt just wants to bury his face in it and…

And that’s what he’s doing, apparently. He’s backed the bard up into one of the alcoves scattered through the hallways, buffered from the stone wall by an old tapestry, and bracketed him in with his arms. His nose hovers just barely above Jaskier’s neck, lips a whisper away from warm skin. When Geralt inhales, he gets a lung-deep hit of that scent and a rising wash of lust, and damned if it doesn’t make his teeth itch to take hold, to bite . When he exhales, a low purr erupts from his chest. For reasons Geralt does not completely understand, Jaskier responds by throwing his arms around Geralt’s neck and offering up his throat. 

The unthinking trust shocks Geralt back into a semblance of self-control. If he rushes into this, someone is going to get hurt, and for a change, it might not be him. He compromises just enough to press his lips gently to the spot and pulls back so that he can see Jaskier’s face. “You’re not misreading,” Geralt says. “I don’t want fealty because I don’t want you to be my subject . If you were, you might not understand you can say no to me. And I don’t need your word for my people’s safety, either. You were ready to fight Valdo Marx and de Rinbe - and maybe Vizimir too, if they’d kept insulting us. Even though you already admitted none of those were fights you’d have won.” 

“All of which is… true,” Jaskier replies thoughtfully. “I see your point.” His arms are still around Geralt’s neck, pressed close enough that Geralt can feel the quick steady thump of his heart just as much as hear it. “And putting me up somewhere away from all of the others? I hope you don’t think you have to isolate me to get my attention.” 

Jaskier doesn’t really believe that’s what’s going on. Geralt can tell. If he did, he’d smell nervous and he certainly wouldn’t be sliding gentle fingers through the hair at the back of Geralt’s neck in that particular way. It disarranges his queue a little, but it feels really good. Strange, because normally touching a witcher’s neck is a great way to get your fingers broken- especially when you only just met them hours before. Geralt hums and absorbs the touch for a moment or three, blinking slow and lazy like a contented cat. “Hmm. No. But since you’re probably right that you’ll be staying here, as long as you’re happy, I don’t want to have to go all the way across the keep to find you.” 

From the moment they met, Geralt was pretty sure that Jaskier was Trouble. The look of sly amusement that crawls across his pretty face confirms that suspicion handily. “You know, if you really want to keep me readily accessible, you could-” 

Geralt cuts him off with a tiny smile. “Install you in my bed immediately? Already thought about it. Tempting, but unwise for both of us. We both need the opportunity to learn about each other. And you to understand what it means to be here, to be a part of Kaer Morhen. Let me take my time with you a little, hmm? There’s such a thing as delayed gratification.” He reaches up behind himself and collects one of Jaskier’s hands from the back of his neck, congratulating himself for his self-control. 

Jaskier gives him a very indignant look. He smells like mingled pleasure and outrage, sweet and spicy. What a confusing morass of things to feel all at once- Geralt really has no idea how he does it. “How dare you be a romantic! Ah, my poor heart, I can’t take it- I will surely-” Jaskier does a rather dramatic false faint, crumpling like a fallen flower in his arms. 

Geralt catches him, obviously, and carefully pulls him back up to his feet. “You are Trouble ,” he says, approving despite himself. 

“So I’m told,” Jaskier replies, sounding very smug, and then that inordinately clever mouth is pressed to his. It’s a fleeting kiss, not the kind of slow hungry thing Geralt would far prefer, but it feels like the time he was bored in Yen’s workroom and uncorked the weird glass bottle that turned out to have fucking lightning in it. Of course Geralt has to have another taste, just to determine if that feeling was a fluke. 

It wasn’t a fluke. Jaskier somehow tastes even better than he smells, and when Geralt bites a little at his absolutely unfair and unreasonable lower lip he makes this little hitching breathy sound and melts into his arms. If it wasn’t for the cub and matters of state, Geralt would take Jaskier to bed right this instant and not let him out for a solid week . 

Damn. The cub. Matters of state. The Treaty . Fuck. Geralt breaks the kiss, hoping he looks more composed than he feels. “Right,” he says firmly. “Important stuff before you distract me again. Fuck, I don’t know where to begin, we don’t get a lot of humans here and most of the ones we do are usually household staff or warriors. Um. Biggest thing. I have a daughter- Ciri. She’s five. You’ll meet her tomorrow. She’s... very important to me. Her mother’s long gone and she scares away all her tutors. Also, we’re basically nothing at all like the court in Tretogor, mostly because witchers can very literally smell emotions and lies so there’s no sense dissembling.” Geralt never worried about integrating people like Zofia or the Kaer’s household staff; they generally figured things out pretty quickly on their own. Jaskier, though, and his friends, they come from such a different background, they’re likely to be shocked several times a day and he doesn’t know which differences are going to have that effect. 

Jaskier looks a bit surprised. “She’s a very carefully-kept secret,” he observes. “I can respect that. And she’s yours, so I’m sure she’s wonderful. If there are that many, um, cultural differences, then maybe I should meet some of the other humans so they can give me the short version. I’ll bet it’ll be easier for them to explain since as far as I know you’ve always lived here, right?” 

He’s not put off. Geralt doesn’t fully understand how or why, but he’s just- accepting . He’d wrapped one arm around Jaskier’s waist when he “fainted” and he tightens it now, just a bit. “I think I was maybe three or four when Vesemir brought me home,” he agrees. “Alright. Closest person we have to a human noble other than you and your friends would be Jan, our steward. Any of the servants will be able to tell you where to find him. He’s a good man. You'll like him.” He pulls Jaskier forward and gets them moving again. There’s a little suite of rooms right at the end of the corridor on the next floor down, not far from the tower he shares with Ciri. That’ll be conveniently close and also central enough that finding people to talk to and write about will be easy- that’s what bards do, right? Geralt is helping . 

“I’ll seek him out,” Jaskier agrees as they start down the stairs. He’s giving Geralt a kind of sidelong look, like he can’t quite believe this is all happening and he’s not sure what he can get away with. “Just for the sake of clarity, Pris and I really will write songs about everyone and everything,” he warns. “You’ll have to tell us if there are any forbidden topics. Aside from her Highness, I assume. If you wanted the world to know about her, this wouldn’t be the first I’ve heard.” 

That’s so uncommonly thoughtful . It makes Geralt want to kiss him again. “No songs about Ciri. She’d be a target. Anything else- hmm. I’ll just tell everyone to be clear about anything they don’t want shared. If you ever feel like it, I’ll bet everyone would love to hear you play sometime. Pris too. We don’t get a lot of music here but most of us do like it.” 

There are a couple of servants coming up the stairs. It looks like the early-morning kitchen staff have already started their work; Julita and one of the other junior bakers are in aprons with their sleeves rolled up and they’re both dusted with flour. “Morning, Julita, Katya,” Geralt grins at Letho’s niece and her friend. 

“Welcome back, Wolf,” Julita smiles. “Brought a friend home, I see!” She reaches up and pats him approvingly on the arm while Jaskier boggles at the familiarity. “Must’ve gone well. That’s nice. Mistress Emilia says I can help with the berry tarts for supper. You have to try one, alright? Uncle Letho says I’m getting better at the sugar glaze!” 

Geralt nods indulgently. Julita’s a good kid. “Course I will,” he agrees, and the girls continue up the stairs and he and Jaskier continue down them. Jaskier, he is realizing, may need a little context for this conversation. He’s vaguely aware that most nobles are not so friendly with their staff. “Letho’s a witcher. Viper school. Julita is Jan’s daughter. Letho rescued her when she was very small and she and Jan pretty much adopted Letho on the spot. Most of our resident humans have stories like that, or know someone who does.” They reach the correct floor and round the corner, and one door down from the stairs is the suite Geralt has in mind. “Dunno if it’s the mutations, making us more prone to pack-bonding or whatever you wanna call it, or if it’s just that we’ve spent so long with humans being afraid of us or disgusted by us or whatever that now we just can’t help but care for anyone who isn’t, but I sort of see them as- our family, I guess you could call it.” 

Jaskier is looking at him with the oddest expression. It’s a face that probably ought to be reserved for baby bunnies, or kittens, or some other unbearably precious little thing. It feels weird. Not bad , as such, but weird. It takes on a very determined cast as they pause outside Jaskier’s door. “You have a public opinion problem, dear Wolf. The world has been very much misinformed and we are going to fix that . By the time Pris and I are done, there won’t be a nation on the Continent that won’t welcome witchers with open arms.” 

That sounds like a very tall order, but Geralt isn’t about to tell Jaskier that it can’t be done. Fifteen years ago, he’d never have believed that he’d bring the Schools together, much less end up ruling a nation , so obviously his idea of what’s possible isn’t always correct. “If anyone can, it’s you,” he says instead of protesting. “This’ll be you. I’ll send a trainee to help you find stuff in the morning.” Geralt probably should leave it at that - should probably shoo Jaskier into his rooms and make for his own bed like a sensible man. 

Geralt has never been sensible a day in his life. That is his very flimsy excuse for what he does instead: he very gently backs Jaskier up against his door, one hand at his waist and the other sliding into his soft brown hair, and lets himself take the kiss he’d wanted in the first place. It’s one of those very bad ideas that is also a very good idea. Jaskier kisses like he’s starving for it, like Geralt’s mouth is a new instrument for him to learn, and then the heavy wooden door is holding them both up because Geralt is leaning into the kiss like the sea sinking into sand. Too soon, far too soon, Jaskier breaks away with a gasp. Geralt really wasn’t done kissing him, but to be fair he’s not sure how long that would even take, so he settles for leaving a line of careful bites down his throat and tries not to be growly about it. Then he burrows his face in against the crook of Jaskier’s neck for a minute to catch his breath, and coincidentally to luxuriate in the way he seems to perpetually smell like mingled lust and happiness. That doesn’t help at all . Geralt pulls himself away with an effort of will. “You’d better go, before I change my mind”, he rasps. 

Jaskier looks highly reluctant, but he pushes off the door and reaches behind himself to swing it open. “If I must,” he agrees. Clearly neither of them have any impulse control at all, though, because he leans back in to brush his lips over Geralt’s again very briefly. “Goodnight, Geralt. Sleep well.” And then he’s slipping into his rooms and Geralt doesn’t want to stand there staring at the door like a fool, so he goes on down to his own rooms and lies in bed staring at the ceiling like a fool instead. 

This is fine. This is all just fine . Geralt just needs to catch a quick nap, because he never sleeps in potentially hostile territory if he can help it, and then he can go wake Ciri and… And figure out what in holy thunderment to do with a dozen assorted Redanians and one very attractive bard.