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Chapter Text

When Jaskier was young and foolish and inconsequential enough to merit a little freedom, he ran off, escaping court and academia to embrace the life of a travelling bard. It was more difficult than he’d expected, and less rewarding, until, giving just another lackluster performance to just another unappreciative audience in just another insignificant backwater, he laid eyes on the man who changed everything: A Witcher. The Witcher.

Jaskier was young and foolish, which is to say that he fell hard and fast, but he got over it even faster. By the end of that first hunt, he’d replaced the curiosity and lust that had drawn him to the Witcher in that tavern in Posada with genuine respect and admiration. Geralt was still inhumanly handsome, of course, but Jaskier wouldn’t risk the chance to get to know him for a fleeting night of passion. They traveled together, on and off, for several years, and Jaskier treasured Geralt’s friendship, taking his pleasure elsewhere when his banked longing grew difficult to ignore.

Then, of course, came Princess Pavetta of Cintra’s disastrous betrothal banquet. Jaskier didn’t think much of his parting from Geralt that winter; their paths always seemed to cross in the spring. But Belletyn came and went with no sign of the Witcher. The only news the road brought Jaskier that spring was of the Princess Pavetta’s stillborn daughter. Her death was shortly followed by her parents’ tragedy on the seas. And then, no more than a year later, Ard Carraigh fell.

No one knew much about the new lord of Kaedwen except that he must be a Witcher – for who else could command the Witcher army that cut its way through one territory after another over the next nine years until half the North had been swallowed by the rising empire? It seemed that all who had seen his face or heard his name were either his vassals or corpses. In the absence of fact, rumor spread like a disease.

Like everyone else in the northern kingdoms not yet under his control, Jaskier had heard some truly horrifying things about the Warlord. But, unlike everyone else, Jaskier had actually met a Witcher. Geralt, he knew, would never stand for the sort of atrocities the Warlord and his Witchers were accused of committing. But, well, there was no guarantee that he was involved at all. When Jaskier had last seen him, he had seemed as dedicated as ever to shunning politics and avoiding “human problems.” There was every chance that he had chosen to keep roaming around killing monsters and stay out of the whole thing. And that’s if he hadn’t managed to get himself killed; Jaskier knew the white-haired Witcher had been keeping himself alive since long before he had even been born, but, well, a decade was a long time to go without news. Jaskier had spent the first two years after their parting keeping eyes out and ears open for his friend and never found a single trace of him. Then, of course, the shifting borders had made it impossible for him to travel far from home.

In any case, he was fairly confident that the Warlord and his men had a moral compass at least somewhat similar to Geralt’s and that all rumors to the contrary were the usual horse shit propaganda brought on by any rising power, blown utterly out of proportion simply because the ignorant masses were willing to believe just about anything when it came to Witchers. The songs Jaskier had written while on the road with Geralt had helped combat that, for a while, but singing any of them these days would likely get him arrested for treason in Redania – or, at least, in the third of it still under King Vizimir’s rule. It was a pity; he still considered them his best work.

Jaskier knew how the game of politics was played, so it was no surprise to him when Vizimir decided to send tribute to the Warlord in a desperate gambit to retain control of his tattered fragment of a nation – until he discovered exactly what they planned to offer. He tried to protest that Witchers were as reasonable as any human being – actually, far more reasonable than most humans, though he was smart enough not to say that aloud – and, thus, would be properly offended by the implications of such a gift. He was, of course, overruled.

His father’s voice was the most dismissive of all. “I believe my son’s partiality to Witchers makes him a perfect candidate for the honor,” the Count de Lettenhove said with a smirk. It was petty and cruel and utterly insincere. It was a stroke of political genius – rendering a service that would curry favor with the king while simultaneously getting rid of a son he had always considered useless at best, troublesome at worst. It was a proposal Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to protest. He doubted it would do any good, and even if it did, who would be sent in his place? Milena? Oliwia? Some other innocent, young flower whose only crime was being a “useless” younger daughter? He couldn’t bear the thought. Besides, he diligently reminded himself, for all his father’s skepticism, Jaskier was a very intelligent man, who was hardly ever wrong and had absolutely no reason to believe that any harm would come to him at the Witcher King’s hands.

He tilted his chin up in defiance as the smug nobles in the room didn’t bother even to stifle their snickers, most blatantly relieved that the Count’s suggestion neatly sidestepped the risk of having to give up anyone they actually valued. “I would be delighted,” Jaskier bit out through a smile that was all teeth, “to offer my services as a bard to the Warlord’s court.”

They laughed at his naivete, sure that they knew better what the Warlord really wanted. But they didn’t turn down a willing sacrifice.

That was how Jaskier found himself riding up a treacherous mountain path, fidgeting in an awkward attempt to relieve the discomfort of his bound wrists and surrounded by armed guards. They’d actually left him free for most of the journey – partially in deference to his status as a volunteer and mostly because he’d managed to keep them entertained with jaunty tunes on his lute. He’d expected a fight over being allowed to take it, but his father had only laughed, secure in his scorn for the idea that it was a bard the Witcher King wanted. The Count de Lettenhove seemed more than happy for his son to have that illusion ripped away by his new masters in the Blue Mountains. Still, it worked out in Jaskier’s favor until they drew near the gates of Kaer Morhen and his escort decided that they needed to make his role clear to those who would receive him.

Jaskier struggled to quiet his racing thoughts as the imposing keep rose up before him. He was reasonably certain no harm would come to him. But, for all that he’d made a rather safe bet, the stakes were far too high for comfort. The Witchers had certainly shown themselves to be kind enough to non-humans, though their treatment of Ghelibol reminded him of the more embittered branches of the Scoia’tael, those who were eager to take out their anger on any humans they could find. Jaskier hoped that was an exception brought about by that city’s singular atrocities and not a pattern. Either way, he couldn’t see himself being used in the way the Redanian court expected or subjected to any sort of torture. The worst case scenario would probably be a quick, clean death by a Witcher’s steel sword, with his corpse being sent back to Redania as a warning. Jaskier did his best to take deep, slow breaths as he reminded himself once again that that was unlikely, but the thin mountain air was hardly helpful in that regard.

He at least got a bit of vindictive glee out of watching his guards stutter in fear of the scarred Witcher who met them at the gates. They hadn’t treated him badly, per se, but well, they were still delivering him to what they were sure would be an awful fate with nary a complaint or apology.

The speculative gaze the Witcher fixed on Jaskier as he led him inside the walls of the keep was a bit unnerving, but he’d once grown accustomed to worse. The medallion around the Witcher’s neck marked him as a member of the Wolf school, like Geralt. He spoke to Jaskier kindly enough, and his hands were gentle as he lifted him out of the saddle, set him carefully on his feet, and cut the silken ropes that bound his hands together. Jaskier figured those were all good signs and breathed just a little more easily as he followed him inside Kaer Morhen to be presented to the Warlord of the North.

He hadn’t expected to bypass a conspicuously empty throne and enter an office, of all things, but maybe he should have. He quickly scanned the occupants of the room, spying first a Witcher, also with a Wolf medallion, who had somehow lived long enough to earn grey hair. He had to look again when he recognized Yennefer of Vengerberg, the witch Geralt had insisted on saving from her own stupidity in that mess with the djinn. Before he could decide what to feel about her, his eyes alighted on the last person in the room.

“Oh, Geralt, thank fuck,” he said, nearly sagging in relief. He hadn’t realized how tense he still was, despite his own reassurances, until he finally fully relaxed. It seemed he hadn’t heard from the Witcher in so long simply because he’d been busy helping his brethren conquer half the continent. He might not care much for Jaskier’s friendship, if he hadn’t gone out of his way to reach out, but he certainly wouldn’t let any harm come to him. He was too good of a person.

“Jaskier? The fuck are you doing here?”

Eskel, the Witcher who had led the bard this far, raised an eyebrow at the familiar greeting, or possibly at the name, since Jaskier’s escort had given his official name and title at the gate. Still, his surprise didn’t stop him from answering with obvious amusement, “Redania decided he’d make a good tribute to appease the great and terrible Warlord of the North.”

The teasing tone of his voice as he spoke the title suggested that the Warlord, unlike most kings, could take a joke. But the humor was undercut by the severed remnants of silken rope Eskel tossed on the stone floor.

“They fucking what?” Geralt’s face didn’t change much, but Jaskier had no trouble recognizing the incandescent rage in his low growl.

“Don’t worry about it, my friend, I volunteered,” he said breezily. If he hadn’t completely forgotten how to read those subtle expressions, the flat look Geralt gave him after glancing down once more at the scraps of rope on the floor was heavy with disbelief. But, oddly enough, Eskel came to his aid once more.

“He didn’t smell half as afraid as his guards,” the Witcher said.

“See?” Jaskier said. “All’s well that- hang on, did you say smell? You can actually smell fear? I thought you were joking about that!”

Geralt favored him with the slight twitch of his lips that suggested a smile when he was feeling particularly fond. “Only you, Jaskier, could possibly mistake me for being more human than I am.”

Jaskier’s cheeks grew hot in pleased embarrassment at the acknowledgment. True to form, Geralt didn’t state his feelings outright – some things never changed – but after every stupid rumor he’d heard people spread about Witchers, painting them as so much less human than they were, Jaskier had an inkling of just how much Geralt appreciated being confronted with the opposite for once.

Happy enough to keep the tone light, Jaskier said, “Well, now I know. So, is it only fear, or…?”

It was Eskel who answered, “Most basic emotions. Happiness, sorrow, hate, lust…Your relief just now was so strong it nearly knocked me over.”

The grey-haired Witcher beside Yennefer nodded in agreement. Jaskier barely noticed the motion and couldn’t bring himself to search Geralt’s expression for nuance. None of his practice hiding blushes helped him as his embarrassment lost its pleasurable edge. If Geralt had been able to smell the infatuation that had drawn Jaskier to him in Posada, it was no wonder he had tried so hard to be rid of him in those early days. It must have been incredibly awkward to inhale constant reminders of feelings he hadn’t requited.

Jaskier had thought he’d done a good job of burying his slowly deepening feelings as their companionship evolved. He’d contented himself with friendship, never asking more than the other man could give. He’d even half convinced himself he didn’t yearn for more. But if his true desires were impossible to hide from the Witcher’s heightened senses, no matter how unaffected Jaskier acted, it was perhaps no wonder that he hadn’t bothered reaching out in the last decade. No use leading the bard on, right?

Or was Jaskier overthinking it? Had Geralt simply been busy and let the years slip past him in the way only someone with an obscenely long lifespan could? Jaskier wished he’d been important enough to spare some time for despite all that, then immediately quashed the thought. He had to do better, with what he now knew. No more indulging foolish fantasies if he wanted to stay at Geralt’s side this time – and gods did he want to stay.

“Lies too,” Geralt added, either oblivious to or kindly ignoring Jaskier’s silent mental breakdown. Actually, that little tidbit explained quite a bit about his behavior over the years Jaskier had known him.

“Well, isn’t that handy?” Jaskier said lightly.

“Immensely,” Geralt deadpanned.

Eskel cleared his throat. “So, not to break up the reunion, but what are we doing with him?” he asked, nodding at Jaskier.

Geralt sighed before addressing his answer to Jaskier. “We’ll find you a room in the guest wing for tonight, then send you back-”

“What? Send me back?” Jaskier squawked. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“You have been needing a court bard,” Yennefer interjected slyly, looking far too pleased at the whole mess, and Jaskier would absolutely be asking about her presence here later, but for now, he took the support and ran with it.

“Thank you, Yennefer, you- wait, you? You, Mr. I-don’t-get-involved? You made yourself a warlord?”

Jaskier saw what passed for a grimace cross Geralt’s face as the pieces fell together in his mind. Eskel had said he was escorting him to the Warlord. And he hadn’t asked Geralt what to do with Jaskier simply because they knew each other; he’d asked Geralt because he was his liege. And that would certainly explain why he had disappeared from the Path just before the Warlord’s conquest had begun.

“Would you believe it was an accident?” Geralt asked, the lightness of his tone gloriously enriched by the depth of his rough voice.

Jaskier froze while his mind tried and failed to process that claim. It was preposterous. It was insane. It was…exactly the sort of chaotic mess Geralt would get himself swept up in, though Jaskier couldn’t imagine how. He couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

“Geralt,” he said. “If there is one person in the world I can believe made himself a king by accident, it’s you.”

“I’m not a king.”

“Kaedwen, Caingorn, half of Aedirn, and two thirds of Redania beg to disagree, Your Majesty,” Jaskier said with much the same teasing lilt Eskel had given “the great and terrible Warlord of the North.” The bard didn’t bother trying to contain his ebullient laugh at the familiar grimace it elicited from Geralt.

“I will send you right back down the mountain,” the Witcher King threatened.

“No you won’t,” Jaskier said brightly. “You like me too much.” He couldn’t stop beaming, and maybe part of his effervescence was brought on by the adrenaline crash following the strength of his relief, but he thought the lion’s share was due to genuine excitement. He’d yet to find a muse to equal the White Wolf.

Geralt hummed noncommittally, but it wasn’t strictly a denial, and he did end his meeting early to lead Jaskier to his new room. Before Jaskier could get too comfortable, Geralt pulled a whirlwind of a child out of the chimney. A child he introduced as his daughter, Ciri. A child who, under the deliberate coating of soot she had prepared for one “Uncle Lambert,” had the unmistakable ash blonde hair and bright green eyes of Princess Pavetta of Cintra. As she ran out of the room to find her uncle, following her father’s gentle admonishment to bathe before supper, Jaskier gaped like a fish.

He slowly turned to Geralt. As usual, the Witcher’s expression gave away absolutely nothing. The bastard.

“Princess Cirilla.”

“Yes,” Geralt said shortly.

“She looks just like her mother.”

Geralt held up a hand in a wordless demand for silence, and, for once, Jaskier obeyed. Geralt stalked toward the door, but rather than fleeing, he simply closed it and turned back to Jaskier.

“An enchantment Yen put on all the bedrooms,” he explained. “We won’t be overheard with the door closed.”

Jaskier nodded dumbly. When Geralt failed to speak further, he prompted, “Everyone thinks she’s dead. Or was never born, or- you know what I mean.”

“You’re the only one who knows.”

Jaskier blinked because he couldn’t possibly have heard that right. “What do you mean, I’m the only one who knows?”

“I introduced her as my daughter. No one asked questions.”

“I was under the impression that Witchers are sterile.”

“Everyone assumed I was the exception.”

“And you never bothered to correct them. Geralt, your daughter – and, presumably, the heir to your empire, and gods am I still processing that – is also the heir to Cintra. That has to influence how you do things. How do you plan to deal with Calanthe when Ciri becomes more visible? You have to at least tell your council.”

“I know,” Geralt ground out, the admission surprising Jaskier. “It wasn’t supposed to be so complicated. Pavetta asked me to keep her hidden; there’s a reason she claimed she was a stillborn. I never expected this empire thing. Even once it started, I was sure it wouldn’t last long enough to cause this sort of problem.”

Jaskier snorted. “Yes, well, it’s lasted. Too late to back out now, my lord.” Geralt grimaced at the reflexive teasing that bought time for Jaskier’s racing thoughts to settle. “What were you supposed to hide her from?”

Geralt stared at him for a long moment, his heavy golden gaze flaying Jaskier open to examine his soul. He’d forgotten just how hard it was to breathe with the weight of those eyes on him. Just when he was sure he wouldn’t answer, Geralt spoke.

“Her father.”

“Duny?” Jaskier asked incredulously. From what he remembered, Pavetta had been rather madly in love with her child’s father.

“He wasn’t who he said he was.”

“Who was he, then?”

“Emhyr var Emreis.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped. Why had he missed this man again? Geralt was a walking disaster held together by violence and a string of impulsive decisions and the whims of Destiny. But, well, there was something compelling about the nobility that governed that violence and the kindness that drove those decisions and the authority that Geralt wielded so naturally when a lesser man in his place could never be more than a hapless pawn of fate.

“Fuck,” Jaskier said helplessly. “That- okay, I see how that’s a complete mess. But that’s really all the more reason your advisors, at least, need to know the truth about Ciri.”

“I know. But I need to find a way to tell her first. And, Jaskier, she’s so young.”

Jaskier nodded, his heart aching as Geralt’s voice was as emotive as he’d ever heard it, taut with the tension of a father grieving his daughter’s impending loss of innocence. He could understand the impulse to tell Ciri first. And he heard the implicit plea behind the statement.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Jaskier scraped together a small smile at the frankly unnecessary gratitude. How could he do any less? Drained, he sat heavily on the end of his bed and searched desperately for a topic that might lighten the mood.

“So,” he tried finally, “how does one accidentally make oneself a Warlord?”

Geralt snorted. “Fuck if I know.”

“Come on,” Jaskier coaxed, and it was easier than he expected to fall into old patterns with this man, despite all the things that had changed between them. “You have to give me more than that.”

Geralt’s lips quirked upward again – not as open a smile as he’d given Ciri but unmistakably fond all the same. “Perhaps another time. You’re tired,” he said, unerringly perceptive as always.

Jaskier couldn’t argue with that.

“Get some rest. I’ll send Jan to make sure you’ve got what you need when he has a moment.”

“Jan?”

“Steward.”

Right. Of course, Geralt had a steward. He was a Warlord, and Kaer Morhen was the most important seat of power in the northern half of the continent. Eventually, that would sink in.

“Thank you,” Jaskier managed to say.

He expected Geralt to leave then, maybe throwing a grunt over his shoulder if Jaskier were lucky, but the Witcher – the Warlord – hovered a moment longer. Even in his uncharacteristic uncertainty, the intensity of his gaze made Jaskier feel the unsteady one.

“You don’t have to stay,” Geralt said quietly.

Oh. Jaskier’s breath fled his lungs. This was why he’d missed Geralt, why he hadn’t hesitated to feel at ease in his presence even after ten years. The man had an empire to run, and he still took the time – overcoming his own reluctance to ever actually talk about anything – to make sure Jaskier knew he wasn’t a slave or a prisoner, despite the manner of his arrival.

“I meant what I said,” Jaskier assured him with a warm smile. “I did volunteer – more or less. And if I’d known it was you in charge up here, I’d have come years ago. Besides, Yennefer’s right, you absolutely need a court bard. You can’t possibly go around conquering significant swathes of the continent without someone to write songs about it.”

“As long as they’re more accurate than the last songs you wrote about me,” Geralt said gruffly.

Jaskier was pretty sure he was teasing. But, well, if this was really happening, Geralt was technically his patron now, which meant that Jaskier should probably give his criticism just a little more weight than he had before.

“Right, accuracy, I can do that.”

Geralt raised an amused eyebrow in what was unmistakably a challenge. He was definitely teasing now, and didn’t even need words to do it. He left while Jaskier was still sputtering his way toward a retort.

Chapter Text

Jan Kelner, as far as Jaskier could see, was a shockingly average human. He went about his business with the same brisk efficiency of any steward of a noble house, though his air was perhaps a little more relaxed than most. He was confident not only in his job but in his surroundings, happy to be there, and genuinely solicitous in his efforts to make Jaskier welcome. He sent a boy down to the stables to retrieve what little Jaskier had brought on his horse and made arrangements to provide everything else that he would need.

He was just friendly enough that Jaskier ventured, “So, how did you manage to convince Geralt he’d need a steward?”

“Not sure there was much convincing about it,” Jan said, pressing his lips into a thin line. “The Witchers had no staff at all when I arrived. The Warlord did more for me than I can ever repay – more than my human lord ever did – and asked nothing in return. I couldn’t do nothing, though. So, I begged for the privilege of serving him, and he said yes.”

Jaskier hadn’t expected the depth of feeling hiding in that deceptively simple explanation. Not the disdain directed at whatever lord Jan had once served and certainly not the reverence with which he spoke of Geralt.

“Tell me the story?” he asked a little breathlessly.

Jan studied him for a moment before nodding and slowly unfolding the tale of the horrors that had brought him to Kaer Morhen and the refuge he had found here. Jaskier thanked him, sure that there was a song in the erstwhile lord of Leyda’s willingness to make a deal with monsters and in Geralt’s simple proclamation, “Your children are mine to guard.” Equally sure that he was in no state to compose, Jaskier sank down onto his bed and promptly passed out.

The next thing he was aware of was the knock on his door that announced Eskel, who kindly offered to show him the way to the great hall for supper. After having spoken with Jan, Jaskier was perfectly aware that there were more than enough servants who could have been sent to fetch him without disrupting the usual rhythm of the keep – which meant that the only reason for the scarred Witcher to come personally was curiosity.

“You’re the Toss a Coin bard,” Eskel prodded, confirming his suspicions as he eyed the lute that was finally back where it belonged, strung across the bard’s shoulder.

“At your service,” Jaskier said with an over-the-top grin and a flourishing bow. “Always happy to be recognized by my music.”

“Everyone here’ll remember you for that one. It was a weird few years on the Path while you were writing. Reactions to us were different.”

“Better, I hope?”

“A little, sometimes. That song wasn’t so nice to the elves, though.”

Jaskier grimaced. “For the record, it did serve a purpose at the time. No use sending hunting parties out to search for someone you think is dead, right? And, alright,” he admitted, “I was maybe still feeling a little petty when I wrote it. But they were going to kill us just for knowing what they were up to, and sure, fine, I get that it was hard enough for them to survive as it was, but they should have at least trusted Geralt. He- I realize humans haven’t treated Witchers any better than the elves or dwarves. They should have known he was on their side.”

Eskel’s amber eyes stayed fixed on Jaskier through his little rant, weighing his justifications without giving any sign as to his judgment. “I reckon they know now,” he said with a hint of a smile.

Jaskier nodded, remembering abruptly that Geralt was the man who had burned Ghelibol to the ground for its treatment of its elven inhabitants. He had known, of course, that the elves of the plains below Ban Ard now lived under the Witcher King’s protection. But he only now realized that meant, despite all the tension marring their last meeting, Filavandrel aen Fidhail had bent his pride enough to accept Geralt’s authority, at least in the eyes of the rest of the world – though Jaskier knew Geralt would never require the elves to bow the way a human overlord would, which was probably the only reason their alliance was possible.

“I should probably rewrite the song,” Jaskier said, “if I don’t retire it entirely. After all, it’s served its purpose, and I’ve got a lot more material for new ones.”

Eskel’s smile widened, and he nodded in a sign of approval that made Jaskier stand a little taller as he absently toyed with line and meter, sure that most of his old masterpiece was salvageable if he wanted it.

“Geralt doesn’t talk about you,” Eskel observed, changing the subject.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Does he talk about anything?”

Eskel snorted. “So, you know him well, then.”

Jaskier shrugged. “I saw what he was like out on the Path, but that was years ago. Usually, I’d say someone as long-lived as a Witcher wouldn’t change much in that time, but…I never would have expected all this,” he said, waving his hand indistinctly at the keep around them.

“Is it so hard to believe we’d follow him?”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, that’s the easy part. I followed him before he wanted to lead anyone. No, what surprises me is that he’s willing to do all this. What changed?”

Eskel was silent for a moment. “You ever hear the rumors about the last king of Kaedwen?” he asked finally.

Jaskier nodded. “A bard’s business is rumors. They were true, then?” he asked, his stomach twisting at the thought.

Eskel nodded. “It wasn’t too long after Geralt brought the Cub back to the keep. Vesemir and I were here watching her while the others took their turns out on the Path. Geralt came back…off. You know how he gets; he’ll never say what’s wrong, but you can almost see the weight on his shoulders.”

Jaskier nodded, plenty familiar with the subtle cues that those few privileged enough to truly know Geralt could use to distinguish his usual broodiness from true pain.

“So, he didn’t lead with explanations or anything, just walked in, fresh off the Path, looked Vesemir right in the eye and said, ‘We kill monsters. What about the ones that are shaped like men?’”

“Fuck,” Jaskier said softly. Those words were begging to be a song.

“You have no idea. At first, we didn’t think he really meant it. We thought it was just another bout of frustration; every Witcher who’s ever walked the Path alone felt that way sometimes. But when Vesemir realized Geralt wasn’t going to give it up, he refused to discuss it until everyone was here. It…wasn’t pretty. There were some truly vicious fights, but at the end of the day, Geralt was right, and we decided it was worth the risk. Even when we pulled in the other Schools, though, we weren’t expecting the whole Warlord thing.”

Jaskier looked at him incredulously. “What did you think you were doing?”

Eskel shrugged sheepishly. “We went to Ard Carraigh, killed the king and those bastards who’d been letting him get away with all his shit, and put in charge the first person we found who could promise to actually take care of his people without lying or pissing himself. We didn’t realize he considered Geralt his overlord until the first tribute wagon arrived.” Eskel snorted, losing some of his own embarrassment as he emphasized Geralt’s, “Geralt panicked. Ran off into the woods, and we didn’t see him for a week.”

Jaskier laughed. “Oh, Melitele’s tits, that must have been a sight! So, that’s how you become a Warlord by accident.”

Eskel smirked but refrained from responding in favor of gesturing at the massive doors at which they’d arrived. “That’s the short version, yeah. You ready?”

“Yes, definitely, absolutely,” Jaskier said, still grinning.

Eskel led him to the Wolf table, sitting him near the end by a Witcher named Aubry and clapping a warm hand on his shoulder before taking his own seat at Geralt’s right hand. Supper was a largely informal affair, loud and chaotic in a way that spoke of warmth and comfort. Jaskier surveyed his surroundings while exchanging casual conversation with his table mates, who all seemed happy enough to see a new face. He was frankly surprised at the number of humans scattered throughout the hall, not just the servants waiting the tables but the warriors fitting seamlessly in beside the Witchers at each table.

Once everyone had had a chance to eat and get comfortable, Geralt summoned Jaskier with a subtle tilt of his head. Jaskier wasn’t sure what he wanted, but it hardly mattered; he would have obeyed a summons from Geralt even before he’d accidentally made himself a king.

As it happened, what he wanted was to introduce “Jaskier of Redania,” to his court. “He’s a bard. His own court didn’t want him, so he’s mine now.” Mine. The word carried the same heady mixture of warmth and dizziness as the weight of Geralt’s hand on his shoulder, a physical claim of ownership as clear as the word itself. Jaskier grinned, trying his best to ignore the many ways in which he wanted that statement to be true, and hurriedly busied himself with answering Ciri’s excited calls for a song of adventure.

Jaskier had entirely too much fun following his admittedly rather tame rendition of the Ballad of Maid Marian with songs he could never have gotten away with in a more pretentious court. Nothing too bawdy, in deference to the ten year old listening raptly from her father’s lap, but low-brow drinking songs he’d missed playing while stuck at home.

As the night wound down, he couldn’t help a final touch of mischief. He played a single, very recognizable, opening chord while smirking right at Geralt, who sent back his most terrifying glare.

“Don’t you dare,” the Witcher King growled.

Jaskier grinned. There was a reason he had always been so eager to travel. He hated playing at court. If he pulled a stunt like this at any other court, he’d probably be flogged for mockery of the Crown or some shit. Here, he could get away with a little good-natured teasing – and prove that he was adaptable enough to offer what the Warlord needed while he was at it.

He launched into Toss a Coin to Your Witcher with gusto, inserting the slight edits he’d been toying with in the back of his mind since his conversation with Eskel. Really, only a handful of lines needed changing. It may have been a little rough around the edges, but for all that he called it a masterpiece, Jaskier could admit to himself that it had never been very polished in the first place – only fresh and very, very catchy.

His audience laughed and hooted along, catching onto his mischievous tone. Some cheered him on while others catcalled Geralt, and a few even sang boisterously along with the chorus. Jaskier finished with a long, held-out note, an exhilarated laugh, and an ostentatious bow.

Under the guise of closing his performance properly, Jaskier approached the Wolf table and bowed to Geralt, keeping his head up just enough to raise a challenging eyebrow at his patron, whose golden eyes glinted with amusement above the annoyed frown he was committed to keeping on his face.

“Three words or less?” Jaskier teased quietly.

Geralt’s frown faltered. “You changed it,” he said just as quietly.

“It’s more accurate this way,” Jaskier said with a shit-eating grin.

Finally, Geralt snorted in open amusement. “Better,” he said, and Jaskier was pretty sure that’s the closest to a compliment he’d ever gotten from him. “Still fucking annoying, though. They’ll all be calling me White Wolf for a month.”

Jaskier knew he was probably right. But he also knew he didn’t truly mind the name or the propensity of his brethren for teasing him. Let it never be said the Warlord of the North didn’t have a sense of humor; that was one of the many misapprehensions Jaskier would have to set about correcting. He was looking forward to the challenge.

The next morning brought Jaskier’s introduction to Kaer Morhen’s finest feature: The hot springs. Somehow, he found himself bathing with the sorceresses, which turned out to be less fraught than he might have expected. Triss was an absolute delight, and Yennefer seemed to have decided to play nice. It might even last; she seemed different now, as if she’d lost some of her jagged edges, lost the desperation that had caused her to act so erratically. The poise she had always wielded as a weapon seemed somehow relaxed – still sharp as a Witcher’s blade, of course, he would never accuse this terrifying witch of softness, but what once had been aggressive hauteur now seemed like true confidence. No longer making up for some perceived deficiency, she now seemed genuinely comfortable in her own skin. If anything, it made her all the more frightening, for all that she seemed slightly more approachable.

As either a cause or a result, she and Geralt seemed to have gotten their shit together, as well. They interacted easily, and Jaskier had seen her draping herself causally over his chair the night before as she chatted with Ciri, who had settled herself in her father’s lap. They had looked like a proper little family. Jaskier could look past his jealousy enough to be happy for them. But he couldn’t deny his curiosity about how things had changed.

“So, I see you and Geralt are getting along better these days,” he said.

She shot him a sly smirk, the knowing glint in her eyes telling him she recognized his attempt at casually fishing for information, and drawled, “Yes, we’ve gotten along much better since we stopped fucking.”

It took Jaskier a few moments to process that statement, while Triss politely stifled her giggles behind a hand. When he did, the knowing look in Yennefer’s eyes took on a new meaning, and he blushed.

“You- he-” Jaskier cleared his throat, buying time to organize his scrambled thoughts into semi-coherent words. “I thought he…tied your hearts together…or whatever,” he said finally, flapping his hand in a vague reference to the magical mess he’d never fully understood.

“It was our fates he tied together, little flower. That could mean a lot of things, and we wasted a lot of time trying to force an interpretation that wasn’t good for either of us. But I’m his chief mage, and I’m teaching his daughter to be the most powerful sorceress in a millennium. Fates can’t get much more intertwined than that, and we’re better as friends.”

“Ah, well, yes, that’s – lovely. Good for you.”

Yennefer didn’t lose her knowing smirk, but she did, mercifully, change the subject. “Speaking of Ciri, she seemed quite taken with you last night.”

“The princess is a delight,” Jaskier said with a genuine grin. For all the panic that the political implications of her situation inspired, he already adored the whirlwind of a child.

Yennefer snorted, while Triss explained with a gentle smirk of her own, “Nobody calls her that. You’re more likely to hear her called the little menace.”

“Trying to instill a sense of decorum in her is a lost battle at this point. Witchers may be surprisingly well suited to establishing and administrating a benevolent empire, but they’re just as hopeless as you’d expect at managing the education of a young lady of standing. She’s been burning through tutors like dry leaves.” Yennefer paused in her complaints, and Jaskier wasn’t sure he liked the considering look she levelled at him as she said slowly, “You did learn more than music at that fancy academy of yours, didn’t you, little flower?”

Unsure how to address the nickname she’d given him, Jaskier elected to ignore it. The question felt like a trap, but he wasn’t sure how, and he was hardly one to resist a little bragging, so he puffed himself up and said, “I studied the seven liberal arts and graduated summa cum laude.”

“You could tutor her. She seems to like you, so she might not scare you away peremptorily."

“Well, you certainly know how to reassure a man,” Jaskier drawled sarcastically. “But I can absolutely try.”

The next few days were pleasantly, just short of overwhelmingly, full. Jaskier taught Ciri in the mornings and wrung stories out of the Witchers in the afternoons. Thankfully, most of them were much more forthcoming than Geralt. Most evenings, he performed for a gratifyingly rowdy crowd, though he had yet to debut any of the new compositions he was working on, which he was sure would shape up to be a song cycle. He was just missing one crucial piece of what had to be the first one. At least he knew where to find it, if he could pry it out.

He chose his timing carefully, tentatively knocking on the door to Geralt’s office in the afternoon, just after he should have finished his council meeting. Sure enough, Jaskier was early enough to find him still there and late enough to find him alone.

“Is now ‘another time’?” the bard asked.

Geralt looked wary, but he nodded, and Jaskier took that as permission, sitting across from Geralt with the desk between them.

“So. I’ve spoken with most of the Witchers who followed you over the walls of Ard Carraigh. Eskel’s been particularly helpful. I’ve got a pretty good idea of how this all got started. But I need to know why. Eskel said it was because of the old king of Kaedwen’s…proclivities. But what made you draw the line then and there?”

Geralt sighed, and Jaskier fidgeted restlessly while convincing himself not to break the silence that followed. Geralt would answer him when he’d organized his thoughts, and not before.

Finally, he said, “I was already thinking about trying to band together with the other schools. There weren’t many of us left then, even all together. And…”

“And?”

“You once told me that respect doesn’t make history. You were wrong. You never treated me as anything less than a person, and I started to feel like we deserved that. Like Witchers deserve respect, companionship, a community. And by then I had Ciri to worry about, and she definitely deserved more than the life I could have given her on the Path, the way we used to walk it. Could never have taken care of her alone.”

Jaskier found himself a little breathless at the idea that his choice to show the barest fucking common decency to perhaps the best man he’d ever known had factored into the formation of what he was sure would be one of the most important empires in history.

Doing his best to regather his wits, he blurted out, “You absolutely fucking do. That’s the bare fucking minimum, so, yes, gathering the Witchers together was already on the table. How did the king of Kaedwen factor into it all? Kings have been acting monstrously for far longer than I’ve been alive; surely you’d seen plenty of it before then.”

“It wasn’t a shock. Just…the last straw. It had been brewing in me since Blaviken.”

Jaskier couldn’t hide his sharp intake of breath because that…Geralt didn’t talk about it. Not to anyone, not ever. The fact that he was bringing it up now was a priceless gift of trust, and it took no effort at all to silently await what he would say about it.

“I tried to cling to the old ways, and in my determination not to choose a side, I chose wrong. Maybe nothing could have avoided bloodshed at that point, or maybe if someone had stepped in earlier, things never would have gotten to that point.”

“I may not know the details, but I know you did the best you could. And I’m sure you saved more lives than you took.” That was only a guess, but it was a safe one. He knew Geralt, and he knew that it would take a lot to push him to that scale of violence.

“Maybe,” Geralt said, and Jaskier hoped he wasn’t imagining the slight lessening of the tension in his broad shoulders. “Still, it wasn’t good enough. Maybe I’m still not making the right choices, but I’m making the ones I can live with. Just wish they came with fewer idiots deciding I’m their overlord.”

“For the record, I think that’s probably the least idiotic choice most kings could make. It seems they’re lucky to have you, and I won’t rest until everyone damned well knows it. Yen was right, you need a bard, someone to tell the accurate story. No one outside your lands knows who you are right now, and that means they’ll believe stupid fucking shit about you and do even stupider shit about it. Everyone needs to know what kind of leader you really are and what this empire of yours stands for, and it will be my honor and my privilege to make that happen.”

Evidently, Geralt had used up his store of real words for the afternoon, but Jaskier thought he heard understanding, even approval, in the Warlord’s resonant “Hmm.”

Three days later, he performed “The Siege of Ard Carriagh” for the first time to the riotous acclaim of a hall full of Witchers high on the novelty of being understood. It would soon cease being a novelty if Jaskier had anything to say about it.

Within the next few days after that, Yennefer helped him send copies of the song out to Pris, Essi, and every other bard he knew who would be willing to sing it, along with notes to let his friends know he was alive and well and thriving in a place where he got to write what might well end up being the most important music in a century.

Chapter Text

About a week after Jaskier’s arrival at Kaer Morhen, he was summoned to a meeting of Geralt’s council.

“Yen thought you’d be useful for this,” the Warlord said without preamble.

Trying to bury his offense at the knowledge that Geralt didn’t seem to have thought so without her prompting, Jaskier said lightly, “I’m always useful, of course. What can I help with?”

“Vizimir wants to meet with the Warlord of the North,” Yennefer explained. “I thought, since you’ve come so recently from Redania, you might have some gossip to give us an advantage.”

Jaskier grinned, slow and vicious. “Oh. Oh, yes,” he said gleefully. “You’re going to eviscerate them for me, aren’t you?” He spent the next half hour happily telling Geralt everything he needed to know to diplomatically put the fear of Witchers into the Redanian court.

Jaskier wasn’t prepared to be summoned back to the council room a week later so that Geralt could inform him that his advice had actually been helpful. He stared rather openly for a too-long moment as he comprehended that that was half a compliment, half a thank you, and he hadn’t even had to pester it out of him. Geralt only stared back, his golden eyes warm with appreciation, and Jaskier felt his heart about to burst in satisfaction at having pleased him so much that he showed it so clearly.

Thankfully, Eskel distracted Geralt with some banter about which of them had really done the diplomatic heavy-lifting, giving Jaskier the space to regain his composure with a few deep breaths. A moment later, Geralt turned back to Jaskier – no Yen-induced prodding needed, this time – and asked what the bard knew that might give him an advantage in his upcoming negotiations with Temeria.

After that, Jaskier’s inclusion in such meetings became fairly commonplace; he could count on being summoned for such purposes about once a week. Two months into the arrangement, he decided to tease Geralt, asking, “Does this mean I’m on your council now?”

Rather than betraying any hint of amusement, Geralt looked at him hard, tilting his head very slightly to the side. “Hmm. Might as well be.”

Jaskier blinked, swallowed, and blinked some more. “I- I wasn’t serious,” he said.

“I know.” Right. Even if he hadn’t been an open book, Geralt could smell his emotions. Though Jaskier was thankful he never brought that up, it did make it perilously easy to forget. “Still, you do the job. May as well call you an advisor.”

And that…it may not have been what Jaskier wanted, but it was an acknowledgment that he was something to Geralt, even something valuable. It was an indication that his place at Kaer Morhen was secure, that he could stay by Geralt’s side, that he was wanted there. Overwhelmed, he avoided blurting out anything too unfiltered, falling back instead on a courtly phrase that should have been empty but revealed far too much of his heart anyway.

“Then, it will be my pleasure to serve you, my lord.” Jaskier’s over-the-top, flourishing bow did little to detract from the blush that covered his face as he remembered, too late, that formulaic phrases do nothing to cover the depth of his feelings when the object of them can smell his pathetic sincerity. But, mercifully, Geralt ignored it.

“Should get you a medallion,” he said simply.

“I…really?” Jaskier had noticed, of course, that favored humans wore them. The servants’ were specially made, working in the crests of each of the Witchers’ schools, while some of the human warriors bore medallions matching those of Witcher lovers, like Zofia's Viper. Seeing as he was neither a servant nor a Witcher’s lover, he had never quite dared to expect one for himself. But Geralt only nodded and asked gruffly, “Wolf okay?”

“Yes, that would be…that would be wonderful.”

It was ready the next day, and Jaskier desperately tried not to read into the fact that he’d been given a sigil to match Geralt’s.

The first time Jaskier finally saw the White Wolf on his throne, it was for no official purpose. Instead, it simply happened to be the nearest chair when he flopped down, leaning his head against the backrest so his face was tilted up towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. It was a familiar pose, one Jaskier had seen him adopt in grimy tavern booths or even seated at the base of a tree in yet another godsforsaken forest at the end of a long day. It was the posture he assumed when he was suffering the closest thing to a migraine a Witcher could experience without a severe head wound to blame for it. Of course, the domesticity of the position did little to diminish the effect of seeing Geralt sprawled out in the massive chair with a carved wolf’s head snarling above his drawn face as if to guard the living Wolf’s repose. Even without trying, he looked far more regal than any other king Jaskier had ever seen. Though, that was hardly a surprise to Jaskier at this point; he had long since noticed that command suited Geralt. He seemed born to rule much more truly than any king who claimed his throne through right of blood.

Jaskier shook his head to rid it of unhelpful thoughts and focused, instead, on the situation at hand. He hesitated a moment, wondering if he dared indulge the urge that suddenly came over him. It would be taking a significant liberty, but Kaer Morhen didn’t exactly subscribe to the same rules of propriety as a normal court. And, even in a normal court, a bard could get away with quite a bit if he played his cards right. Besides, Geralt had always let Jaskier get away with more than he expected. It couldn’t hurt to push his luck a bit.

Jaskier approached the throne, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible so as not to exacerbate Geralt’s discomfort. He didn’t bother to open his eyes, and Jaskier took the lack of acknowledgment as permission. The bard sat at the Warlord’s feet and leaned back against his legs, then began to gently pluck out soft notes on his lute. Geralt sighed almost inaudibly behind him, and Jaskier smiled to know that the same trick that had served them in rough campsites and rowdy taverns still worked. Noise always made things worse when Geralt pushed himself too hard and finally started to feel his exhaustion, but a few soft chords, a quiet melody without lyrics, acted almost as a lullaby.

Sure enough, Geralt woke two hours later. “Fuck,” he said when he realized how much time had passed. “I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep.”

“When is the last time you’ve slept?” Jaskier asked, making no secret of his disapproval.

“Witchers don’t need sleep.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes at the old argument because the impromptu nap would have disabused him of that notion even if he had ever been stupid enough to believe it. “When’s the last time you meditated, then?”

Geralt’s silence was an answer and a half.

“You needed rest,” Jaskier said unapologetically.

“I had things to do.”

“All you missed is some extra training, as if you need any more of that. It was much more useful for you to finally get some rest for once, to let your mind recover so you aren’t completely useless when Eskel drags you off to attend to some new crisis. You’re welcome, my lord.”

“He’s right, you know.” Jaskier jumped a foot in the air at the sudden sound of Eskel’s voice.

“Fuck, is there some sort of wager going on? Who can scare the shit out of the bard most often by appearing out of thin air? Fucking Witchers,” Jaskier complained, though there was no heat to it. He’d gotten used to the fact that Witchers in their natural habitat often forgot that human senses just couldn’t pick up on their approach without a little help.

“Sorry,” Eskel said with a smile. “I heard you got Geralt to finally take a fucking break, for once. What’s your secret?”

Jaskier grinned in satisfaction. “I did learn a few things traveling with him all those years.”

Eskel shook his head. “I’d keep you around just for that. I can’t even axii him to sleep, the stubborn bastard.”

“Still here,” Geralt grumbled.

“Good,” Eskel said bluntly. “You can thank your bard and then either go to bed properly or come help me get some actual work done.”

Geralt growled a little, but there was wry amusement in his voice as he grumbled, “Thank you, Jaskier,” and obediently followed Eskel to his office.

Jaskier settled into Kaer Morhen. He made friends. He formed habits. He bathed with the sorceresses and their darling little menace in the mornings. He lingered in Geralt’s office after council meetings and worked on his compositions while the Warlord slogged through paperwork or pried information out of him for use in his songs on slower days. And he got entirely too used to calling Geralt his lord. He should have expected to be called out on it, honestly.

“Why the fuck do you keep calling me that? My name’s always been good enough for you before. And anyone else who wants a title for me makes do with the stupid one you gave me.”

He was right. True to Geralt’s grumbling foresight at Jaskier’s boisterous introduction to the keep, Kaer Morhen’s inhabitants had enthusiastically revived the “White Wolf” sobriquet. But neither he nor Jaskier had expected it to stick long, let alone to transform so completely from playfulness to solemnity. Surprising them both, the cry of “White Wolf” had grown to replace the rumble of “Yes, Geralt” that followed his orders. For all his grumbling, Geralt didn’t truly seem to mind too much. Jaskier, of course, was thrilled. He had created the only title that the Warlord of the North seemed willing to accept. He was going down in fucking history. Unfortunately, his obvious glee over the whole thing made it difficult to come up with a reasonable excuse for preferring a more traditional form of address. He could hardly admit the pathetic little thrill it gave him as likely the only way in which he’d ever be able to call Geralt his.

Shrugging, he said, “You’ll have to learn to deal with it at some point. Even if you mostly get away with White Wolf, outsiders will still try to call you Lord. Might even go for Majesty or Excellency at this point, who knows?” It wasn’t technically a lie. “You may as well get used to it coming from someone who-” Jaskier just managed to stop himself from blurting out something far too revealing. “From a friend,” he finished lamely.

Geralt gave a distinctly unhappy hum but seemed to accept that he couldn’t really stop Jaskier. The bard breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t prodded any further.

Chapter Text

Nearly a year after Jaskier’s arrival at Kaer Morhen, Redanian emissaries escorted a tribute wagon up the trail. Jaskier knew they were coming to work out a treaty. He should have expected the familiar face among them. He couldn’t stop himself from tensing when his father stepped forward to read King Vizimir’s official missive to the Wolf, but Geralt immediately noticed his discomfort, and the weight of those discerning golden eyes grounded him. Reassured, he mustered a small smile, just enough of a signal for Geralt to get on with things; he’d be fine.

An unexpected perk of being a member of the Warlord’s inner council was Jaskier’s ability to sit at the table during negotiations and blithely point out every trick and trap his father and the rest had tried to squirrel away in the proposed treaty they’d brought with them. He didn’t have to be a Witcher to pick up on their growing frustration, and he felt a vicious smugness over being the cause of it. It was hardly a surprise when his father cornered him in a hallway the moment he appeared to be alone. Jaskier shoved down his apprehension and focused on the achievement of causing enough of a problem to warrant cornering. He had nothing to fear, he reminded himself, as he likely wasn’t alone. Even if he couldn’t see anyone nearby, he was well aware that Geralt had been keeping a close eye on him – or asking Aubry to do so when he couldn’t – from the moment he had shown discomfort at the envoys’ arrival.

“Whatever you’re playing at, boy, it’s time to stop. Even you must have some sense of loyalty. You’re here to serve Redania’s interests, and it’s past time you remembered that.”

Jaskier grinned nastily. “It’s in Redania’s interests to stop being difficult. The Wolf doesn’t ask much, but he has no patience for fools. Cooperating will get you a far more reasonable deal than all your posturing and pointless quibbling.”

Predictably unmoved by logic, the Count de Lettenhove scoffed. “So, that’s it, then? You’ve really gone and thrown your lot in with the Butcher?”

“Don’t you fucking call him that,” Jaskier snarled.

“And you’ll stop me, will you?”

Jaskier took a deep breath, considering. For all that Jaskier could give Geralt a new name to replace that horse shit, he couldn’t really enforce its use. He did, however, have connections.

“You are not about to slander the Warlord of the North in his own fucking keep. I may not be able to stop you myself,” he said quietly, his voice for once perfectly even and devoid of all his excessive emotion, leaving only cold, hard truth, “but if you call him that again, I’ll tell his chief mage to flay you. She’ll do it, too. Yenn’s much less forgiving than Geralt.”

The count’s eyes widened as the seriousness of Jaskier’s threat finally seemed to make an impression. Aghast, he protested, “I’m your father.”

“And he’s my king. He’s a better one than Vizimir could ever even dream of being, and the only one who will ever hold my loyalty.”

“You’re making a mistake, boy, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll come to my rooms tonight and do the smart thing for once in your worthless life.”

Jaskier laughed at his father’s poor attempt at a low, threatening growl. Even if his human vocal cords could compete, his presence would never match up to a Witcher’s. A real growl echoed throughout the corridor as Geralt stepped out of the shadows beside Jaskier. The bard only smirked as his father visibly jumped; he’d long since gotten used to Witchers appearing as if out of thin air, especially this one.

“Lay a hand on him,” Geralt promised, “and I will cut it off.”

Showing the smallest modicum of intelligence, for once, the Count de Lettenhove blanched in fear, bowed perfunctorily, and scurried hurriedly away.

“I want them fucking gone,” Geralt huffed.

“You and me both,” Jaskier said, relaxing.

“You alright?”

Jaskier smiled as concerned golden eyes looked him over for any sign of distress. “I’m fine,” he said honestly, “now that you’re here. Thank you.”

Geralt gave a grunt that might be construed as a you’re welcome, then hesitated, glancing between Jaskier and the space his father had occupied. “You really think of me like that? Like a king?”

For someone who displayed so little emotion, it was frankly impressive how much unhappiness he could pack into the words. Jaskier could hardly backtrack now, as Geralt must have smelt his abject adoration while he’d spoken, and he blushed in embarrassment. It would be difficult to explain the sentiment in a way Geralt could accept, but Jaskier wasn’t the best bard on the continent for nothing.

“You’re too used to kings being monsters,” he said. “You’re what a king is supposed to be. You may not have expected to lead anyone, but even you can’t deny you’re good at it. And everything you do is because you fucking care. Someone has to care for your people, and you’re the one who decided to step up and do it. Your subjects are fucking lucky to have you, Geralt. And I’m honored to be counted one of them.”

Jaskier followed Geralt’s gaze and realized he’d reached up to toy with the chain supporting the Wolf medallion replica that hung around his neck. Looking back up, he watched Geralt swallow his discomfort to say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

It was the first time he had stated it so plainly, and the reassurance gave Jaskier the courage to finally ask, “Why did you never send for me? I know you were busy building an empire, but ten years…Well, it’s a long time for a human. It wouldn’t have been hard to find me, stuck at court as I was.”

“I didn’t think you’d have any reason to come.”

“Friendship isn’t reason enough?”

“No one else came for friendship. The only people here are Witchers, mages, warriors, and servants. You’re none of those.”

“You didn’t once consider needing a bard? I know I taught you better than that. Do you have any idea what they were saying about you? What they thought you would do to me when they sent me?”

Jaskier realized what he had said too late as Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “What did they think they were sending you to?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Jaskier hesitated, silently cursing his tongue for running away with him. He’d successfully kept the exact nature of his role as “tribute” quiet this past year, not caring in the least how it exposed the dark underbelly of Redanian politics but reluctant to hurt Geralt with the knowledge. The stupid Witcher always internalized such things, as if the fact that humans could so easily believe such depravity of him meant there must be something wrong with him, something that made the rumors so believable. Jaskier knew the truth – humans came up with all that horse shit because it was closer to their minds than any Witcher’s.

“It doesn’t matter,” he tried despite knowing Geralt wouldn’t let him get away with the evasion. “No reason to bring it up now. After all, the songs are working; only the true idiots are still perpetuating rumors like that, and there was no harm done, truly-”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier sighed, defeated. “Just…try not to take it too badly. It’s not like anyone knew it was you, personally. They just heard about a big, scary Witcher Warlord in the North and needed some propaganda to make themselves feel better.”

“Just tell me,” Geralt said, a bone deep weariness in his voice that Jaskier hadn’t heard since the last time they’d been driven out of a town while travelling together. This was the first time since Jaskier’s arrival at Kaer Morhen that he’d seen the old resignation flare up as Geralt endured yet another unsurprising bout of human bigotry. He dearly hoped he’d never have to see it again.

As clinically as he could, he stuttered out a brief explanation of the rumors that had circulated about the Warlord’s violent lusts, about his own intended role as a sacrifice. He didn’t need the growl reverberating through the hallways to tell him just how angry Geralt was.

“I’m going to kill them.”

“You hate killing humans,” Jaskier protested.

“Not this time. After what they tried to do to you? This time, I’ll enjoy it.”

Jaskier shuddered at the dark promise in Geralt’s voice, moved and oddly conflicted. The idea that Geralt would go so far for him warmed his heart, and he couldn’t deny a vicious corner of it would be glad to see him exact bloody vengeance. But Geralt did hate killing humans, and Jaskier would hate to be the reason for more blood on his hands; he already carried too much unnecessary guilt. Finally, he couldn’t deny the political difficulties of raising trouble now, without clear provocation. So far, Geralt had avoided any real backlash, but if he made his remaining independent neighbors too nervous, they might try something stupid.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, placing a gentle hand on Geralt’s arm, “for wanting to. But I can’t let you do that. It wouldn’t be the smart thing right now.”

“Fuck the smart thing. If I see them again, they’re dead.”

That sentiment was perfectly fair and, Jaskier believed, perfectly honest. Quickly, he racked his brains for a solution. “We’ll chuck them off the mountain, then. It’s not like they’ve been negotiating in good faith anyway, and after that conversation you just caught, you can say it’s for their own misconduct. We can write our own treaty and shove it down their throats when we’re done. Just don’t start a war over me.”

Geralt breathed heavily until he finally had himself under control enough to reply. “Hm. I would. You’re worth it.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. With a nervous laugh, he babbled, “Let’s agree to disagree on that point.”

But the knowledge warmed him for the rest of the day. Geralt cared. He cared enough to start a war over Jaskier. And he cared enough to stay his hand because Jaskier asked him to.

The emissaries were gone by the end of the day. The next morning, as Jaskier soaked in the hot springs, he tried to keep his mind on the present instead of simply picturing those gorgeous golden eyes, narrowed in a heady mixture of tender concern and protective rage. He was torn out of his daydreams by Yennefer’s loud groan.

“Your pining is disgusting, bard. Honestly, it’s been a year. Are you going to do something about it or not?”

“I-what?” Jaskier sputtered, face quickly turning red with embarrassment. “I don’t know what you-” He trailed off as Yennefer simply arched an eloquent eyebrow. There was no way he was fooling her. He sighed heavily. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. Honestly, I’m just lucky Geralt’s willing to ignore it.”

Yenn scoffed, “If that’s what we’re calling it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s as bad as you are! It’s pathetic!”

“He- what? No, of course he isn’t.” Yennefer gave him a flat look, but her skepticism couldn’t change the truth. “He knows how I feel – like you said, it’s obvious enough. Especially to a Witcher, with the whole,” he flopped his hand nebulously in the air as he said, “scent thing. If he wanted me at any point in the last twenty years, he’d have had me.”

“Believe me – he wants you. Witchers don’t take whatever it is they’re smelling as consent. If you want the idiot to do anything about it, you’ll have to give him a clear sign.”

“How could I possibly be any clearer? I’ve been in love with the stupid bastard for nearly two decades!”

Yennefer shrugged elegantly. “That’s up to you. Just hurry up and figure it out. I’ve got a wager to win.”

It took Jaskier a few days to figure out what he wanted to try, and a few days after that to work up the courage. But, finally, as he sat idly plucking out soft chords on his lute in a corner of Geralt’s office, he watched for the moment when the Warlord set aside the last of his papers for the afternoon and looked up at him, gauging his readiness to leave and get on with the day. Usually, at this point, Jaskier would sling his lute over his shoulder and follow him out into the hallway. This time, instead, he took a deep breath and began a song he’d sung only once before. Then, he’d had no audience at all, though he knew Geralt had caught snatches of him composing. Now, he forced himself to keep eye contact with Geralt the whole time, not hiding any of the emotions on his own face as his fingers plucked his heart raw and bloody across the strings. He watched the Witcher’s eyes narrow in confusion, then widen in understanding and what more Jaskier didn’t quite dare to speculate. By the time he finished the last refrain, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

Tears dried by the sea-breeze left salt on her cheeks.

Honestly, fearlessly, proudly said she:

“Witcher, I love ye, faithful and free.

Witcher, I love ye like the land loves the sea."

His fingers tripped over the last few notes, and he tumbled gracelessly into silence. It didn’t matter. He’d made his point. All that was left was to wait for a response. So, breathlessly balanced on the precipice between fear and hope, silently praying that when his answer finally came it would tip him toward the fall he wanted to take, he waited.

His answer was slow in coming. Geralt sat still as a statue, unblinking. For once, Jaskier couldn’t read the emotion in his golden eyes – or maybe he simply didn’t quite dare to try. Finally, his quiet voice rumbled, “That song…was never about Essi.”

Jaskier tried to reply and had to clear his throat to get the word out. “No.”

“I didn’t know.”

A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up out of Jaskier’s throat, spilling from his lips without permission. “How could you not know? It’s not exactly a new development.”

Geralt’s first sign of emotion since this conversation had begun was a slight smirk. “Well, I always thought the constant scent of lust was just you being a pretty, young bard. No reason to think it had anything to do with me.”

“It was you, more often than not,” Jaskier admitted because he’d revealed too much already to stop now, and it would all be worth it if Geralt just wanted him back. “Everyone else was just a distraction. I’m yours, Geralt. Have been since I first laid eyes on you, brooding in that shitty little tavern in Posada. Your bard, your friend, your servant…Whatever way you’ll have me.”

There, Yen, he thought a little desperately. Can’t possibly be any clearer than that, now can I?

Geralt’s eyes rested on him with the weight of every word the Witcher had ever left unsaid, and Jaskier struggled to breathe as the Warlord rose with the same thoughtless grace with which he did anything else and prowled across the room, stopping just short of Jaskier’s personal space.

“You made yourself my bard with that first damned song, little as I wanted it then. You made yourself my friend when you returned to my side, season after season. You could never be my servant, but you have been my advisor these past months. Be mine in one more way?”

“Anything,” Jaskier breathed, eyes wide with hope.

Instead of a verbal response, Geralt leaned in slowly, leaving plenty of time for the bard to stop him. Stopping him was the last thing Jaskier wanted, and when Geralt’s rough lips finally met his, he threw himself into reciprocating. As the kiss deepened, Jaskier practically melted into the wall behind him, kept upright only by virtue of Geralt’s arms around him. A moment and an eternity later, Geralt effortlessly hoisted him up, letting the bard wrap his legs around his waist, and carried him out of the office.

“Where’re we goin’?” the bard mumbled between the kisses he was busy sprinkling across the Witcher’s neck and chest.

“My bedroom.” Geralt stopped suddenly midstep, his arms stiffening around Jaskier. “That is, unless you don’t-”

“No. I mean, yes- I mean don’t you dare back out now,” Jaskier said, leaning back enough to glare at Geralt. The bastard only chuckled at him, but he resumed walking down the hallway, so Jaskier chose not to complain, simply resting his head on Geralt’s shoulder and ignoring the snickers and calls of finally that dogged their steps.

The next morning, Jaskier woke pleasantly warm, slightly sore, and delightfully tangled up in naked Witcher. He turned his head to see bright, golden eyes already open and watching him carefully for any sign of discontent. Jaskier grinned.

“Please,” he said. “Please tell me I’ll be allowed to do this again.”

Geralt smiled, and it was like watching the sun rise over the mountains – wild and sweet and breathtakingly beautiful. “As often as you want, Little Lark.”

To prevent himself from turning into a pitiful little bard puddle at the pet name, Jaskier raised a challenging eyebrow and teased, “You may come to regret that. I have it on rather good authority that I’m insatiable.”

“Then it’s a good thing your lover has greater than average stamina,” Geralt said slyly.

And Jaskier was lost. Bard puddle it was. He leaned forward and claimed another kiss, heart beating wildly as he processed that he was allowed to, now, and would be for the foreseeable future.