Chapter Text
Jeralt looked on as the fires consumed his home. Everything he worked for and loved was gone.
All from the fire that he made.
'This didn't need to happen,' a small part of his mind says. Oh, but it did. All for his children, who were hidden on a cradle up a tree, a reasonable distance away from the monastery.
Away from Rhea.
It all began when he returned from a mission, only to see his wife's gravestone. Confused and heartbroken, he sought out the Archbishop, who was carrying his daughter in her arms. His daughter, who wouldn't stop crying, who kept reaching out to him and-
As he took his daughter from Rhea, all he heard was, "You may leave your daughter in my care." No condolences. No anger. None of that. No, Rhea looked satisfied at the turn of events. It was so unlike the woman that saved his life all those decades ago, so unlike the kind Archbishop that took in orphans and cared for those less fortunate. It was as if she were an entirely different person from the Rhea that he knew.
Jeralt continued on as if he didn't hear what Rhea said.
He learned later that day from his squire, Alois, that he had another child. A son. Who Rhea seemed to not deem important enough to mention when he arrived.
Jeralt's trust in Rhea broke that day.
Now, after the Archbishop's countless attempts to have his daughter in her care, like giving him countless missions that would take him away from his children for long periods of time (To which he gave her the stink-eye and mentally flipped her off, all the while taking his children with him.) Jeralt had recently brought his children to his most trusted healer and while his son was as regular as a baby could be, his daughter-
No heartbeat. His daughter had no heartbeat. Rhea had done something to his daughter and wanted to keep her here for reasons only known to her.
He then approached Rhea, who looked distraught. He looked her in the eyes as he resigned from the Knights of Seiros. He turned his back on her, and never looked back. He didn't feel any remorse as his children were back in his arms, as he rode into the night, with only his lance and a pouch full of coins. Sitri would understand. In fact, she probably would have done the same, had she been in his place.
It was all for their children.