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“This has to be one of the worst ideas that you’ve ever had.”
“If you have another idea, I’d be more than willing to pretend to entertain it.”
“I didn’t say I had another idea. I just said that this one was absolute shit.”
“Hurtful.”
Dandelion is a man on a mission.
It’d taken him a little under three months to track down one of the five Gwent cards that were currently missing from Geralt’s deck. (If he were a more honest man, he’d admit that it’d taken him a little less than three days to track down the rare, first-edition Yennefer of Vengerberg card to a little inn in the heart of Oxenfurt—the inn was close enough to the Academy that he could probably be there and back within half a day, if he was of a mind to be terribly inconvenienced. The problem was that the innkeep wanted far more crowns than Dandelion would ever pay for anything Yennefer-related, especially something intended to be a gift for Geralt. And he couldn’t…
He couldn’t very well pickpocket it. Not everyone kept their Gwent deck as close to the vest as Geralt… If they were talking about the man’s coin purse, or a handful of hard candies from a local confectioner’s stand, it would be different. But the time and energy he would have to commit to obtaining the card simply wasn’t worth it. Not for Yennefer’s card, at least. This would be an entirely different story if they were on the hunt for his card. But, as Geralt so often reminded him, despite the fact that he loved his card, he only really needed one of them. Which, rude. An entire deck filled with Dandelions still wouldn’t be enough, if you asked him. Unfortunately, no-one had. )
Since he refuses to buy the card outright, and stealing it seems like far too much of a hassle, the only logical solution is to play the innkeep for it. The only problem with that is that… well, Dandelion is a bit out of practice (and reluctant to admit that Geralt might go easy on him, whenever they play). And he’s not about to sacrifice half or more of his own carefully cultivated deck just for Yennefer.
And so, he’d enlisted some help .
“Help” may’ve been a bit of a strong word, seeing as Hadria had never quite mastered the delicate art of lying . She was delightfully blunt , able to cut a man to the quick with a few simple words… a talent that was, unfortunately, not at all useful when attempting to hustle an unsuspecting innkeep out of what was most likely the most valuable—and most expensive—card in his deck. Not to mention the fact that nearly her entire deck was comprised of counterfeit cards (extremely well-made counterfeits, but counterfeits all the same) that were stupidly overpowered and, by extension, took much of the need for actual strategy out of the strategy game.
Hadria had nearly lost a finger the last time they’d tried this. Geralt’s Cirilla card would forever have bloodstains on the back—
Look, if Geralt wanted the cards so badly, he could handle a little blood. And the smell of ozone.
“Well, well…” Hadria’s expression is almost bored as she regards the gentleman—Stjepan, he’d said his name was. He takes a seat across from her, his amber eyes focused in on the considerable swell of her breasts in her corset, “I must say, it’s been quite some time since such a beautiful young woman challenged me to Gwent.”
“Ah, Stjepan, I assure you, my daughter’s beauty is matched only by her skill at the table!”
Dandelion winks at Hadria, who rolls her eyes in return. She knows the act, had helped him pull it off a hundred times before. The charming bard, the damsel with a secret. But she has to admit, it never gets old seeing how effectively her father wielded his charm. He may struggle with which end to hold a sword by, but his words are far more lethal than any blade.
The inn is dimly lit, the candles throwing flickering shadows across the worn wooden table. The air is thick with the scent of roasting meat and spilled ale. Stjepan places the Yennefer of Vengerberg card face down in the center of the table. "Winner takes all," he says, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.
“Agreed.”
With a smile, Hadria nods and picks up her cards. The edges are slightly frayed from countless games, but the paint on the faces remains vibrant, almost eerie in the candlelight. She shuffles them with a flourish, the sound of the paper whispering through the air like a promise. Stjepan watches her, his eyes narrowed, his hand hovering over his own cards. The game starts off slow, each player feeling the other out. Dandelion's heart thumps in his chest, the desire to win that blasted card battling it out with the concern that Hadria’s counterfeit cards will be discovered. No matter how skilled she is at buffing, an eagle-eyed player would be able to pick up on her deceit quite easily.
That is why it’s so important to keep him on his toes, and off his game. Using her feminine wiles to their advantage would work for a little while (and it wasn’t like Hadria had any qualms about being admired—even by someone as, err... rough-looking as Stjepan, who was most certainly not her usual cup of tea), but most men would see through the act eventually.
Usually around the same time that Hadria opened her mouth and began cutting them down to size.
"You know, Stjepan," she says, her voice as smooth as the mead that flows freely into their tankards, "I've never seen a man so eager to lose a card. And such a rare one, at that."
The innkeep's eyes dart up to hers, his bushy eyebrows knitting together. "What makes you say that?"
"Oh, it's just a feeling I get," Hadria responds coyly, her eyes never leaving his. "The way you keep looking at me, like you'd be willing to just... give it away , if you could have one little peak at my bosom." The innkeeper promptly proceeds to choke on air, "Tell me I'm wrong."
Stjepan's cheeks turn a shade of crimson, and Dandelion has to cough to cover his laugh. He clears his throat and leans in, playing the concerned father. "Now, now, Hadria... Stick to the cards, darling.” He winks at her, and she rolls her eyes but plays along, shuffling her cards once more.
The first round is tense. Dandelion watches closely as Hadria uses her limited hand to play a game of feigned innocence and distraction. She throws down a Northern Realms card, a mere foot soldier, and Stjepan takes the bait, placing a higher-ranked card from the same faction. The game goes on like this, with Hadria biding her time, her eyes flickering from Stjepan's cards to his face, searching for tells. The innkeep, for his part, seems to be getting more nervous with each passing minute. He seems to be having more and more difficulty keeping his head in the game, the mere thought of catching a glimpse of Hadria’s bosom enough to nearly cost him the first round.
He very narrowly pulls a win out of his ass and heaves a sigh like he’d just gotten finished running a marathon. Hadria smiles, once again the absolute picture of innocence—winning the first round means little, in the grand scheme of things. He’d wasted a number of cards in an effort to keep up with her, which meant he’d need to be a bit more strategic moving forward—
Which didn’t bode well for him, considering... well, he’s staring at her chest again, now.
The second round is where things get interesting. Hadria plays a decoy strategy, laying down her cards with a confidence that doesn't quite match their true power. She allows Stjepan to take the lead, letting him believe he has the upper hand. Dandelion can almost see the cogs turning in the man's head as he tries to figure out her game. But it's all for show, a dance that she's choreographed down to the way she feigns nervousness, tapping the tops of her cards like she can’t think of a single thing to play. Stjepan’s chuckles become more frequent, his confidence growing as he lays down card after card...
But then, Hadria's expression changes—just a flicker, but it's enough to make Dandelion's heart skip a beat. She's spotted something. With a casual grace, she places a counterfeit card on the table, and Dandelion watches as Stjepan's smile falters for the briefest moment. The card is a high-powered spell-slinger from the Scoia'tael faction, something that shouldn’t exist in a standard Gwent deck, but here it is, glaring at the innkeep like a taunt. Hadria cannot tell whether he’s simply been thrown off his game by the sudden play or he suspects the card is a counterfeit, and so she keeps her face schooled in a neutral expression, her eyes never leaving the innkeeper’s ruddy face.
"Oh, my," Dandelion says, feigning surprise, "Where ever did you get such a card, Hadria, my dear?"
"Picked it up from a traveler," she responds. "Seemed like a fair trade for a bit of bread and cheese." She bats her eyes, shifting a little in her seat—the ‘and maybe something more’ communicated loud and clear.
Stjepan's eyes are wide, and he swallows hard. It's clear he's torn between his greed for the card and his suspicion of the too-good-to-be-true situation before him. The round ends with Hadria taking a surprising victory, thanks to the spell-slinger and her ability to bluff. The innkeep's hand trembles as he takes his cards back, and Dandelion can see the wheels turning in his mind. He's no fool; he knows something's up.
The tension thickens as they move into the third round. Stjepan plays more cautiously now, his gaze flickering between the cards and Hadria's face. Dandelion's heart is in his throat as he watches his daughter, her nerves of steel unshaken by their opponent's growing suspicion. She plays a card, a Scoia'tael archer, and the crowd around the table murmurs. It's a decent play, but not one that should win her the round. But she's setting a trap, Dandelion knows it. And the way she smiles at Stjepan, sweet and innocent, tells him she's certain he'll walk right into it. The innkeep's eyes narrow, his hand hovering over his cards...
Stjepan slams down a card, a rare Northern Realms hero with a power score that could take the round. But before he can gloat, Hadria reveals her hand. Two more counterfeit Scoia'tael, one with a power boost and another with a special ability that would normally only exist in a Witcher's fantasy. The archer's power skyrockets, and the room goes silent as the crowd realizes the implications. Stjepan's jaw clenches, his knuckles white around the edges of his cards. This was it—the moment where it became clear whether he would be a gracious loser or become violent. Dandelion sincerely hoped it would be the former—regenerating fingers was nasty business, even for a djinn.
"Your cards, my dear, seem... unusually powerful," he says, his voice tight.
"Do they?" Hadria feigns surprise, her eyes widening. "Why, I had no idea!"
Dandelion's smile is strained as he watches the innkeep's expression shift from excitement to suspicion. The game of Gwent is known for its nuances, but the power imbalance between their decks is too obvious to ignore. Stjepan's eyes narrow, his grip on his cards tightening. "Where did you say you picked these up again?"
"Oh, here and there," Hadria says, her voice as sweet as honeyed wine. She leans closer, her cards arranged in a deceptively weak fashion. "I've got quite the collection, you know."
Stjepan's eyes narrow, his gaze flicking from the cards to Hadria's face and back again. Dandelion can see the cogs turning in the man's head, trying to decide if he should call their bluff or fold and cut his losses. But the prize is too great, the temptation too strong. The Yennefer of Vengerberg card is a rare and powerful asset in any Gwent game, and Stjepan is a man who's used to winning.
"Alright, lass," he says gruffly, placing his cards on the table with a thump. "Let's see if you've got the skill to back up that pretty face."
Hadria's smile widens, revealing a hint of the shark lurking beneath the surface. She plays her next card, a Scoia'tael saboteur with an ability to completely decimate his lineup. The crowd gasps, and Dandelion can see the realization dawning on Stjepan's face. His own cards are good, but not good enough to withstand the onslaught of her overpowered deck.
The innkeep's hand shakes as he reaches for his ale, his eyes never leaving hers. The room is tense, the air thick with the scent of anticipation and doubt. Dandelion's heart is racing, but he keeps his expression calm, a proud father watching his daughter's strategic prowess unfold.
The round goes on, with Hadria playing her cards with precision, each move calculated to keep Stjepan guessing. She lets him take the lead, playing into his overconfidence, until the moment is right to strike. With a flick of her wrist, she places her final counterfeit card on the table—a Scoia'tael leader with an unheard-of power level. The crowd around them murmurs in amazement, and even Dandelion feels a twinge of pride. The spell-slinger and archers combine their might, creating a formidable force that leaves Stjepan's hero card trembling in the face of such unbridled power.
The innkeeper's face turns a deep shade of red, his eyes narrowing as he looks from the card to Hadria. "This isn't... this isn't possible," he stammers.
"The beauty of Gwent, Stjepan," Dandelion says smoothly, "is that anything can happen."
The crowd around the table falls silent as Hadria's cards lay waste to Stjepan's. The innkeeper's eyes dart from Dandelion to Hadria, his own cards forgotten. "You're cheating," he snarls, his hand slamming down on the table.
"Cheating?" Hadria gasps, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. "How could you say such a thing?"
"These cards," Stjepan says, pointing a meaty finger at the Gwent tableau, "They're not real!"
Dandelion's heart skips a beat, but he keeps his expression calm. "Now, now, Stjepan, there's no need to be a sore loser."
But Stjepan isn't having it. His eyes narrow, and he grabs the Scoia'tael leader card, holding it up to the light to inspect it more closely. "I've seen enough fakes in my day to know one when I see one," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
With a swiftness that belies her elegant posture, Hadria snatches the Yennefer card off the table and stands up, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. "Looks like we've got ourselves a winner," she says with a grin, not bothering to hide her triumph.
"Give that back, you little thief!" Stjepan roars, lunging for the card.
But Hadria's already on the move, her long legs carrying her quickly across the crowded tavern. Dandelion jumps up, knocking over his chair in the process, and follows close behind. The crowd parts before them, a mix of amazement and shock on their faces. Too shocked to react at first, it takes entirely too long for those gathered to realize what’s happening—or to make any attempt to stop it. In fact, Hadria and Dandelion had already made it out the door before anyone even thought to give chase. The cobblestone streets of Oxenfurt are slick with rain, and the flickering lamplight casts eerie shadows. Hadria's laugh echoes through the night as they sprint down the alleyway, the sound bouncing off the tall, narrow buildings.
Their boots splash in puddles, and Dandelion can feel his heart thundering in his chest, his lungs burning from the exertion. He's not as young as he used to be, but the thrill of the chase is something he's never lost. (It occurs to him, belatedly, that Hadria could’ve just spirited them away ... but where would the fun be in that?) And he's not about to let this card slip through their fingers now.
They turn a sharp corner, and Dandelion sees their escape route—a narrow gap between two buildings, barely wide enough for a single person to fit through. "This way!" he shouts, pointing towards the gap.
Hadria squeezes through, her corset protesting with every breath she takes. Dandelion follows, his bulkier frame making the passage more difficult, but he manages to wiggle through just as the tavern patrons round the corner. They're gaining on them, and Dandelion can feel the ground tremble with their heavy footsteps.
On the other side of the alley, they emerge into a small, deserted square. "Keep running," Dandelion gasps, his breath coming in ragged puffs. "We're not out of this yet."
But Hadria's not listening. She's stopped, her eyes wide and her hand over her rapidly-beating heart, staring at the figure standing in the center of the square, illuminated by the moon's glow. It's a Witcher, tall and broad-shouldered, his white hair plastered to his skull by the rain. And he's holding a very familiar deck of Gwent cards.
"Geralt," Dandelion says, his voice a mix of relief and annoyance. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," Geralt says, his tone dry. "But I suspect I already know."
"It was all in good fun," Dandelion says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. Hadria grumbles something underneath her breath about having very different definitions of the word ‘fun.’ "You wouldn't believe the lengths I go to for your collection."
Geralt's eyes flicker to the card still clutched tight in Hadria's hand. "And what's that?"
With a grin, she holds up the Yennefer of Vengerberg card. "Your missing piece, Daddy.”
Geralt's expression is unreadable as he takes in the card, the chase, and the furious mob barreling towards them. Without missing a beat, he tosses the deck into the air. "Grab what you can," he says, and in an instant, the three of them are in a frenzy, catching cards mid-air like a trio of street performers in a high-stakes game of keep-away. The patrons skid to a stop, momentarily baffled by the sudden turn of events.
"Now, run!" Geralt barks, and they do, darting through the square and into the maze of alleyways beyond. The sound of the mobs' heavy boots fades as they weave through the narrow passages, their laughter mixing with the pitter-patter of the rain.
They come to a stop in a small, shadowy courtyard, breathless and grinning. Dandelion collapses against a wall, his heart racing from more than just the chase. "How did you know we'd be here?"
Geralt arches an eyebrow. "You didn't think I'd just let you two wander off without keeping an eye on you?" He takes a step closer, his eyes on Hadria. "And why, pray tell, do you have that card?"
"We won it, obviously," Hadria says with a wink, her hand still clutching the Yennefer.
"Won it, did you?" The edge in Geralt's voice suggests he's not entirely convinced.
"Well, technically," Dandelion says, straightening up, "we did. Just not quite in the way you might expect."
Geralt sighs. "Let me guess. You two hustled someone out of it?"
“It was all in good fun, like I said.” Dandelion repeats, his voice wheedling. "And besides, you know I'd never betray your trust."
"Right," Geralt says, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Just like you'd never betray your opponent's trust in a game of Gwent."
They share a laugh, the tension of the moment dissipating. Geralt holds out his hand, and Hadria places the Yennefer card into his palm. He examines it closely, then slides it into his own deck with a click. "You know, I'd say I'm surprised, but with the two of you..."
"It's part of the charm," Dandelion says, wiping the rain from his face.
"If you say so," Geralt says, his eyes still on the card. "Now, let's get out of here before they figure out where we've gone."
They move swiftly through the city, sticking to the shadows and using every trick they know to stay one step ahead of their pursuers. Geralt's keen senses pick up any signs of danger, and he guides them through the back alleys and rooftops with ease. It’s not exactly how he’d expected to be spending his evening—it's a rare occasion that he gets to see his mate and daughter, and he’d been hoping to spend some time together doing something a little less... intense —but then, if they were predictable, they wouldn’t be his family. As they reach the edge of the city, the rain starts to let up, and the moon peeks out from behind the clouds. They pause at the city gates, catching their breath.
The mob is nowhere to be seen, and the night is quiet once more.
Dandelion leans against the cold stone of the city wall, watching as Hadria's eyes light up with excitement. "We did it, Da’," she says, grinning. “Without losing any fingers, this time.” She adds, wiggling the aforementioned digits for good measure.
Geralt nods, his own expression unreadable. He turns to Dandelion, his eyes softening slightly. "You're a fool, you know that?"
The bard laughs, taking it in stride. "And you love me for it."
With a sigh, Geralt reaches out and pulls Dandelion into a firm embrace. It's not often that he shows affection, but in that moment, the tension of the chase and the thrill of victory come together in a burst of feeling. Dandelion's eyes widen, but he doesn't resist, returning the embrace with equal warmth.
And then, as if the universe has decided to throw them one last surprise, Geralt's lips find Dandelion's in a kiss that's as fierce and unexpected as a summer storm. It's a moment that seems to stretch on forever, the rain-soaked air around them charged with an energy that's as palpable as the thunder that's rolled through earlier.
When they finally pull apart, both men are breathless, their eyes locked. There's a beat of silence, and then Dandelion laughs, a sound that's half shock, half relief. "Agreed... I much prefer this ending to the bloody mess it could’ve been."
Geralt smiles, a rare sight indeed. "Come," he says, taking Dandelion's hand in his, "I've got a place to stay here in Oxenfurt. We can celebrate your “victory” properly."
They walk together, the three of them, through the quiet streets, the sound of their laughter echoing off the buildings.
Geralt leads them to a small, unassuming inn on the outskirts of town. The sign above the door creaks in the breeze, and the light within spills out onto the wet cobblestones. He opens the door, and the warmth of the fireplace inside washes over them. The room is filled with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses. The patrons look up as they enter, but quickly go back to their drinks when they realize it's just a Witcher and his companions. A few eyes linger on Hadria, but she pays them very little mind. Geralt is in a surprisingly amiable mood, considering the messy situation he’d found them in, and she intended to take full advantage.
As soon as they arrive in his room, she’s pulling out the counterfeit cards she’d managed to rescue earlier and waving them in front of his face, a teasing smile lighting up her own, “Fancy a game?” She asks, “Winner takes the bed?”
Something flashes in Geralt’s eyes, then—the promise of a celebration momentarily forgotten. “You’re on.”