Chapter Text
It was nearing dusk when Geralt decided to stop for the day.
It was a bit earlier than he usually liked to end his days of travel, but there was a little village to stop in and well. Geralt was feeling a bit…on edge. He wasn’t sure exactly what was bothering him. It was a slight prickle of unease, tension refusing to dissipate in his shoulders. Knowing his luck, it could be something as simple as an incoming storm or as deadly as a band of bandits.
He had just finished stabling Roach when the source of his unease made themselves known.
Footsteps entering the stable, so light Geralt almost didn’t hear them, along with a deep voice Geralt could recognize in his sleep. At the familiar cadence, Geralt felt the tension seep out of his muscles.
“Fancy seeing you here Wolf.”
Before he could even turn around, another voice drawled out. “Three wolf witchers in the same village? What are the fuckin’ odds of that.”
Geralt gave Roach one last pat, then turned toward his brothers. “Got a feeling Destiny played no part in it.”
“You’ve got that right.” Lambert grinned back at him, casually twirling a knife around his fingers. Eskel was next to him, leaning against the stable wall and looking very satisfied with himself. “D’you know how long it took us to track you down?”
Geralt was immediately Wary.
“…why are you here?” It was a fair question. Geralt wasn’t expecting to see either of his brothers until the winter. Running into one of them on the Path was rare. Running into both of them? Unheard of.
Geralt did not like the smirk on Lambert’s face. “Thought we’d come and see how you were doing, since you left Kaer Morhen in such a hurry last winter.”
He gritted out, “Vesemir said the spring thaw came early. Thought I’d get a head start on the Path.”
“See, I would believe that. Except you conveniently left before we could tally up the month’s scores. And do you know what Eskel and I found after looking at the ledger?”
Eskel continued, mischief in his eyes. “You lost Wolf. By a lot.”
Geralt sighed. He should have expected this, but he was hoping with the chaos of the Path and the distance of months, his brothers would have forgotten. Geralt should have known luck was never on his side.
Each winter, the three witchers play a game to keep the season interesting. They propose little challenges to each other, some as benign as who can finish their food the fastest, others as dangerous as who can stack the most daggers on a sleeping Vesemir. Whoever loses the challenge gets a tally by their name in the ledger they keep in the back of the library. At the end of each month, whoever has the most tallies by their name gets punished.
The punishments had started off relatively simple when they first started the game. Mucking out the stables, skinning all the meat for dinner, ect. As the years progressed, the punishments got more…involved.
Lambert had lost the prior month, and Geralt took no small amount of glee in waxing off every hair on his body.
Fearing violent retribution for that particular punishment, Geralt left the keep as soon as he could after realizing he was in last place that month. He should have known better than to try and escape his brothers’ wrath.
“What is it?” Geralt grumbled out.
“Well,” Eskel started. “Since you left before your last punishment, Lambert and I decided it was only fair to issue the punishment before the next winter begins. Not to mention being out on the Path gave us some much more interesting options.”
“The extra months to think up your worst nightmare also helped,” Lambert grinned. “So thanks for that.”
Geralt really shouldn’t have stopped so early for the night. “What is it?” he repeated.
Lambert motioned to the door. “It’s waiting in the tavern.”
“It’s waiting? What the fuck does that mean.”
“You’ll hear soon,” Eskel huffed a laugh, placing a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and steering them out of the stable.
“Hear?”
“Mmmhmm.”
Geralt’s dread only built as they made their way to the tavern. It was quite busy, villagers and travelers ambling in and out, the smell of roasted meat, fried dough, and stale ale scenting the air.
“We know how much you value silence Wolf.”
“Yeah,” Lambert opened the door and led the way to a table in the back, practically bouncing in excitement. “So we decided to take it the fuck away.” Before Geralt could react, Lambert produced a pair of handcuffs out of nowhere and clenched one side around Geralt’s wrist.
He looked incredibly smug. “Got these bad boys magically enchanted. Not even witcher strength can break them.”
Geralt scowled, sitting down on the bench seat. “This your plan? Handcuff me to a chair and make me endure a night in this shitty tavern?” As far as punishments went, that didn’t sound too bad. At least there was alcohol.
Eskel shook his head, hand still on Geralt’s shoulder to hold him in place. “Oh, no. We’re doing one better than that. Jaskier?”
A man from the next table slid over, sitting right next to Geralt. The man was dressed horrifically: all bright silks and glinting jewelry, topped with a jauntily-feathered hat.
“Hello!” he greeted, unperturbed by Geralt’s glare. He was, much to Geralt's annoyance, quite attractive.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Lambert answered, “Meet Jaskier, your personal bard for the next 24 hours.”
“My personal what?”
“Bard!” the man replied with a wink. He held out his hand, and Lambert attached the other end of the handcuffs to his wrist.
“No.”
“Yes,” Eskel, Lambert, and Jaskier replied at the same time.
Geralt looked helplessly between the three, landing on the cuffs now linking him to the bard.
Lambert hadn’t stopped grinning. Eskel waved over a barmaid to bring them some drinks, while Jaskier wiggled, making himself comfortable at Geralt’s side. The feather in his hat hit Geralt in the face. He glared, but Jaskier just grinned back.
Perhaps he could reason with the bard. “You can’t be okay with this.”
“With what? Being handcuffed to a devastatingly handsome man? Getting to admire those beautiful biceps from close range? Gods, truly, have you seen yourself? Trust me, I’ve never been better.”
Geralt frowned. “But I’m a witcher.”
“Yes, I did gather that from the eyes and the swords and your general ‘don’t mess with me’ scowl-y face.”
“You should be scared.”
Jaskier rolled his eyes. Geralt was stunned at the complete disregard the bard had for his own safety. Hope was rapidly dwindling that he could talk the bard out of doing this. “One, your brothers promised no harm would befall me. Two, you expect me to be scared of such a beautiful face? You could pin me up against the wall, threaten me with one of those swords, and I would thank you for the opportunity.”
Well, the bard was a lost cause. Geralt ignored the last comment, turning to his brothers. “Where did you even find him?”
“He’s a friend of a friend,” Lambert replied, leaning back in his chair.
“Who was positively honored to get the chance to spend a whole day next to the Geralt of Rivia’s side.” As if to emphasize his point, Jaskier scooted even closer to the witcher, plastering himself to Geralt’s side.
The drinks arrived and Jaskier immediately reached for Geralt’s ale. Geralt swatted his hand away, taking a large drink and continuing to glare at the bard. Jaskier was, as expected, completely unfazed. There was no trace of fear in the bard at all. Geralt was equally annoyed, perplexed, and impressed.
Eskel looked between them. “I think this is our best punishment yet.”
“A fucking masterpiece,” Lambert nodded, clinking his glass with Eskel’s in celebration.
Geralt drained his entire drink in one go, motioning to the barmaid for another.
“So Geralt,” Jaskier said, attempting once again to steal Geralt’s new ale. He pushed the bard away with a grunt. “Lambert told me that you love original poetry recitations?”
Geralt wondered how easy it would be to stab Lambert from across the table. Surely it couldn’t be too hard?
“No,” He gritted out.
“Ah see, I was rather afraid you would say that. But it’s no matter! I am nothing if not adaptable. If poetry is not to your taste, I am sure songs about you will be!”
Geralt had faced down the worst monsters the Continent had to offer, had tangled with dangerous sorceresses and come face-to-face with the nastiest curses one could imagine.
Never before had he been filled with so much dread.
Jaskier turned his head, smacking Geralt again with that stupid feather. “Eskel dear, would you mind getting my lute for me? It’s just at that nearby table.”
“Eskel, no,” Geralt practically pleaded, his eyes widening.
Eskel was already standing up, the bastard. “Eskel, yes.”
“This is the best day of my godsdamned life,” Lambert muttered.
“Just wait until it’s your turn to be punished.”
“Like I’m scared of any punishments you could think up Pretty Boy.”
Geralt narrowed his eyes, “I’ll wax your eyebrows off again.”
Unconcerned, Lambert leaned back further in his chair. “I’d like to see you try.”
“One lute, for the Master Bard.”
“Excellent! I’m ever so grateful Eskel.” Jaskier took the offered lute, strumming a loud chord. Geralt winced at the noise, his hand tugged along as Jaskier continued to strum. Oh, it was going to be a long night.
Jaskier played a few light cords, Geralt’s hand awkwardly resting by the bard’s side. “Now, Eskel and Lambert were kind enough to regale me with a few of your exciting witchery adventures.”
“None of my contracts are exciting enough for songs.”
“I beg to differ! In fact, I will prove you wrong right now.” Jaskier smiled up at him and began to sing, “When a humble bard…”
~21 hours left~
Three hours.
The bard sang praises about him for three godforsaken hours.
Stabbing Lambert was no longer an if, but a when. Geralt just needed to survive the night and get out of the handcuffs from hell.
At least, Geralt thought as the bard began another round of an annoyingly catchy song about Geralt killing a nest of nekkers. At least he was a decent musician. Pretty talented, actually. If he ignored all the references to his ‘gorgeous silvery hair’ and ‘extremely well-defined pectorals’ and ‘expert sword skills,’ Geralt could almost let himself enjoy the bard’s singing.