Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“By the grace of Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon of Nilfgaard, and Queen Anaïs La Valette of Temeria and Brugge ” Natalis began, his voice steadily gliding through the familiar titles, with the same grandeur that he might use if the ceremony was held in the throne room. He looked at the scroll held by the attendant, reading it as though the words themselves weighed heavy on his conscience. “We name thee, Vernon Roche, Hero of Temeria, Commander of the Temerian Special Forces. For your war efforts and services to the crown, you are hereby granted the title of Baron of Kernow.”

Kneeling before Natalis, Roche felt the moment’s weight pressing down on him harder than his ceremonial sword ever could. His eyes fixed on the stone floor as the regent continued.

“The crown grants you the Kernow Estate, along with lands from the Owl Hills to the Vda.” Natalis’s voice resonated in the quiet, private space of his office.

Roche’s back was straight, his jaw clenched, as Natalis paused, the air thick with expectation.

“And now, as tradition requires, swear your oath,” the regent said, his voice slightly softer, trembling with patriotic emotion.

Roche shifted, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword, the cold metal grounding him as he prepared to recite words that felt as foreign to him as the title itself. He lifted his chin and spoke, each syllable deliberate and clear.

"I, Vernon Roche, swear fealty to the crown and the empire, to guard and govern the lands of Kernow in the name of my sovereigns.”  Roche began, his voice steady and clear. The words tasted strange on his tongue, and Roche felt the irony of swearing loyalty in the presence of a Nilfgaardian ambassador, although with the new empress on the throne, he tried to make peace with that. 

“With my life and honour, I shall defend these lands and its people, serve faithfully, and uphold the peace, for as long as breath remains in me."

His gaze briefly flickered to the Nilfgaardian ambassador, Cassar Var Aep Aldon, whose bored expression did not go unnoticed. He never liked the man. It was mutual. 

With the oath spoken, Natalis stepped forward, drawing Roche’s ceremonial sword from its scabbard. He gently tapped Roche’s shoulder with the blade, marking the end of the formal ritual.

“The crown accepts your oath, Vernon Roche,” Natalis said, his voice grand once more. “Now rise as Baron of Kernow.”

The blade slid from Roche’s shoulder as Natalis completed the ceremony, and the attendant took a step backwards, rolling up the scroll with a soft rustling. Roche rose slowly to his feet, his left leg stiff and aching from kneeling, feeling the weight of his new title sinking in, though it carried none of the triumph a younger man might expect.

The room, regents office, was a far cry from the grand throne room. Dark oak-panelled walls surrounded them. A single goblet of wine rested forgotten on the edge of a large wooden desk cluttered with scrolls and correspondence, and the only light came from the flickering flames in the hearth, casting shifting shadows over the room. It was private, almost intimate, yet Roche felt no comfort in the setting.

He glanced at Natalis, surprised to see subtle emotions he saw in the man’s eyes. Then he gritted his teeth when he realised what it is - a mix of pride and pity.

The investiture and bestowal of titles ceremony were usually grand events held in the throne room, witnessed by peers, other nobles, and officials, yet this one had taken place in a quiet corner of the court, behind closed doors.

Natalis stepped closer, his hand resting on Roche’s shoulder in an unexpectedly personal gesture. The Regent's gaze softened for a moment, and he sighed, as though weighing his words before speaking.

“Try to see it for what it is, Roche,” Natalis said quietly, almost pleading. “It’s a reward. You’ve earned it—for your work, your loyalty.”

Roche nodded stiffly. though remained silent. A reward . He thought of the soldiers he had commanded, of the blood spilled, the friends lost. The honour of "Baron" felt hollow.

“Go and enjoy the free Temeria that you worked so hard for,” Natalis continued, his tone softer than Roche had ever heard. “You’re still young. Get a wife, have some kids. The estate will provide you with plenty to keep you occupied. There’s much to rebuild.”

The words echoed in the quiet room. Rebuilding. Roche nodded again, mind churned with conflicting thoughts.

—

After the ceremony, before Roche could even fully gather his thoughts, Thaler was already at his side, steering him through a side door with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Come on, Baron Roche,” Thaler muttered, his voice low and mocking. “Let’s get away from all the stifling finery before we choke on it. I’ve got a better spot for what we need.” His eyes twinkled with that familiar mix of mischief and insight, and Roche followed, knowing full well that Thaler’s idea of a celebration involved more than just a drink.

They wound their way through the lesser-known corridors of the palace, bypassing the servants’ quarters and ducking into a dim passage that Roche barely remembered existed. Thaler moved with the confidence of a man who’d been sneaking through the palace for years. Soon, they reached a small, heavy door tucked between two stone pillars, barely visible in the flickering torchlight. With a glance over his shoulder, Thaler pulled it open and led Roche into what looked like an old guardroom, long abandoned and forgotten.

The room was sparsely furnished—just a rough wooden table, two sturdy chairs, and a fireplace that had been lit, likely by one of the servants who ran chores for Thaler. The fire crackled quietly, filling the space with warmth and casting long shadows on the stone walls. On the table sat a bottle of Temerian rye and two glasses, waiting for them.

Thaler slumped into one of the chairs and motioned for Roche to sit. “Now then,” he said, pouring the clear liquid into both glasses, “shall we celebrate your joining of the landed gentry, Baron Roche? Your future as a man of leisure?” He slid one glass across the table to Roche, who scoffed at the words but accepted it.

Roche sat down heavily. He lifted the glass but hesitated for a moment, staring into the fire. Celebrate. What a load of shite. There was no real joy in it. Who did he have left to celebrate with, anyway? Ves was the closest thing to family, but she was too busy with her own duties as captain of the city guard now that Vincent Meis had retired. Apart from Thaler, there was no one. The men who had once fought by his side, comrades who had bled for Temeria, were scattered, dead, or lost to time. And now, he was supposed to be a baron—expected to manage land and people, far from the life he had known.

Thaler leaned back in his chair, eyeing Roche as if reading his thoughts. “You’re thinking too much, lad,” he said, raising his glass in a silent toast. “Drink. You’ve earned it.”

Roche raised his glass at last.

The first few sips of the vodka went down rough, burning the back of Roche's throat, but the warmth spread through him quickly enough. He settled into his chair, though the weight of the day still clung to him like a bad hangover. 

“Natalis almost had tears in his eyes. Fucking hell.” He said, scrubbing a hand over his face, voice haunted. Every time he tried to let the moment dull his thoughts, that damn title crept back into his mind. The fine coat he’d been gifted to wear for the occasion dug into his shoulders uncomfortably—so different from his usual uniform. Baron Roche.

“Well, who would’ve thought that this son of a whore would end up with land and a title,” he muttered, studying the contents of his glass. “Those old council farts will eat their hats when they find out.”

“De Wett is spinning in his grave,” Thaler snorted in agreement. “The cock.” he spat on the floor.

That brought a smile to Roche’s face, but it was brief. Deep down, he knew the truth—this title wasn’t the honour it was dressed up to be. It was a dismissal, a way to push him out of the court’s sight and mind. The land, the title—it was all a neat little package to send him off into quiet retirement, far from the halls of the capital.

Thaler, always too sharp for Roche’s liking, seemed to read his thoughts. He leaned back in his chair, taking a long swig from his glass before speaking. “You know, Roche, it’s not just about rewarding loyalty. Var Aep Aldon and people like him—they want things peaceful now. You’re too well-known, too visible.” He gave a short, knowing grin. “Assassinating Radovid—it was the right move, for Temeria and the crown, but people don’t forget. Especially when they’re now trying to broker peace with the elves and the Scoia'tael. No one wants the bloody past hanging around, least of all Nilfgaard’s shiny new ambassador.”

Thaler's words cut through the haze of the drink, sharp as ever.

“Might ease it for Anaïs if you stay away too,” Thaler added, his voice more serious now, watching Roche’s reaction closely.

Roche felt a pang of guilt settle in his chest, and he sighed deeply before downing the rest of his glass. He poured another. Anaïs—the little girl he had sworn to protect, now a queen, one of the last threads tying him to the old Temeria, to Foltest. He had watched her grow from a child into a young ruler, still learning, still training under the careful gaze of her regent and advisors. But each day, she filled him with pride. He did not want to be a burden for her. But the thought of leaving her to navigate the political vipers' nest on her own twisted his gut.

“Might make it easier for someone to kill her too,” Roche muttered, his voice bitter as he swirled the liquid in his glass. The idea gnawed at him more than he wanted to admit. He knew how fragile her position was still. In the world of courts and crowns, one misstep could be fatal. And he wouldn’t be there to stop it.

“There are others who’ll look after her,” Thaler said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes softening in a rare show of sincerity. “She’s got people in her corner, Roche. You can’t protect her from the shadows—not like I can. And stepping away might be the best thing you can do for her, protect her from your reputation. Look at the bright side—at least you get to retire with your head still attached to your neck. Retire a hero. Not many men with your list of deeds get that kind of ending.”

Roche grunted, but he knew Thaler was right. Most men in his line of work ended up on a communal pyre; they didn’t live long enough to be granted anything, let alone a peaceful retirement.

“That’s the problem,” Roche muttered, staring into his glass. “I wasn’t supposed to make it this far. I never thought I’d have the luxury of planning for what happens after.” The battlefield had become part of him, fighting for his country was who he was. The idea of stepping away, leaving it all behind—it felt wrong, like he was losing a part of himself. What the hell was he supposed to be without a fight to keep him going?

“Well then, by the Empress’s grace—you get to now” Thaler smirked, sensing the turmoil beneath Roche’s words. “It’s not so bad, Roche. Sure, it’s playing into the hands of the ambassador and Vyzima’s nobles, but you get some land, a title, money. Hell, you might even enjoy it.” He took another swig, his eyes gleaming with that familiar blend of sarcasm and truth. “Better than getting a knife in the back in some alley in Vizima, eh?”

“Mmm…” hummed Roche, taking another gulp from his glass, feeling the buzz of the alcohol settling over him.

“Where the fuck is Kernow, anyway?”

Chapter Text

Roche was a man of action and the next few weeks passed in a blur as he set about sorting his affairs. There were letters to write, men to dismiss and appoint, and enough paperwork to bury a lesser man. He’d thought, foolishly, that stepping into his new life as Baron of Kernow would be a clean break from his duties as a commander, but it seemed that even in early retirement, bureaucracy hunted him down like a starving drowner.

Kernow itself, after some investigation, turned out to be right on the devil’s arse-end — an isolated stretch of land at the far edge of Brugge. By Roche’s estimation, Brugge was hardly Temeria at all. It was a land lost to war, caught between Nilfgaard’s relentless advance and the long shadow of Brokilon Forest, and home to elves who wanted nothing to do with human politics. Roche’s lips curled into a sneer each time he looked at the maps. How had he gone from commanding special forces to managing fields in the wilderness?

Kernow was a surprisingly vast estate, sprawling across about a fifth of Brugge, the endless fields serving as the region’s granary. It sat on the borderlands, wedged between Cintra, Verden and Brokilon, where the great forest spilled over the Ribbon. 

It was as far from the heart of Temeria as one could get, far removed from the real, urgent politics of Vizima. Every time Roche traced the route on the maps laid out in front of him, a sour taste filled his mouth, as the extent of his exile sunk in. They were sending him out to chase dryads and bandits across the baulk, far from the political intrigues and covert work he had once thrived on undoing and creating alike. What made it worse was the knowledge that the imperial crown thought they were doing him a favour. Thus he felt he ought to be grateful. He would have to work on that. 

Yet, as Roche dug deeper into what little information he could find about the region, he began to see that even the edge of the world had its own share of troubles.

Kernow had, until fairly recently, been part of the vassal kingdom of Brugge, ruled by King Venzlav. The minor monarch had died two years ago, if anyone cared to remember, and left no heir. With the next war about to break out, the kingdom’s fate had been left in limbo. No one had the time—or the inclination—to deal with a leadership vacuum in some forgotten vassalage.

In the end, Temeria had dissolved the state and absorbed Brugge, turning it into a Dutchy, more out of necessity than strategy. The people of Brugge, caught between the constant threat of raids from Brokilon and Nilfgaard’s looming presence, had little appetite for rebellion. The kingdom dissolved quietly, its lands expanding Temeria’s borders without much fanfare.

In the weeks leading up to his departure, Roche spent what little free time he had gathering information. Old habits die hard, and he wasn’t about to ride into Kernow blind. Even if it was a backwater, he needed to know what he was walking into. The political situation in Brugge was a mess. He had the royal library scribes dig out old reports on land divisions, regional lords and governors, and the tension between humans and non-humans. The last thing he needed was to be blindsided by a Scoia’tael insurgency or some little noble’s uprising that no one had bothered to warn him about.

—

As the preparations for his departure gained speed, Roche made a visit to the royal quarters to see Anaïs. She had been informed of his appointment before, yet stood stiffly as she received him, her small frame fighting the tears that threatened to break through, her eyes shining with poorly hidden betrayal.

Her lips trembled, but she lifted her chin in an attempt to mirror the noble resolve she had seen so often in the adults around her. Roche knelt before her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder as she looked down at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Where even is Kernow?” she asked quietly, her voice faltering as if the words themselves scared her. “Why is it so far away? How often can you visit?”

Roche’s heart twisted painfully at the questions. He had never been one for soft words, and now, standing in front of the young queen he had sworn to protect, words failed him completely.

“Kernow’s far,” he admitted, eventually, having managed to swallow the tightness in his throat, “but not so far that I can’t come back when you need me. With good wind, I can sail from Cintra or Nastrog in over a week. I’ll visit as often as I can, and I’ll write you.”

She nodded, trying to maintain her composure, but the tension in her shoulders gave her away. Roche pulled her into an embrace, breaking all kinds of protocol, but as her arms tightened around him, he thought, to hell with protocol. Over her shoulder, his gaze found Natalis, standing just behind her with that damnable expression on his face—a twisted mixture of sympathy and guilt. Natalis had forced this on him, sent him away, and Roche glared at him mercilessly, wishing he could do something—anything—other than feed Anaïs half-truths.

As Anaïs pulled away, she gave Roche a small, determined nod. “I expect your letters, then,” she said, trying for a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“You’ll have them,” Roche promised, managing a faint smile in return. He knew that in reality, the distance and demands of the land would keep him far away from the court. But she didn’t need to know that now. Not yet. He would write.

—

The task of packing up his home in Vizima should have been simple—a soldier’s farewell to a life spent moving from one battlefield, court or forest to the next. Roche had expected to pack light, taking only the bare essentials for the rough, isolated existence that awaited him in Kernow. He envisioned leaving behind the trappings of his old life, ready to face the challenges of a new one. But following his visit to the palace, it turned out that the crown had other plans.

What began as a modest packing job soon turned into a spectacle. Roche watched as his simple belongings swelled with gifts that made its way from the royal castle. Clearly tokens of Anaïs’ care and respect for him - there were trunks of new clothing, piles of books on agriculture, and tools he couldn’t even name, let alone use. It was clear that the queen wanted him to carry a piece of Temeria with him to Brugge, ensuring he had everything he needed. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought—absurd though the gifts were, there was warmth in the gesture.

The sheer scale of the provisions was overwhelming. Four horses—far more horses than he had arses to ride with —were added to his caravan, along with banners bearing the Temerian coat of arms. The sight of the growing convoy outside his house filled him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation as he rubbed the crease between his brow. It made him re-considered sailing instead.

It would have been faster to travel by ship down to Nastorg, bypassing much of the overland journey. But the idea quickly soured. The Redanian blockade near the mouth of the Pontar, still held strong, and with them still hunting for those involved in Radovid’s assassination, Roche knew the risks were too great. He doubted they’d even make it to Cidaris without being intercepted, and Roche wasn’t about to put his entire convoy in jeopardy for a faster route.

The land route, longer though it may be, seemed the safer option in the end. Yes, they would face the usual dangers—bandits, nekkers, and the unpredictable spring weather—but at least he wouldn’t have to look over his shoulder for Redanian spies on Temerian soil. Besides, a part of him wanted to take the scenic route. Termeria had suffered much in the war, and Roche couldn’t help but want to see his country.  Maybe it was a touch of sentimentality, or maybe he just needed to feel connected to the place he had spent his life fighting for. Either way, Kernow could wait a little longer.

—

The news of his elevation to the ranks of nobility spilled over the Vizimian court like a fresh wave of shit in the gutter, flowing fast and causing stink everywhere it reached. Roche could feel the whispers swirling around him as he walked through the capital for what would be one of the last times. The local aristocracy, never fond of Roche to begin with, seemed particularly venomous and bored this winter - the bunch of serpents that they were. 

His townhouse in the Trade Quarter had long been the crux of the divide between him and the rest of the nobles. Foltest had gifted it to him years ago, when Roche became the commander of the Blue Stripes, an act that had only served to further infuriate the local gentry. Foltest had always enjoyed watching them squirm at Roche’s rise to their level. For Roche, the house was never more than a place to store his things in the winters when he wasn’t in the Royal Quarter. Now, standing in front of it, the thought of selling somehow didn’t sit right with him. Too many memories, too much history.

With a sigh, he handed the keys to Ves, his only constant through all these years. He couldn’t bear the idea of someone else living in the place, even if he would no longer be there to use it.

"Take care of it for me," he said, forcing a smile.

Ves grinned at him and pocketed the keys without hesitation. She had laughed long and loud when she first heard the news about his peerage, clapping him on the back with enough force to nearly knock him off his feet.

“Look at you, Baron Roche!” she’d crowed, her voice full of mirth. “That’ll shove it right up their noble arses.”

Roche had chuckled, appreciating the sentiment. Ves never did mince her words, and her bluntness was a welcome break from the gossip and games of court.

That night, they drank in The New Narakort. At first, the mood was light, Ves raising her tankard to him again and again, laughing and goading him. But as the evening wore on, her laughter faded, and the weight of the situation settled in around them. Roche wasn’t just getting a title—he was being sent away, far from the life they had known. By the time they hit the bottom of the last tankard, the mood had turned sombre. The two of them sat in silence, listening to the murmur of other guests’ conversations, the fire crackling in the hearth as they stared into the flames. Eventually, after begging the innkeeper for a bottle of rye, they found themselves singing old drinking songs, their voices slurred, the songs growing worse and worse as the night deepened. 

By the end of it, both of them had tears in their eyes. 

Ves had stood by him through everything—the wars, the betrayals, the missions that no one else could know about. And now he was leaving her behind, just as he was leaving everything else. She would stay in Vizima, continuing her duties in the city.

By the end of it, they got thrown out of the tavern. 

—

With most of the snow thawed after the Birke celebrations, leaving the roads muddy but at least passable, the day of departure finally came. Roche stood by his horse, now fondly named Three, watching the preparations for the departure come to an end in the chilly darkness of early morning. The Vizimian gossip mongers lined the street outside his townhouse. The more thin skinned nobles who couldn't bear to be seen actively watching were peeping through the gaps in the window shutters, or going on a very early morning walk. They whispered behind fans and gloved hands, warming themselves on the old hysteria of the sight of the whoreson commander, turned assassin, now a baron, and Roche could feel their eyes lingering on him.

He waved them off. It wasn’t that he couldn’t face their judgement— you couldn’t survive in the court without growing some thick skin. His attention was on the convoy. 

He had been saddled with a formal escort, chosen to accompany him on the long journey to Brugge. Though he would have preferred the company of Ves and a few of his old comrades—those who knew the value of quiet efficiency—he knew better than to argue. The civilians chosen as part of his retinue might have been picked for their ceremonial roles, but he  wasn’t about to let appearances get in the way of security. Despite the court’s pomp, Roche ensured his new staff consisted of men with at least basic military training. There would be no room for weakness on a journey that would take them weeks, and Roche had no intention of letting the convoy fall into disarray just to maintain some noble image.

This wasn’t the life he’d signed up for, but he was still a commander at heart, and he would run his convoy like a military operation, keeping everyone on alert. The title might have forced him into a different role, but there were limits to the nobility's nonsense. Roche wouldn’t compromise when it came to the safety of those travelling with him.

Four wagons, loaded with his belongings and supplies, stood in a line along the street. The wagon horses stamped restlessly, eager to begin the journey. The military escort of eight soldiers, led by Sargent Mavek, who used to work in his own force, stood ready. He selected them personally from amongst Natalis’ garrison and his own scouting unit. They would see him safely to Kernow before returning to Vizima at the end of summer. 

Then there was Halwick, Roche’s newly appointed steward moving between the wagons with his usual air of fastidiousness. Halwick had been a point of contention since the beginning.  On a younger side of his twenties and what in Roche’s opinion could be considered good looking, with blonde hair and blue eyes,  the man clearly had an ambition. What for, it was yet to be seen. Used to serving “true” nobles more inclined to delegate, he found Roche’s hands-on approach unacceptable. Vernon couldn’t help but wonder just who pushed the man into this role. They had argued over every detail - Roche’s clothes, the route, the stops, the sheer indecency of Roche’s involvement in the preparation and most recently over Halwick’s insistence that Roche travel in a carriage.

“It’s more appropriate for someone of your station, Baron,” Halwick had said, barely concealing his irritation.

“I’ll ride,” Roche had replied curtly, knowing that his ass won’t thank him for the insistence. 

Now, as Halwick approached him, ledger in hand, Roche could see the tension in the man’s posture. Still, Halwick spoke with the practised diplomacy of a servant who had spent his life catering to nobility.

“My lord” Halwick began, “It appears everything is in order. Shall we raise the banners for the departure?”

“No,” Roche replied, his voice sharp but measured. “I don’t want to draw unnecessary attention to us.”

Halwick’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. His world revolved around the conveniences and parade of noble life—fine carriages, comfortable inns, and the ceremony of the court. Everything that grated against Roche’s practical nature. 

“Once we reach the estate, I’ll have plenty of use for your skill and knowledge” he allowed, “but let me get us there first without having to bury anyone by the roadside.”  and the infuriating man walked off, dismissed.

“Everything’s ready, sir,” said Sargent Mavek, coming up beside him. His tone was calm, steady—just what Roche needed at the moment.

He gave him a nod, satisfied that at least his military escort was under control. He mounted his horse, the familiar weight of the task ahead offering some comfort in the midst of this unfamiliar role. He glanced over the convoy one last time. Corvin, the young scribe, sat in the lead wagon, scrolls and ledgers stacked neatly beside him. Hannicke, the cook and quartermaster, was already berating one of the younger servants about the provisions. Roche’s new valet, Jonas, hovered uncertainty, tugging at the strings of the hat that covered his dark hair, ever ready to assist but unsure what to do in the face of Roche’s independence.

With a signal from Roche, the convoy began to move. The horses’ hooves echoed against the cobbled streets, the creak of wagon wheels following in their wake. The tattlers whispered among themselves as they watched him go, their murmurs fading as the convoy passed through the Merchant's gate. Roche saw Ves and his ex-special forces regiment saluting on the city wall, back straight. He saluted back and if he couldn’t look anyone in the eye for a while after, no one dared to comment. 

Chapter Text

The last traces of winter lingered in the air, but the first hesitant signs of spring had begun to show. Roche squinted at the trees lining the road, their bare branches now dotted with faint green buds. He tried, in his own clumsy way, to appreciate the countryside—there was something poetic in the way the world slowly came back to life after months of cold. He just wasn’t sure what.

He furrowed his brow as he glanced at a patch of wildflowers poking through the mud by the roadside. At least, he thought they were wildflowers. Small little things that distracted from the general devastation where the fields and meadows had quite recently run with blood. 

Roche rode beside the wagons, posture poor, horse’s reins loose in his hands as his eyes wandered over the countryside. By the time the convoy had passed through yet another village, the steady rhythm of hooves and wagon wheels had become the backdrop to Roche’s thoughts. He had spent the last few weeks buried in preparations and planning and now, with nothing but the open road ahead, his mind had too much time to think. The ruined landscape in progress of being rebuilt, the roads he had travelled countless times before, only added to his strangely melancholic mood. 

He was glancing back at the convoy looking for a distraction, when his eyes settled on Corvin, the scribe, who was bent over his ledger, furiously scribbling notes. Roche slowed his horse until he was riding beside him.

“Keeping busy?” Roche asked, his voice cutting through the steady drone of hooves.

Corvin startled, nearly dropping his quill. “Y-yes, my lord. Just reviewing the route maps and plans you gave me and taking notes.”.

Roche gave a non-committal grunt, watching the young man’s hands tremble slightly as he adjusted his papers. Corvin, a tall lad with so many freckles that his face resembled a speckled egg, was plucked from his post of junior scribe at the Vizima’s customs office by the docks. So far, he had proven himself to be quick and observant, but very nervous. He was a good kid and Roche hoped that in time he would grow confident in his skills, and stop looking like a cornered mouse every time he spoke to him. He let his gaze drift toward the front wagon, where Hannicke—the cook—was barking orders at the driver.

“Oi! Mind the bumps, you blind wee cunt, or we’ll be eating mud for dinner!” Hannicke’s voice boomed across the convoy. Roche couldn’t help but smirk at the cook’s brash manner, she swore like a dwarf, though it was clear she took his job seriously.

“She is not going to let you forget anything,” Roche remarked dryly to Jonas, who was riding alongside him. The young man paled slightly, as he shifted in his saddle and adjusted his cloak.

“No, my lord,” Jonas replied, trying for a faint smile. “She’s got more opinions on provisions than any quartermaster I’ve ever met.”

“And guarding them like a wyvern protecting her nest,” Roche said, but felt that he wouldn’t find much of a conversation with Jonas either. His eyes trailing over the convoy and his new retinue. They were competent enough, he thought, but this was no army unit. They were quieter, more tentative and …subservient

Leading men hadn’t been his natural talent—it was something he’d had to learn the hard way. Coming from less than nothing, every skill he possessed had been earned through relentless work. After Foltest plucked him from the regular army, his life had been one of covert operations, raids, and espionage, where trust was forged in the midst of missions and failure meant death or capture. The men who followed him had done so because he’d proven himself time and again. But now? He glanced at the convoy—the drivers, the grooms, Jonas, and Halwick—all bound by duty to a baron, not to Vernon Roche. The sense of camaraderie he’d known with the Blue Stripes was absent, replaced by a formal distance that left Roche feeling oddly alone in the middle of his own convoy.

He wasn’t sure what kind of lord he was supposed to be. The thought gnawed at him. He wasn't born into it, and he couldn’t picture himself lounging in a manor house, surrounded by servants, disinterested in the people under his care or the work itself. 

His mind wandered to the leaders he had respected: Foltest, always first, a king who made sure to know all his men by name and took care to remember them. His old officer, Keld, who led dangerous missions with a steady hand, earned respect by taking on the most perilous tasks himself. Even Natalis, who, despite the tangled web of court intrigue, managed to maintain his integrity and the respect of his armies—fool though he was. They were great leaders because they understood those who served them, because they earned that fierce loyalty.

Could Roche do the same here, in this new life? He wasn’t sure. Still, he knew he couldn’t be the kind of man he despised. Aresholes like Stennis or Loredo - may ghouls gnaw their rotting bones —the ones who ruled with arrogance or neglect, leaving their people to fend for themselves.

Maybe, at its core, managing the estate wouldn’t be so different to leading Blue Stripes. Leadership wasn’t about titles. It was earned, like everything else. And if he could earn the trust of men in secret raids and dangerous missions, perhaps he could earn it out on the farm fields too.

—

The inns they stayed at had been prearranged for this leg of the journey, ensuring there was enough secure space for the wagons, paddocks, and feed for the horses. Each stop was well-planned, allowing the convoy to rest in safety, though Roche insisted on maintaining a guard overnight alongside the inn’s night watchman. He trusted his men, but the wagons carried not only all of his worldly belongings but also the savings he had withdrawn from the bank in Vizima. Several chests of coin containing his title and estate allowance were stowed away as well—he wasn’t taking any chances.

Sargent Mavek oversaw the rotations, keeping the men alert, though Roche’s keen eye could tell that even the soldiers were beginning to relax in the comfort of beds and hearths at each stop. Still, the familiar structure of nightly patrols, even in an inn’s yard, helped settle Roche’s nerves.

Soon enough, his nostalgic longing for rougher nights’ sleep became reality as the time came for their first planned night camping in the open. To Halwick’s utter horror, they had to set up camp on a meadow, surrounded by muddy fields,too far from Vorume to reach it before nightfall.

Despite all the planning and preparation, it didn’t stop the steward’s aghast expressions as tents were raised and provisions unpacked. 

“I daresay, this is hardly fitting!” Halwick muttered, his nose wrinkling as he surveyed the damp ground. Roche, equally frustrated—though for different reasons—had expected this to happen sooner or later. Watching the drivers and servants struggle to set up the tents, he felt a twinge of annoyance. This wasn’t the precise, efficient camp setup he was used to with his old units. All in all, it was better to experience these hiccups now than when they were truly stranded in worse conditions. He just had to grit his teeth and hope his men would improve before real hardships hit.

—

While the men enjoyed a brief reprieve from the road in Vorume, Roche, Halwick, and Mavek headed to the port. They went there to meet with the captain of the barge, which had been arranged to take them down the Uloka River toward Gorramone.. The port itself was bustling with activity, the air thick with the smell of fish and damp wood. Halwick, ever the steward, stepped forward to handle the negotiations.

“Allow me, my lord,” Halwick whispered as they approached the barge captain, a scruffy, weathered man with a tattered coat and a face that had clearly seen its share of rough waters. The steward puffed himself up, clearly intending to act as the buffer between Roche and someone he deemed beneath the baron’s notice. But Roche was having none of it. He brushed past Halwick and extended his hand to the captain, ignoring the man’s rough appearance.

“Captain,” Roche said, shaking the man’s hand firmly. The captain blinked in surprise but nodded, his grip solid. “We’re ready to board.”

The loading of the wagons and horses began, and Halwick looked as though he might suffer an apoplectic fit when Roche rolled up his sleeves and joined in. The steward sputtered in disbelief as Roche helped to coax displeased One, Two, Three, and Four—his personal horses— up the ramp onto the barge, working side by side with the grooms. Roche took the opportunity to familiarise himself with the lad, Hal, and lass, Anke, making note of their competence and ease around the animals. The soldiers took it in stride, but his other staff and sailors looked on in surprise as the baron worked alongside them without hesitation, ignoring Halwick’s silent looks of outrage. Roche shrugged it off, it was his second nature—if something needed doing, he did it. 

Sailing down the river was pleasant enough, with the current fast and swollen from the melted snows of early spring. The barge moved steadily along, the captain guiding them past floating debris—fallen branches and remnants of winter’s hold—swept along by the rushing waters. Though the days saw steady progress, each night they pulled up to the riverbanks for rest. The horses needed the break, and navigating the river’s obstacles in the dark was too dangerous, even for the captain’s skill.

Roche spent those evenings slipping away from under Halwick’s watchful eye, eager to escape the endless fussing. The man was really testing his patience. He found himself gravitating toward the company of the captain and his officer, who welcomed him with strong drink and easy conversation. To his growing pleasure, Hannicke often joined them, proving herself not just an expert cook but an impressive drinker and a sharp dice player. Roche watched as she pocketed the money, having wiped the floor with all three of them, her rough humour and quick insults reminding him far too much of Ves. Hannicke took no shit from anyone, her laughter loud and unapologetic as she tossed back another drink, effortlessly dominating the table. Roche found himself grinning more than he expected—there was something refreshing about her brashness, a familiar attitude amongst the gap between him and his men. 

—

The convoy wound its way through the forested paths that led from Gorramone, the sparse canopy above casting flickering shadows on the road. The journey from the town had been mostly uneventful so far, and Roche felt the familiar, monotonous quiet of the long road press in on them. They were nearing the old fortress city of Mortara, the last stretch of their journey in Temeria before they crossed to Brugge. As they rode further south the forgotten battlefields and war scars marking the land became less frequent and overtaken by work of people and nature. 

Roche, riding near the front, glanced back at the convoy, assessing the pace and the travellers who had recently joined them. A band of merchants, travelling with their own wagon, had approached them at the port in Gorramone. They asked to accompany the convoy for safety and even offered to pay a fair sum for the escort. Roche consulted the sergeant and ignored Halwick’s muttered complaints about not being mercenaries for hire. They reasoned that the extra bodies and wagons were hardly a threat and wouldn't delay them much. Still, Roche wasn’t foolish enough to drop his guard. He’d had Mavek double the watch at night since they’d joined.

“My lord,” Mavek’s voice cut through the quiet as he rode up beside Roche. His voice was low, almost casual, but something about the sharpness of his gaze made Roche pay attention “See that ahead?” Roche followed Mavek’s line of sight "It seems we’ve got ourselves an ambush”. He spotted it easily—clumsily concealed figures moving along the treeline ahead, barely hidden among the naked, early spring brushes.

“So it is,” Roche said, shifting in his saddle, somewhat excited. That was one way to break the monotony of their journey. His hand instinctively rested on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the area. 

Without breaking stride, Roche turned to his valet, riding just behind him. “Jonas, get my crossbow and load it.”

Jonas, wide-eyed, pulled his horse back to get the crossbow from where it was stashed behind the driver’s seat on the wagon. His hands shook slightly as he worked. Roche turned back to Mavek, shaking his head, fearing that the boy might shoot his own foot off. 

“Get the convoy to shift—civilians in the middle with four man cover. Bows at the rear. Two at front. Quietly. I don’t want them knowing we’ve seen them yet.”

Mavek nodded in agreement, and with a few subtle hand signals and grunts, he set the plan in motion. The merchants were gently manoeuvred to the middle of the convoy, none of them realising what was happening. The soldiers moved into position, their weapons within easy reach. Roche’s instincts flared as he felt the tension mounting. He had seen too many ambushes to mistake what was coming.

They rode for another few minutes before the attack came. It began with a shout from the trees, followed by the rustling of branches. Suddenly, a rush of bandits—more than a dozen of them—poured out of their hiding places. They were armed with slingshots, knives, and woodsman’s axes. They looked haggard, weak hands, shaky aim—easy kill for any man worth his salt. Desperate too, if they decided to throw themselves at a well armed caravan. The merchants screamed, the horses whinnied in panic at the sudden rush of movement, but Roche’s men were ready.

“Loose!" Mavek barked, his voice cutting through the chaos as two soldiers loosed arrows into the fray, dropping two bandits before they could even close the distance. The sergeant and three of his men spurred their horses to meet approaching attackers head on. Roche’s gaze flicked over the bandits scattered attack, the haphazard swings of their weapons. He could already tell which would turn and flee first, and who among them might pose a mild inconvenience.

Jonas, displaying a new shade of determined paleness, handed Roche his heavy crossbow. He cocked it and took aim unhurriedly, picking his target, his movements smooth and practised. The horse shifted underneath him.

He spotted one of the attackers trying to circle around the convoy, clearly hoping to strike from the side. Roche’s finger tightened on the trigger, and the bolt flew straight, the impact pinning the man to a nearby tree like a big insect, the bolt buried deep in his throat. The bandit slumped against the tree as the arrow severed his spine. He opened his mouth and gargled weakly, bloody foam at his lips and the remaining attackers hesitated, their confidence faltering.

The skirmish was brief. Mavek and the soldiers charged forward on horseback, swords flashing as they cut through the remaining bandits. Some fled, realising that they had bitten off more than they could chew. The sound of pounding hooves filled the air as Roche’s men gave chase, cutting down a few of the stragglers. Within moments, the forest was quiet again, save for the ragged breathing of the civilians and the groaning of the injured bandits left behind.

Roche dismounted, walking the line of the convoy to check on everyone. The merchants were shaken, but no one from the convoy had been seriously harmed. A few minor injuries, small damage to the wagons from the slingshots but nothing more. He nodded to Mavek, who trotted back with his soldiers, and was wiping blood from his blade.

“Looks like they expected an unguarded merchant convoy” Roche said, his voice steady but edged with satisfaction, looking to make sure that Helwick saw and knew. For once, he had nothing to say. “Desperate enough to attack anyway.”

“Sloppy work,” Mavek agreed, glancing at the scattered bodies. “Not enough ranged power, just slingshots. Back in my day, the bandits were much better quality, I’m telling you, my lord. There was some strategy to the jumping out of the brambles.”

Roche looked at the remaining bandits, some limping away into the woods. He didn’t bother pursuing them... “Let them run. Hardly bandits - just a band of half starved peasants. Fucking famine. They’ll think twice before trying this again. Might come back and clean up this mess too.”

Jonas approached, still holding the crossbow, green around the gills as his eyes jumped from the bandit pinned to the tree, throat screwed by Roche’s bolt and back to the baron himself. Roche gave him a nod, taking the weapon back.

“Good work, Jonas.” He clapped the young man’s shoulder, and felt a flinch ripple through him. Jonas managed a faint smile, but his eyes were still wide with the adrenaline of the fight. 

The tension in the air had broken as Roche turned to the convoy where it began to reorganise, the civilians calming down as the soldiers resumed their positions.

“Let’s get moving,” Roche called out. “We’ll need to make camp soon, and I want to be far from here by nightfall.”

–

The next day, they finally arrived in Mortara, an old town nestled beside a small port, two days' ride from the infamous battlefield of Brenna. The sight of the town with its weathered stone fortress looming in the distance stirred old memories for the soldiers in Roche’s company. It was from this very place that the Northern forces had rode out to meet Nilfgaard on the battlefield, seven long years ago. The skirmish from the previous day seemed to have reignited the men’s fondness for old war stories, and the retellings had stretched long into the night, fueled by flickering campfires and good drink. The tales continued even as they approached the gates of Mortara.

Mavek was in the middle of an exaggerated account of the battle, his gruff voice carrying over the sound of the wagon wheels. “And then there was that Nilfgaardian bastard guarding the officer’s tent —big as a mountain, but slow as hell. I dodged his swing and took him out clean!” He mimed the killing blow, much to the amusement of the younger soldiers.

Roche shook his head, smirking beside him.“So busy you were with him that you didn’t see the other one coming up behind you. Thirteen opened him up from chin to ballocks before he speared you.”

“Oh aye, that man had the grip of a blacksmith and the strength to match”

Laughter rippled through the group, the soldiers, staff and the travelling civilians listening intently to the stories of the old war. It felt almost… normal. As if, for a brief moment, they were simply comrades on a journey together.

When they reached the town, Roche and his men bid farewell to the travelling merchants. Their attention was now focused on securing passage down the Chotla River. After two days spent mostly exchanging news with the local baron and his castellan they finally managed to find a barge willing to take them the rest of the way to Brugge.

Those days stranded in Mortara had, at least, provided a much-needed break. Roche’s knee, stiff and aching from too many days in the saddle, appreciated the reprieve. His men seemed to enjoy it as well, particularly the younger ones. Roche had to hide his grin as he watched Jonas, his bashful valet, turn beet red when a waiting girl at the Smoked Trout, set her sights on him. The tavern was full of laughter, ale, and stories of the road. He let his men enjoy the locals’ company, while he nursed his sore joints.

As they boarded the barge, he paused, casting one last look over the fading town of Mortara and the distant landscape of Temeria beyond it. The forests, rugged and wild, seemed to stand as silent guardians over a past he couldn’t quite leave behind. It felt strange, crossing the border, knowing that the land he’d bled for, cursed for, and defended in ways few understood was slowly disappearing from view. For years, Temeria had been his everything: Foltest’s orders, the cries of battle. The weight of armour and sacrifice. Now, with each creak of the barge, that world drifted out of reach.

Jonas, standing just beside him, seemed to sense his unease. “My lord?” he ventured, his tone more hesitant than usual.

Roche cleared his throat, giving his valet a brief nod before speaking, his voice rough, “Strange thing, crossing this damn river. You’re looking ahead, but part of you… feels like it’s being left behind.”

Jonas nodded, perhaps a bit awkwardly, not fully understanding but still sympathetic. “Reckon we’ll be seeing Temeria again soon, though, won’t we?”

“Probably not,” Roche let out a dry laugh, “ even if the farmland doesn’t swallow us whole.” Truth was, he wasn’t sure he could walk into this new life without feeling like a ghost of the man he’d been—a commander, a soldier, a servant of Temeria. 

“Ah, ignore me. Guess I’m getting sentimental.” He turned his gaze forward to the murky waters of the Chotla and the unknown land stretching beyond. 

Jonas, sensing his quiet, gave a polite nod. “It’s no easy thing, sir. Leaving your roots.”

“Roots. Roots in mud and blood,” Roche murmured. “But even that mud’s something, isn’t it?”

—

Roche took in the bustling port city, its stone streets and crowded docks buzzing with activity. The smell of salt and fresh fish mingled with the ever-present tang of damp earth. After three days of sailing through relentless rain, the sight of Brugge, even shrouded in mist, was a balm for weary eyes. His men were quick to settle the horses and unload their essential supplies, their faces showing signs of relief as they led the animals to the inn’s stable.

The Duke of Brugge’s seneschal—a tall, slender man with an air of strict efficiency—approached, bowing with practised formality. "The Duke sends his regards, Baron Roche, and looks forward to your meeting." He glanced briefly at Roche’s rain-streaked cloak and worn appearance, gesturing toward the inn. "You and your company are welcome to rest here at the Stag and Oak for the evening - His Grace arranged the rooms for you. Your wagons and belongings to be taken directly to the castle. His Grace will await your arrival tomorrow.”

Roche nodded, stiffly returning the formalities. "My thanks for the arrangements. I’m looking forward to meeting the Duke after we’re settled." He glanced over his shoulder at his men, who were already filing inside, grateful, leaving a muddy trail behind them.

Inside the inn, the warmth from the fire was immediate, wrapping around them like a long-forgotten comfort. Roche loosened his cloak, then gestured to Halwick, who had just deposited his own saddlebag in the corner.

“See that everyone gets a hot meal,” Roche instructed. “You've earned it.” 

As Roche settled onto a bench by the fire, he felt the cold begin to seep from his bones. He stared into the flames, letting the weariness of the journey melt away in the glow. Tomorrow would bring formal introductions and another new chapter in this role he had been thrust into. But for tonight, with his men safe and warm, and a dry roof over his head, he allowed himself a brief, rare moment of calm.

Chapter Text

The next day was a whirlwind of activity—none of it the kind Roche was used to or enjoyed. Halwick and Jonas had been at him all morning, primping and fussing like they were preparing a rooster for a show. Roche hated every minute of it. Grooming, trimming, scrubbing—none of this was what he’d signed up for, and certainly not how he wanted to spend his time. They even trimmed the hair on his toes. 

It wasn’t the first time, of course. Foltest had ordered him scrubbed up more than once in the past for this parade or that ceremony, but those times were at least accompanied by the giggles of serving girls. Roche had vague, fond memories of half-hearted protests as they tried to slick back his hair. Laughter filling the room as he cursed about being made into a court pet, Foltest grinning in the background at his discomfort. 

But there were no cute maids this time, only the gritted teeth and sharp words of Halwick growling at Roche while he fussed over his hair and beard, which had grown untamed over the last weeks of travel.

“Hold still, my lord,” Jonas murmured, his voice quiet and tentative as he worked the razor along Roche’s jawline, steadily gliding it over the creamed skin. The lad had a sure hand, but there was something about having someone with a blade that close to his neck that set his nerves on edge.

“Careful, boy,” Roche muttered through gritted teeth, his muscles tensing. “I’d rather not have you spill my blood before we even see the Duke.”

Jonas mumbled an apology, his voice shaking slightly, but hands remained steady. Across the room, Halwick hovered, barking out orders about hair, clothes, and “proper presentation”. The steward had a knack for making every task sound like a matter of life or death.

“You must present yourself as befits your station. We may be far from Vizima, but the Duke has all of Brugge under his command and is your sovereign -  best not forget it,” Halwick said, frowning as he inspected Roche’s clothes laid out for Roche.

“Yeah, I gathered,” Roche muttered under his breath, though he stayed still as Jonas finished up. Halwick would keep going until Roche looked and acted like a proper “baron” even if it killed them both. It might yet.

After what felt like an eternity of cussing and cursing, they finally stepped back, clearly satisfied with their work. Roche stood there, feeling raw, like a sheep freshly shorn.
“All done, my lord,” Jonas said, wiping his hands on a towel.

Roche snorted and walked over to the full-length mirror that had been dragged in from a nearby tailor’s shop for the occasion. He hadn’t looked in a mirror for longer than a glance in years. There wasn’t much to look at, really. But now, standing in front of it, he barely recognized the man staring back at him.

After a few months of proper sleep and meals, even on the road, Roche looked the healthiest he had in years. The bags under his eyes, once permanent from long nights of sleepless worry, had almost vanished. The deep lines that had carved into his face during the guerrilla warfare softened, less prominent now.

Gone was his familiar travelling coat. The chain of office that usually clinked around his neck was locked away somewhere in a chest with the rest of his personal belongings. Hell, even his battered chaperone had been tossed aside. In its place, he wore formal attire, finer than he’d ever been comfortable with.

His newly fitted boots, polished leather with dark tassels and spurs glinting around the heel, were a far cry from the worn riding boots he was used to. Though the idea of having more than one pair of boots was still something he couldn’t quite get over. A shirt with a high, rigid collar that dug into his neck whenever he slouched, with silver buttons threaded together by a thin chain that tugged when he shifted. Roche scowled as he tried to stand straighter.

His doublet, a light blue that almost shimmered in the afternoon light, clung to him snugly. Over the doublet was a darker overcoat, emphasising his broad shoulders and narrowing at his waist, cinched in just a little too tightly for comfort. Atop that, a half-cloak was draped over one shoulder, pinned in place with a decorative clasp. Roche tugged at the edge of the cloak, feeling the unfamiliar, lopsided weight of the fabric pulling at his posture.

But it wasn’t just the clothes. Jonas had taken it upon himself to shave Roche’s face until his cheeks were smooth, completely devoid of the usual dark shadow that often clung to his jawline. And his hair—normally hidden under a cap—had been washed and slicked with some kind of pomade. It made his natural dark curls shine and stand out with a definition and look like he actually cared about his appearance. And if all that wasn’t enough, Jonas had come at him with a bit of charcoal, darkening the skin around his eyes, insisting it was to "bring out his features."

“What in all hells, Jonas! I’m not some bloody dockside hussy to be parading around with painted eyes!” Roche had spat, nearly knocking the valet’s hand away as he hissed in protest. But by the time Jonas was done, the subtle hint of charcoal remained, and despite his grumbling, Roche begrudgingly admitted to himself that it didn’t look terrible. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

He stared at the man in the mirror—a man who, for all appearances, looked like a proper baron about to meet the Duke of Brugge. He tugged at the collar of his shirt again, feeling it dig into his neck. It was too tight, too formal.

“I look like a fancy prick,” he said, “but almost a proper baron, too,” he added seeing Jonas and Helwicks reflection’s fall in the mirror.

“Well done, gentleman,” he said, just to acknowledge their skill and they looked pleased. 

Another argument started as soon as Halwick tried to stop Roche from buckling on his weapons.

“You cannot go in armed, my lord,” Halwick insisted, standing firm with his arms crossed. “You already have an escort and the Duke’s men will be on guard. It would be seen as a sign of distrust and a great offence to the Duke.”

“I sure as hell aren’t going in unarmed,” Roche shot back, his voice gruff with irritation. The idea of stepping into the Duke’s hall without a weapon on him felt like lunacy. ”I’ve been in charge of security at many of those banquets. Should any knave have a go at me, my guts would be on the floor before anyone has the chance to react.”

After a few heated back-and-forth exchanges, they finally compromised on a decorative dagger, its ornate hilt more for show than function. Roche reluctantly fastened it to his belt, but as soon as Halwick’s back was turned, he quickly stashed a more practical blade in his boot. If things went wrong, at least he wouldn’t be entirely defenceless.

—

They made their way up to the royal castle of Brugge. Unlike the solid and battle ready fortresses up north, this castle was more sprawling than imposing, its stone walls rising gracefully from the earth.  The architecture was grand, but not designed for war, with its wide courtyards, airy halls, and expansive terraces that overlooked the surrounding countryside.

The gardens were already coming to life in early spring. Neat hedges bordered the walkways, and flowerbeds full of purple and yellow blooms added vibrant bursts of colour to the scene. Trees, with their shy brand-new leafs, cast long shadows over the paths, and fountains trickled softly in the background. The place had an undeniable beauty—well-tended, serene, and carefully crafted to impress. 

As Roche and his entourage stepped through the castle doors, the sound of lively conversation and the clatter of dishes immediately filled the air. The feast was already in full swing. Local nobles filled the room, their eyes honing in on Roche as he entered, the buzz of excitement palpable. Unlike the sharp-edged whispers he was used to in Vizima, these murmurs were lighter, curious—less laden with judgement and more with interest.

"Baron Roche!" The Duke’s booming voice cut through the noise as he rose from his seat at the head of the table. Eldrik Verhan, the "Red Boar of Brugge," was an imposing man, his frame wide and stocky, with the ruddy complexion of someone who enjoyed his food and drink and a greying mob of wiry hair that stuck out at odd angles. He waved Roche forward with a broad smile, his thick moustache twitching with amusement. "Welcome to Brugge! Come, join us, and have your fill!"

Instinctively, Roche moved forward and began to dip into a respectful bow—a court habit that he hadn’t yet shaken. Halfway down, with Halwick letting out a low threatening hiss behind him, he caught himself, realising that as a baron, he wasn’t expected to perform deep bows to a duke.

To recover, Roche straightened his posture and offered a firm nod instead, adding quickly, “Thank you, Duke Eldrik, for your generous hospitality. The warmth of your welcome is matched only by the feast before us.”

The Duke’s eyes twinkled with amusement, though he didn’t comment on the near-bow. Instead, he clapped Roche on the shoulder with a hearty laugh as he approached. “Well said, Baron. No need for stiff formality here—you're among friends.”

Roche doubted that, but forced a thin smile as he took the seat beside the Duke. The head table was sparsely populated that evening—the seat of the Duchess was empty, but Roche remembered that the Duke was a widower. Further on his left sat a willowy teenage daughter with a sour face, utterly unimpressed with Roche’s greeting. Further to the sides sat the council members and Melitele’s High Priestess. 

The spread before him was impressive: platters of roasted game, fresh loaves of bread, and pitchers of wine—far more decadent than the meals they’d grown used to on the road. Unlike much of the North, abundance returned quickly to Brugge, untouched by the bitter hunger still gnawing at its neighbours. Spared from most of Nilfgaard's last invasion, they had seemingly regained a prosperity most of Temeria could only dream of still.

The Duke raised his goblet high, cutting through the chatter with his booming voice. “To Baron Roche, our newest neighbour and ally!”

Roche lifted his own goblet, this time with more confidence. “To Brugge, and to its gracious hosts,” he replied smoothly. He took a sip, catching the curious glances of the nobles around him, their whispers continuing as the evening’s feast resumed.

As the feast gained traction, between greeting other courtiers, Roche found himself glancing at Duke Eldrik more closely. There was something familiar about the man—the way he spoke and carried himself with ease and authority. It wasn’t until Verhan made a passing comment about the Temerian army that a memory clicked into place.

“You served under Natalis, didn’t you, your grace?” Roche asked, narrowing his eyes in recognition. “Back in the second war with Nilfgaard…”

Verhan turned to him with a broad grin, clearly pleased that Roche remembered. “Aye, Marshal Verhan back then,” he said with pride, raising his goblet slightly. “I led the first and second division of Temerian Lancers through the Mayena campaign, and led the eastern front at Brenna. The Fiery Hooves they called us. We gave Nilfgaard a run for their black gold, if you recall.” He dipped his voice, to avoid being overheard by the Nilfgardian ambassador, sat at the table close on the left.

Roche nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place. He did remember—it was Varhan’s force’s attack and ferocity of a charging boar that he got named after, that had broken the enemy line from the left flank. It had eventually led to the victory at the battlefield for the northern forces. Foltest was delighted. “Forgive the slow recognition, your grace. I didn’t expect to see you here, wearing a duke’s mantle instead of armour!”

Verhan gave a small chuckle, his expression mischievous. “Neither did I, to be honest. Life, or rather kings and queens, have a strange way of pushing us down roads we never thought we’d take.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Vernon laughed in agreement, hiding his bitterness. 

Verhan’s grin softened, his eyes clouding slightly. “Times change, Baron. I’d have stayed in the army if the world hadn’t shifted beneath us all. But when Foltest handed me this duchy after the annexation, I wasn’t in much of a position to refuse. Wish I did, given what happened soon after. One of the last titles he granted.” 

Roche didn’t remember that part. He had been too busy running around chasing Scoia'tael and then the kingslayer to pay too much attention to the shifts of titles and southern borders. The duke took a deep swig from his goblet, looking pensive, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice again as he glanced around the room. “Not everyone is as thrilled to meet you as I am, I’m afraid.”

Roche had already noticed. He spotted a surprising number of elves amongst the guests with a practised eye, who in turn looked at him with suspicion. Despite the excitement buzzing through the hall, several men seated at the far end of the table wore tight, barely concealed scowls. They whispered among themselves, their gazes flickering toward Roche with clear disapproval. It didn’t take much to understand why. He was Temerian, and his title and lands had been ordered by Nilfgaard. These men of Brugge, recently  annexed and still sore from losing their independence, had little reason to welcome him with open arms. Roche could understand that.

Verhan seemed to read his thoughts. “Old loyalties die hard,” the Duke said quietly, his voice low as they both watched the men from across the room. “They remember the days before the vassalage. It’s not about you personally, Baron—it’s about what you represent. Temeria, yes, but now Nilfgaard too.”

Roche nodded, sipping his wine as his eyes moved around the room. “I had my suspicions. But reports only tell you so much.” He leaned in slightly, gesturing subtly with a chicken bone toward a man in green robes. “The man over there—he certainly looks like he has been served shit on a platter,” he commented, before biting his tongue at his crude choice of words. He put the chicken down.

The Duke burst out laughing, following Roche’s gaze. “Baron of Thurlough. And you’ve got a keen eye. He’s not shy about his disdain for Nilfgaardian rule. Havel’s old guard, stubborn as a mule but commands a loyal following among the locals. He’s one to watch.”

The Duke toasted a table of merry merchants across the hall, and continued, his tone casual yet pointed. “One notable absence tonight—Count Gerhart Kraeyn. Now, no slight intended; he’ll host you when you pass through Dillingen soon enough.” A sour smile crept across his face as he added, “Though I suspect he’s less than thrilled about the arrangement.” Roche made an interested sound for Duke to continue. 

“Kraeyn had his eye on those lands himself, and to have them suddenly under my jurisdiction, while going to a Temerian…” He shook his head. “It’s a bitter draught for him to swallow.”

Roche kept his expression neutral, though he could already sense the likely tension ahead. The Duke took a sip of his wine, his gaze calculating. “Gerhart may be a Nilfgaardian, but he doesn’t easily forgive slights, real or imagined.”

As the Duke pointed out others in the room, Roche kept his observations sharp, listening more than speaking. It all made sense—the tension between the recently annexed Brugge and his Temerian roots, now further complicated by Nilfgaardian authority. But what surprised him most wasn’t the men eyeing him with distrust—it was the women. He could feel the gaze of more than a few lingering on him, their glances accompanied by quiet giggles and hushed conversations. One young noblewoman, seated further at the table below the deis, caught his eye and smiled before quickly looking away, pretending to be engrossed in her meal.

Roche raised an eyebrow, glancing at the Duke. “Seems I’ve attracted some attention,” he muttered dryly, nodding toward the small group of women, causing a fit of giggle where they clearly watched him attentively.

Verhan let out a booming laugh, slapping his knee. “That you have, Baron! Handsome, new lordling, fresh from the capital, and a hero of Temeria they call you.” Roche didn’t know how he felt about being called “handsome” but the Duke wasn’t done yet—

“And on top of that, you’ve been granted some of the richest lands in all of Brugge. The rye from Kernow is as good as gold. Outside of my castle, you’ve got the best patch of earth this side of the Yaruga.” He winked. “Brace yourself, Baron. You can expect many callers—daughters, nieces, distant cousins. Marriage proposals will start flying at you quicker than arrows in a Scoia’tael ambush.”

Roche couldn’t help but grimace at the thought. “I’m not exactly in the market for a wife,” he said gruffly, though he couldn’t deny the truth of the Duke’s words. Wealth and power had a way of drawing attention, and the prospect of marriage alliances was something he’d rather avoid.

Verhan grinned, clapping him on the shoulder again and roaring loudly with laughter “Ah, prepare yourself for a siege, then, Baron. You may not be in the market, but rest assured, they’ll be selling. And who knows? You might enjoy the sampling.” 

—

The feast wore on and the wine flowed freely, the buzz of conversation and laughter filled the grand hall. Entertainers—jugglers and musicians—began to gather in the corner of the room, preparing for their performance. Just as Roche was about to take another sip of his drink, Duke Eldrik   leaned in closer and gestured toward a side door leading away from the hall.

“Come Baron,” Verhan said in a low voice, “let’s talk some more, before the dancing starts and vultures descend on you.”

Roche raised an eyebrow, but followed the Duke through the side door into a more private chamber. The noise from the feast faded behind them, leaving the two men in a room with a large window that overlooked the early spring gardens of the castle. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm glow across the stone walls.

As they settled into a couple of high-backed chairs, Verhan eyed Roche up and down, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll admit,” the Duke said, “you’re not quite what I imagined.” Clearly, they were dropping the titles in private. 

Roche rolled his shoulders uncomfortably in the stiff clothing. “That would be my steward and valet’s payback for making them spend some nights on the ground,” he admitted.

Verhan chuckled. “That sounds about right. If they had their way, we’d be draped in silks and sat on feather pillows all day long—many men would. You seem to have a good head on your shoulders. Practical. We could use that here.”

Roche’s expression stayed neutral but for a moment, some of the tension of the feast lifted. The Duke poured them both a drink from a decanter sitting on a small table nearby, handing one to Roche. “You know,” Verhan began, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “when I first heard about your appointment, I thought we’d have little in common. But it turns out you and I aren’t so different.”

Roche looked at the man encouragingly, taking a sip. “How so?”

Verhan leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning inward as he spoke. “I wasn’t born into this life of finery,” he admitted, gesturing broadly at the grand hall around them. “Started out as a soldier, like any other lad with a strong arm and a taste for the fight. My father was a merchant, nothing more, and I clawed my way up from the ranks on my own grit. Got a bit too good at killing—strategy too. One promotion followed another, then a string of convenient deaths among my superiors during the war. And here I am, a Duke. Handed a title I never asked for, but rewarded for work I’d have done regardless.” He chuckled, a bit ruefully. “Now I’m supposed to play at being a noble, pretending like I fit in a world I’ve spent my life looking at from the outside.”

He met Roche’s gaze, a wry smile touching his lips. “In some ways, it’s harder than the battles ever were.”

Roche looked at the Duke with a newfound sense of kinship. He had expected more pompous arrogance from a man in Verhan’s position, but instead found someone who had come from similar humble beginnings. “Foltest raised me up, too. I was born with nothing—less than nothing. I’ve spent more of my life sneaking through forests and raiding camps than sitting at feasts like this.”

Verhan grinned. “Exactly. And now look at us—dukes and barons, lords of lands and titles. Doesn’t fit quite right, does it?”

Roche chuckled, shaking his head. “No, it doesn’t. Like a pair of boots that you snagged off a corpse.”

Verhan grimaced, taking another drink. “But here we are, and we make the best of it. I’ve found that ruling is not all that different from leading men in the field. You command respect, earn loyalty, and you deal with the occasional insubordination. But instead of swords and shields, it’s laws and politics.”

Roche leaned forward, his brow furrowed slightly. “And how do you deal with it? This... transition?”

Verhan’s grin turned thoughtful “Truth is, you get through it the same way you’d approach any new field. Study the terrain. Know your allies, your risks, and be ready to stand your ground when the time comes.”

Roche nodded thoughtfully. “Foltest used to say a man needs the strength to stand alone in any room, no matter the company.”

“A wise man,” Verhan said, lifting his glass. “Because, make no mistake, some here are waiting for us to slip. Every move, every choice—they’ll judge twice over.”

Roche’s mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Then let them watch. I’ve spent half my life proving people wrong.”

The Duke chuckled, his voice carrying a rough warmth that felt more like kinship than formality. “Then we’re of the same mind, Baron. It’s not about blending in. It’s about holding the ground we’ve earned, however we must.”

Roche sat back, his grip on the glass loosening slightly. The Duke’s words struck a chord with him. Maybe this new life wasn’t as far from the old one as he thought. There was a quiet understanding between the two men—a sense of shared struggle, of being thrown into a world they hadn’t asked for but had to navigate nonetheless.

Verhan raised his glass, his voice firm but warm. “To surviving the battlefield, and the court.”

Roche raised his own glass, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “To surviving.”

They drank in silence, the fire crackling softly as the weight of their shared experiences settled between them.

As the conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm, Roche noticed something in the Duke’s demeanour. Though Verhan was friendly and open, there was a subtle shift in his posture—a hesitation that didn’t match the easy camaraderie. Roche wasn’t naive. The Duke liked him well enough, and could become a strong ally but there was something else on his mind, a question he was stalling on.

Verhan cleared his throat after a pause, swirling the dregs of his drink. “So... tell me, Roche, can I call you Roche?” he began, carefully, and after getting a nod, he continued, “about your plans for Kernow. It’s quite a patch of land. Fertile... but close to Brokilon.”

Roche didn’t respond immediately, narrowing his eyes slightly at the Duke. So this was it. He’d been waiting for the dryad question. Everyone knew Kernow bordered Brokilon Forest, home to the green warriors who kept humans far from their ancient woods. Verhan’s polite probing wasn’t just idle conversation—it was an attempt to gauge where Roche stood on the issue.

Roche gave a snort, leaning back in his chair. “If the dryads attack… given the state of the garrison in Kernow as I know it, we will be lucky to offer our cocks in surrender. Maybe the green witches will find ‘em pleasing and leave them attached to our bodies,” he said in jest, but the truth of it rang through the air heavily. “There’s hardly any men left to defend the land here. My escort will be leaving for Vizima by Lammas. The garrison’s thin as it is.”

Verhan raised an eyebrow, Roche’s bluntness catching him off guard. “With so few men, I take it you’re putting your faith in the dryads’ restraint, then?”

Roche shrugged, taking a slow sip from his glass. “Not much else to do. Besides,” he added, “the Empress thinks highly of their queen. That's a good enough reason to keep things peaceful on my end. I plan on maintaining the best relations possible with my green neighbours.”

Verhan’s expression was unreadable for a moment, as though he were weighing Roche’s words. “And what if they don’t share that sentiment? Brokilon is not known for being friendly to outsiders.”

Roche gave him a level look. “Then we’ll see. But I’m not about to start trouble with them, not when there’s barely a handful of men to defend the place. Besides, the last thing Temeria needs is more conflict—especially with Brokilon.”

Verhan nodded slowly, though Roche could tell the Duke wasn’t entirely satisfied with the answer. The Duke clearly had his own thoughts about the dryads, but Roche wasn’t quite sure what he was angling for. Besides, Roche too knew more than he was letting on—there had been specific requests from the Empress regarding Brokilon that she sent to him personally, before his departure, but those were not for Verhan’s ears.

“Practical,” Verhan finally said, his tone measured. “Very practical.”

Roche gave a small grunt. “I don’t have the luxury of being anything else. We’ll make peace where we can, fight when we must. But let’s not go looking for enemies.”

Verhan leaned back, seemingly content with the answer for now, but Roche could feel the underlying tension. Whatever the Duke’s true thoughts were about Brokilon, it was clear he had more at stake than he let on.

Predictably, as soon as they returned to the main hall, Roche was swept up by a crowd of nobles—men and women alike—eager to make acquaintance with the new baron. Conversations overlapped, compliments were thrown at him with a touch of eagerness. Roche smiled through it all but he felt the familiar itch of discomfort. He was no stranger to politics, but this game of nobles vying for his favour was quite new and left a bitter taste in his mouth.

—

A few days after the feast, Roche found himself alone in a quiet office in the chambers the Duke had set aside for him—a space near the castle’s outer walls, where he could look out onto the beautiful sprawling gardens. His caravan and his men were ready again, resupplied and rested to depart the following morning. He settled at a wide, sturdy desk, pulling out parchment to write - his handwriting was never the steadiest, always better at reading then writing, but he took his time, penning a letter to Anaïs as he’d promised. 

He wrote carefully, his words brief but sincere, detailing the journey so far—the towns, the land, and the faces they’d encountered. He softened his tone when mentioning Verhan, hinting at the Duke’s welcome and his unexpected wit. Roche smiled as he finished the line; he thought she might appreciate hearing that he was making allies, even if they were unconventional. Closing the letter, he wrote simply, " As ever, I remain your loyal sword and confidant, whenever you need ."

When he finished, Roche sealed the letter with his mark and set it aside to be sent back to Vizima. It felt strange, having such routine duties now, but perhaps that was part of the transition—finding new ways to wield his loyalty.

A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. Halwick entered, his usual briskness softened with an air of excitement. “The Duke sends his regards, my lord,” he announced. “He also extends his hopes for an invitation for a hunt once you’re settled in Kernow. There's word of fine game, and the Duke insisted it’s an excellent way to acquaint yourself with the land.”

Roche nodded, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Tell him I’ll gladly extend an invitation to him and his party.” Men like Eldrik Verhan were rare in halls like these. 

Chapter Text

The barge glided into Dillingen’s docks and there was no grand reception awaiting him, which was exactly what Roche had expected. The city, though bustling with activity, didn’t seem to take particular notice of their arrival. This was the kind of town where wealth was measured in the flow of goods rather than ceremony and decoration.

A steward, flanked by a junior official, came over, unrushed, as the waggons and horses were pulled off the barge. The man was short and stocky, his expression bored as he approached. 

"Baron Roche," the steward greeted, offering a small bow. "His Lordship, Count Kraeyn welcomes you to Dillingen. He asked me to escort you to his residence."

Roche nodded in return. "Lead the way."

The streets of Dillingen were lined with stalls of merchants peddling their wares, dockhands shouting orders, and the general chaos of a port town in full swing. Roche kept his eyes sharp as they rode through the city, noting the good state of the buildings and roads, the traders who eyed his convoy with interest and the occasional glance thrown in his direction. 

The Count’s estate stood outside of the bustling town centre, overseeing it from the high point of the hill. Roche took it in briefly as they arrived, noting the walls and defensive towers, though his attention was already shifting to the meeting ahead—remembering Duke’s warning.

Inside the manor, Roche was led through a series of polished corridors to the Count’s private study, where Kraeyn awaited him. The man himself sat behind a broad mahogany desk, his fingers steepled before him. His build was lean, almost wiry, with the severe cut of his fine clothes emphasised restraint rather than indulgence. His hair was slicked back, raven-black and seemingly untouched by age—though it had been touched by paint. It framed a face with sharp, hawkish features: sunken cheekbones, a slightly too narrow nose, and lips set in a perpetually thin line. For a moment Roche was taken aback by the similarity, and wondered if the dim echo of resemblance to the previous emperor was deliberate. 

Count Kraeyn stood as Roche entered, offering a shallow nod—just enough to show respect without giving too much.

 "Baron Roche," he greeted, his voice honey smooth. "Welcome to Dillingen. I trust your journey was manageable?" His eyes, a shade of too dull grey, looked him up and down, assessing with a practised and unapologetic scrutiny. 

"Not without its challenges, Count Kraeyn," Roche replied and offered a perfunctory bow, keeping his tone levelled. His gaze swept the room briefly, taking in the subtle displays of wealth, the organised space. "But nothing we couldn’t handle."

Kraeyn smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Of course. Kernow is a fair distance from the heart of Temeria." He gestured to a chair across from his desk. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss."

Roche took the seat, noticing how Kraeyn’s movements were deliberate, controlled. The Count wasn’t in a hurry, nor did he seem to be overly concerned with Roche’s arrival. Roche couldn’t yet put his finger on it, but something bothered him about the man, an instinct that had saved his life more than once.

The conversation began predictably enough—small talk about the region, trade, and the usual pleasantries exchanged between two men of rank. The Count asked after Roche’s journey, news from the capital and from Brugge, but the questions were rehearsed, as though the answers didn’t really matter. Roche responded in kind, playing along with the game of surface-level politeness while watching for any tells that might give away more than Kraeyn intended.

It wasn’t until the conversation turned to the local politics that Roche noticed the shift. Kraeyn leaned back slightly, folding his hands in front of him. 

"You’ve come to an interesting region, Baron," he said casually. "Kernow has long been a valuable asset to Brugge—and Temeria, for that matter. Though, I’m sure you’ve already been made aware of the... importance of your position."

Roche tilted his head slightly. The Red Boar did not jest when he referred to Kernow as the best lands on this side of Yaruga. The vassalage was vast and of such significance as North’s granary that Roche was to answer directly to the Duke himself, bypassing Kraeyn and his coffers. He did not expect to make friends here. "I’ve been made aware of a few things, my lord," he replied. "But it’s a new role for me. I suppose there will be much to learn."

"Indeed. You may find that the land comes with certain expectations. Trade, resources, alliances to maintain" He waved a hand, as though brushing aside any potential difficulties. "But you’ll find the merchants here quite eager to work with you."

Roche nodded slowly, playing along for now, whilst wandering on the counts’ meaning. "I’m sure they will."

There was a pause, long enough to feel intentional, before Kraeyn continued in a measured tone. “The Duke’s interest in Kernow’s stability is, of course, a sensible priority. It’s... refreshing to see someone so acquainted with its particular challenges take up the title. As you’d expect, Baron Roche, many might find such a position overwhelming, but I gather you have experience for meeting... complex expectations.”

Roche’s gaze lingered on Kraeyn, catching the weight behind the Count’s words.

 “Managing Kernow will have its demands, I’m sure, but I’m more than ready to address what’s required.”

Kraeyn stilled, his movements deliberate, Roche almost expected his tongue to slip out, forked, to taste the air like a basilisk.  “Ah, yes, of course. I imagine Kernow will benefit from a firm hand. One must often be prepared to... act in ways that keep the peace.”

Roche raised an eyebrow, unsure of Count's exact angle. “If there’s a particular situation you think I should be aware of, Count, I’d appreciate any insights you may share.”

Kraeyn offered a polite smile, his expression smooth. “Merely a general observation, Baron. I trust you’ll keep a keen eye on the... rhythm of the land, shall we say?”

Roche inclined his head slightly, taking note of the Count’s carefully layered words, to dissect later.  “Every land should play to the rhythm dictated by its master... Kernow will be no different.”

Kraeyn’s gaze lingered, his smile growing predatory.  “I’m sure you’ll find ways to handle it.”

—

The formalities continued through dinner, with Roche meeting several of the local merchants, governors and council members. The count, an experienced host, ensured all necessary introductions were made. Yet Roche couldn’t shake the sticky feeling from their earlier conversation. The merchants were indeed keen to talk about trade and resources, but some of them were too eager, their words laced with heavy undertones of expectations already made. 

One merchant—a heavyset man with a thick gold chain around his neck—sidled up to Roche after the  meal, greeting him as though they were old friends.

 "Baron Roche, it’s good to see Kernow back in capable hands. Mikeel Haraan, at your service. We’ve been waiting for someone with your... particular experience to take charge."

Roche arched a brow at the words echoing his earlier conversation with the count. All polite curiosity, he encouraged the man, smelling an opportunity to dig out more information 

 "My experience?" 

Haraan’s grin widened. "Yes, yes, of course. Someone with your, shall we say, skill set in handling delicate matters." He lowered his voice, taking on a conspiratory tone.  "The non-human issue, my lord. They’ve been a thorn in our side for years. With you in charge, I imagine we’ll finally see some order restored around those parts."

"The non-human issue," Roche repeated, his voice carefully measured to sound encouraging. The merchant nodded eagerly. 

"Oh yes, elves, green witches, all them dodgy lot. Always stirring up trouble, making it hard for honest folk to get on with the business. But with someone of your talents..." He chuckled, clearly impressed by his own compliment. "Well, I’d say they’ll think twice before causing any more disturbances."

Roche felt a familiar tightening in his chest, though he kept his expression neutral. He had been that man once—the one sent to put down rebellions, to root out terrorists and traitors. He knew what it meant to carry out orders, to do the work no one else could stomach. But times had changed, and so had his orders.

He’d spent years dealing with non-human insurgents—but the merchant wasn’t talking about armed militants. He was talking about clearing out anyone who didn’t fit neatly into his trade arrangements and profit margins.

"Things aren’t quite the same as they used to be," Roche said, his tone still controlled. "But I’ll see what can be done."

He had known men like this before—always looking for someone to clear the path for them, to do their dirty work under the guise of maintaining order. But Roche knew how to play this game too. He wasn’t about to reveal his hand—not yet. He needed to know more.

Haraan’s grin faltered for a moment before he recovered, laughing awkwardly. "Of course, of course!  We’ve all been waiting for Kernow to have a strong hand at the helm again, but you’ll need time to settle, my lord and changes do take time."

Roche nodded, but his mind was already in the past. He had served Foltest gladly, without hesitation, done the work required to keep the crown on his king’s head for years.  His reputation as a man who dealt with "issues" wasn’t undeserved, but Roche wasn’t about to start another bloody campaign.

As the merchant drifted away to engage with others, Roche leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes scanning the room. 

The evening wore on, with more introductions and polite conversation. The merchants, eager to align themselves with Kernow’s new lord, seemed to circle him like vultures. Roche played the role, keeping his responses measured, his expression neutral. He listened, observed, and filed away every piece of information for later.

—

After some time, he managed to disentangle himself from the clutches of the more persistent councillors and traders. Taking a deep breath, he surveyed the room for a way to slip away entirely when a woman approached him, a cup of wine in hand and a sweet smile on her lips. Roche could take a guess where this was headed, but he played along. Curious, he  accepted the wine and let her guide him toward one of the more secluded hallways, as she chatted politely at him. He could see Halwick throwing him outraged looks from across the hall, but he was too far to get to him quickly enough. 

Roche let the woman slip her arm through his, guiding him away from the noise of the feast. His steps were steady, though the wine had softened the edges of his usual wariness. Still, he wasn’t blind. He could tell when someone had an agenda, and this one practically reeked of it. The way her fingers lingered on his arm, the smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes—it was all too calculated.

She turned to face him as they entered the side leisure room, offering him a coy smile while closing the door with a soft click.

“You’ve had quite a night, my lord,” she cooed, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest. Her movements were practised " Perhaps you’d like some company to... ease your evening?”

His eyes roamed over her face, assessing the exaggerated kohl lining her eyes, but otherwise showing all the elegance of the court’s escorts. It was her hands that gave her away though—rough, marked with the faint calluses that caught on the smooth fabric of his coat - this was someone used to  work, not idle luxury. And then, there was a faint but unmistakable scent of the streets clinging to her, no matter how much perfume she wore. Roche knew plenty of whores in his life.

“Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“Celinne, my lord.” 

“Celinne. Lovely.” He played along, reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair from her face. “You’re a little out of your depth, Celinne,” he said quietly, pressing her against the door, watching her eyes widen just slightly at his words, but her smile turned sultry. 

“Am I?” she replied, her tone light. “I think I know exactly what you need, Baron.”

Roche kept her pinned, his expression maintaining the feigned charm. He hadn’t had to work this hard since his early days in espionage. He lowered his voice, letting it drop to a murmur just above her ear.

“Forgive me, my lady, I’m quite new to the gentler ways of the court. Bit of a ruffian, I’m sure you’ve heard.”

She managed a small, coquettish laugh. “Oh?” she encouraged, amused “I’ve met rougher men than you, Baron. And they don’t seem to mind a bit of... company.”

Roche’s laugh was cold. He brushed a lock of her hair behind her ear with deliberate slowness, his voice a deceptive, almost mocking softness.

“Perhaps you have. But I’ve seen this game played before, you see. In Vizima, the ladies of the court are truly experts at this. Noble lords lose their minds over them—they look, they admire, they even desire…” she held onto every word, eyes hungry as he let his hand slide down her arm “ But they never, ever get to touch—at least, not until the lady’s fine hand is firmly wrapped around their purse.”

Hand wrapped tight over her wrist, Roche spun her around abruptly, pinning her firmly against the wall. Her breath caught, the mask of elegance slipping.

“And that makes me wonder,” he whispered, his face close enough that she could feel his breath, “just whose coin pouch your hand is in.” His eyes narrowed, gaze hardening. “Because it sure as hell ain’t mine.”

Roche held her wrists just a moment longer, grasp bruising, strong enough to let her know just how unpleasant this could get, studying the flickers of fear creeping into her carefully constructed expression as realisation dawned on her. Then, he let her go, stepping back just enough to give her a sliver of breathing room, though his gaze remained fixed, sharp, and unyielding. She turned quickly, unwilling to let him out of her sight, clutching her sore hands to her bosom.

“Here’s how this will go,” Roche said, voice low but clear, remnants of alcoholic haze leaving him quickly, each word a measured warning. “You tell me exactly who hired you, and what they hoped to achieve with your... charming company tonight, and in return, I will not harm you further—something that I’d like you to understand—is not a guarantee at the moment.” 

She hesitated, her lips parting as though to protest, but Roche held up a hand, silencing her before she could find the words.

“Or,” he continued, letting a trace of a nasty smile touch his lips, “or you could tell your patron a story. Spin a tale of success. Claim that I couldn’t resist—that we had the night they were hoping for.” He leaned closer, letting his words sink in, and his voice dropped to a chilling murmur. 

She faltered, clearly rattled but eyes calculating “And... if I do this?” she asked, her voice laced with hesitation.

Roche held her gaze, his voice dropping to a transactional tone. “If you do it, depending on how well you can lie, you’ll keep whatever coin they promised—and more will come your way after that, if you do some work for me. I could use an informant here. Can you read and write?”

After a tense silence, she gave a small nod.

 “It was the councillor Retgalat, my lord,” she finally admitted. He vaguely remembered the man from dinner introductions "but everyone knows he only does what the Count tells him. He said... if things went as planned… maybe even a child. A complication for you.”

Roche’s mouth twisted into a cold smirk.  A whoreson baron, siring a bastard with a whore.  That would be sure to land a blow to his reputation early on. If the Count wanted to start his games so soon, he’d find Roche an opponent ready to play. 

“Thank you. I’ll make it worth your while. Where will I find you?” he turned away to a mirror, unbuttoning his doublet and wrinkling his shirt with deliberate movements.

“At the Honey  Harlot, by the docks, sir. Ask for Yva.” He shot her an unimpressed gaze, remembering the fake name she had given him earlier, whilst ruffling his carefully put together hair. He gestured at her expectedly, and she caught on quickly and started unlacing the bodice of her dress. Smart girl.

“I’ll send someone with payment and instructions tonight.” That would be most likely himself if he could sneak out from the manor and Halwick’s watchful gaze. “Think of some ways of sending regular messages, you’ll be more familiar with local transport routes.” Maybe he could take one of Mavek’s boys and set him up in Dillingen?

“Are you sure you don’t wanna try what you’ll be paying for?” Yva asked with a wink, pulling him out of his planning, clearly trying to dispel the tense atmosphere from the earlier encounter. Roche only put on a charming smile, opened the door and gestured for her to leave first. 

Halwick caught up to him like a hound who scented blood, taking in his dishevelled appearance, which wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“My lord, just what exactly are you doing?” the steward all but barked enraged.

“Why, I’m about making friends. I could use some of those. I’ve been told it would be truly rude not to sample the local specialties. Now, come and tell me what you’ve learned of our hosts.”

—

After two days in Dillingen, Roche was ready to move on. His men had spent the nights enjoying the local taverns, while Roche spent most of his day playing the part of the charming guest at Kraeyn’s estate and making connections at the Honey Harlot at night. 

When the time finally came for their convoy to move, Roche felt a mixture of relief and unease. The merchants were too eager, the whores too cautious and the count too sly. He’d have to tread carefully in the months to come.

But for now, Kernow awaited.

Chapter Text

To their left, the Owl Hills rose in unsteady swells and jagged slopes. As the valley widened, the hills softened into open meadows basking in the warmth of the day. The road from Dillingen meandered along the Yaruga, the river running clear and bright in the afternoon sun. The convoy moved at a steady pace, wheels and hooves finding solid ground on a surprisingly good road.

As they crossed into the lands of Kernow at last, a solitary, moss-covered stone stood at the roadside marking the boundary. Carved with shapes no human mason would have made, it bore the flowing, interlaced lines of elven, or perhaps dryad, craftsmanship. It felt like a silent reminder that this land wasn’t so easily claimed.

Ahead stretched the lands Roche had been given. Fields and pastures rolling out like a verdant carpet, a spray of colourful wildflowers swaying gently on the breeze.

The hum of insects and the thrills of birds filled the air with a steady, hardworking pulse that breathed life into the land. Spring took over here, ruling relentlessly and wild. Come summer, the valley would glimmer with gold of rye.

On the edge of the horizon, Roche could make out a few small settlements. Further down, nestled in the heart of the valley, still a few hours away, lay the village of Kernow, sprawling low against the landscape.

A wave of mixed reactions rippled through the convoy. Some of the riders straightened in their saddles, taking in the gentle slopes and green pastures with murmurs of appreciation.

“Fine land, this,” one of the soldiers remarked, nodding as his gaze swept over the open fields. “Could do worse for a new start.”

“It’s almost like a painting, my lord. Spring’s a good season for first impressions,” Jonas added, clearly charmed.

Not everyone shared the sentiment. A few kept their expressions carefully neutral, eyes shifting over the far-reaching fields, patches of bog, and the dense wall of Brokilon in the far off distance. Halwick gave a sceptical hum, muttering just loud enough to be heard, “Feral place. Bog hags and trouble lurking in every acre. We’ll see how fair it all looks come autumn’s rot.”

Roche wasn’t sure what to think.

As they approached Kernow, Roche’s gaze sharpened, taking in the signs of recent rebuilding. The village had come a long way. Some fifty or sixty homes and farmsteads stretched around the main road leading to the large market square laid with half-finished cobblestone and a communal well standing prominently at the centre. A few villagers paused their work, staring at the convoy with wary curiosity.

Further along in the centre stood a few larger houses and what appeared to be a sizable inn. Beyond the village, a pair of mills turned lazily in the gentle breeze, and a church steeple rose in the distance—likely Melitele’s, if Roche remembered right. At least here the Eternal Fire hadn’t spread; its zealots had retreated to Redania after the Grand Master’s fall.

The village’s structures were mostly new, but evidence of its past was clear if you looked closely. Newly thatched roofs stood beside blackened beams yet to be cleared away. Rebuilt homes leaned against crumbling walls left to rot.

Mavek rode up beside him, his gaze lingering on the remnants of charred structures. “Nilfgaard’s handiwork.” He spat on the ground.

Roche nodded, recalling the reports from Vyzima. “Emhyr’s lot took what they wanted, torched what they didn’t, and left bodies for the crows. Others came back, though, and it seems they’ve been working hard to rebuild.”

“Resilience of the smallfolk,” Mavek replied quietly.

Roche didn’t answer, but he felt it too—a deep sense of obligation settling over him as he passed the villagers, who paused their work to watch the convoy. There were no castles or treasures here. Kernow’s worth lay in its people and its earth—both his to guard, for better or worse.

As the wagons rolled to a stop in front of a large house with a pitched roof, a small group emerged to meet them. They were mostly women with stony faces, and two men who didn’t look much friendlier. The man standing at the front, had a wiry figure and a wide face with a nose like a pear and a blurry gaze, with one eye wandering off to the side. He took time to look Roche up and down, and Vernon saw the displeasure in the man’s curt welcome as his gaze slid over the soldiers dismounting behind him.

“Baron Roche,” the alderman greeted with a stiff bow, his tone as gruff as his expression. “I’m Yolland, that’s the alderman. We’ve been warned of your arrival.”

Roche gritted his teeth but inclined his head politely in greeting. Well, it was never going to be easy—at least they didn’t bring out the welcome pitchforks.

“Good to meet you, Yolland. I appreciate the…effort” He fought the urge to adjust his new, stiff collar. ”It’s been a long ride—It’s good to finally arrive. I look forward to some rest and getting acquainted with everyone.”

The alderman was not impressed, that was clear.

 “The tavern is shut, ’m afraid,” he gestured at the large building with his chin. “We've lost our innkeeper of late.”

“Lost?” Roche asked, noting the irritation that passed over the alderman’s face.

“Lost,” Yolland repeated, his tone clipped. “Left, just up and gone, and that’s that.” His lips pressed into a thin line that invited no further questions. 

Roche let it lie, but he could feel the tension in the silence that followed, thick and unmoving. Despite the lukewarm reception, he pressed on, repeating his intention to meet everyone properly once he’d settled and got to work. The sentiment drew nods, though none with much warmth.

As they continued through the village, Roche took in the number of houses and the watchful eyes peeking through gaps in doorways and shutters. A few elders perched on benches or leaned over fences, their gazes fixed and unyielding. The village, despite the faces staring back at him, felt strangely empty. He pushed the thought aside, reasoning that most of the folk were likely out working in the fields. In the distance he could hear dogs barking. 

—

They set off again after a short stop in the village, the wagons rolling back onto the road toward the Kernow estate. The demesne itself sat about four miles from the village. The buildings were partially obscured by a small woodland wrapped around its edges—probably the only reason why it didn’t get torched when the Black Ones rolled through the valley. As they neared, Roche took in the sight—a large, two-story manor crafted from stone and darkened timber, its roofs pitched and covered in a rich, burnished black tile.

Ornate carvings decorated the eaves and door frames, with patterns woven into the wood with an artisan’s care. At the far end of the manor, a solitary tower rose above the structure, capped with a steepled roof that gave the building a slightly out-of-time appearance. There were no defensive walls here, only a low stone fence marking the boundary.

They passed through an open wooden gate, where a carved sculpture showed the estate’s coat of arms: an large oak tree on a black field, encircled by golden ears of grain. Roche regarded it with a wry twist to his mouth. The symbolism spoke well enough for the land’s purpose, but the colour scheme was uncomfortably Nilfgaardian. 

Past the gate, a broad round court opened up, bustling with activity— a row of stables and solid stone barracks lined around it. Roche could see the roofs of barns and granaries behind the main house. There was a scattering of cottages tucked close behind, each sporting neat gardens and pens.

Chickens scratched the earth, geese waddled in unhurried lines, and goats grazed in patches nearby, adding to the peaceful scene. For a moment, Roche surveyed the estate, noting the lively sense of order and comfort. It was a place of honest, hard-earned prosperity. It was not for people like him. 

The wagons rolled into the square, and the usual chaos erupted as twenty horses and a full contingent of staff, grooms, and servants poured onto the grounds. Voices called out instructions, men hastened to move the carts and the more eager began tending to the animals. A mix of estate hands emerged from various buildings, some with cautious curiosity, others already getting to work. Roche remained mounted a moment longer, taking it all in, acutely aware that every pair of eyes was judging the man now set to oversee it all.

Rarely in his life had he felt an urge to bolt.

As he dismounted, the small assembly of staff approached him as united front. At the forefront was an older man with neatly combed silver hair and a precise stance. He stepped forward, offering a deep bow in formal greeting.

“Archivald Blackwood, my lord Roche,” the seneschal introduced himself, his tone very polite. “At your service, along with the entire staff of the estate.”

Roche instinctively extended his hand. Archivald hesitated, the pause brief but telling, before he accepted the handshake with stiff fingers, inclining his head with a respectful nod.

Archivald then gestured to the others in turn. A stocky man with an ink-stained ledger tucked under one arm gave a quick, efficient bow.

“Wili Dilert, the bailiff, my lord,” he said, his focus already shifting to Roche’s convoy, eyes quickly fishing out Corvin amongst the crowd. 

Next came the reeve, a board shouldered woman resembling a badger, with shrewd eyes that took Roche’s measure without pretence.

“Egra, m’ lord,” she said, voice roughened by the fields and weather, her nod curt but not unfriendly.

Standing next to her, an old woman gave a small curtsey, her frail form dwarfed by those around her. Her hands, with skin stretched tight over knuckles swollen from years of work, rested lightly over her belly.

"They call me Granny Olya, my lord. I look after the kitchens," she said, her voice softened and mellowed by age, like worn leather.

Lastly, the constable, a thick-set man with a scar slicing down his jaw, offered a short bow.

“Hola Van, my lord,” he introduced himself, his tone gruff but straightforward. His meagre garrison of four stood behind him—Roche felt like someone dealt him a blow to the gut when he assessed them quietly. Two youngsters, a lad and a lass, not much older than the messenger boys. A man that resembled an oxen in both build and mind and an old man who seemed to have once known how to handle the staff he was using for support.  

Roche took in the gathering, noting the thin ranks with unease. This was a small crew for managing lands that stretched leagues into the valley, but he kept his thoughts to himself, determined to start on a steady foot.

After a moment’s pause, he spoke, trying to sound polite yet firm, dismissing the last nagging thought to run.

“Thank you all for your work here and your patience. I appreciate the Count’s guidance and the Duke’s support in getting us this far. As Kernow’s new lord, I’ll be relying on each of you to guide me as I settle into this responsibility,” he recited his prepared speech that Halwick drilled into him over the last two days.

His words hung in the air as the staff exchanged cautious glances. A few gave nods, others stayed silent, their scepticism present. Roche’s faint smile did little to sway the reserved assembly, and a dog’s insistent barking in the background was the only sound as his welcome concluded.

—

“If you’ll follow me, my lord, we’ve prepared a dinner in your honour. A humble welcome, but one made with the finest of the estate’s resources.” Archivald gestured with a ceremonious sweep of his hand as he led Roche through the main door.

The hall was rustic, impressive in its way: wooden beams crossed the ceiling towards a wrought iron candle wheel decked with deer horn. Carved panels lined the walls, catching the late sun spilling in from high windows. It was a simple sort of grandeur Roche could appreciate, but was not in the mood to admire.

As they entered the large dining hall, decorated with game and scenic tapestries, he took in the large tables laid with food. A single place setting gleamed at the head of the main table, big enough to hold a dozen on one side. Roche’s brow furrowed, but he took his seat as directed, instinctively glancing at the lower tables where the key members of the household had arranged themselves. Archivald and the others sat down with the rest of his household. 

A flicker of irritation pricked at him as he saw Halwick—with his careful posture as he started easy conversation with the seneschal. As though this entire arrangement was exactly as it should be. Mavek at least showed some solidarity with a helpless twitch of his shoulder, though what comfort that offered was next to none.

Back at the barracks, it was rare for him to have a moment of peace and eat away from his unit. The idea of sitting apart had never crossed his mind—they would find him anyway, the nosy bastards. Now, with strangers watching him like a spectacle, Roche’s mouth tightened, the separation biting sharper than he’d expected. 

He stabbed a tomato and forced himself to eat, though every bite tasted like grit.

Across the hall, Egra the reeve leaned toward the constable, Hola Van, speaking low but with a glint of amusement.

“Wonder what the coxcomb will make of ‘ur plain fare,” she muttered. “They say Vizima’s nobles get used to sittin’ for hours, taking courses like they’re royalty.”

Hola Van shrugged, his expression stony. “Food’s food. If he’s wise, he’ll fill his stomach without complaint. Nobles or not, no lord’s too fine for bread and stew.”

Roche’s gaze flickered toward them as he caught the murmur of their conversation. He forced a faint smile, swallowing around another bite of his tomato. He could handle distance, discomfort, and loneliness—he’d had much worse, after all.

—

After the dinner, Archivald led Roche toward his quarters, with Jonas trailing behind wearily sensing Roche’s foul mood. As they reached the grand stairway, Roche spotted Halwick and Mavek among the gathered servants and, pausing for a moment, called them over to give a quick series of orders.

“Get everyone settled and stabled properly,” he instructed, his tone impatient; the dinner had worn him out more than he cared to admit.  “Make sure the horses are cared for, and see to it that everyone has what they need for the night. The wagons can wait until tomorrow; it’s already dark. Mavek, the usual guard.” 

Halwick nodded dutifully, and Mavek gave a simple grunt of acknowledgment. Beside them, Archivald stood with hands clasped, his thin-lipped patience betraying quiet disapproval.

The moment the instructions were done, Archivald cleared his throat, his voice polite but carrying an edge to it “Rest assured, my lord, we would, of course, see to such matters. The arrangements here are always made with comfort in mind.”

Roche's eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth and refused to start his first evening with an argument.

“Good to hear, Archivald,” he replied curtly insead.

The Seneschal led Roche and Jonas up the grand staircase, its bannisters gleaming faintly in the dim light as they continued down the corridor. At last, they stopped before a large, carved door with sturdy iron fittings, gesturing with a slight flourish.

“Your quarters, my lord,” he announced, his expression smooth, but Jonas caught a flicker of something less cordial in his gaze before Archivald stepped aside.

The left wing of the upper floor opened into the lord’s private quarters: a grand suite with polished wooden floors and tapestries bearing Kernow’s heraldry of golden grains. As they moved through, Archivald gave a tour, gesturing to each space—the bedroom with its feather-stuffed bed, a cosy bathing nook and a convenient shitter, a sitting room, a drawing room, a personal library, and an office, each space arranged with meticulous care.

Roche took it in, his gaze lingering reluctantly on the unfamiliar opulence, his mouth set in a thin line. The luxury wasn’t to his taste, and he felt every inch like a wolf dressed in borrowed velvet. Noticing his reaction, Archivald gave a slight, knowing smile.

“I expect it’s not quite up to capital standards, my lord,” he said, voice smooth with a hint of wry humour. “But perhaps, once I take you on a proper tour of the estate tomorrow, lord Roche, we’ll find something a bit more… suited to your liking.”

Roche felt the weight of exhaustion settling deep into his bones, yet he forced himself to thank the man, his voice gruff against the ache gnawing at his joints. Once the seneschal stepped out and Jonas slipped away, he sank onto the edge of the too-soft bed, staring into the dim, heavy silence that would greet him for many nights to come. 

He fell asleep with a grim suspicion that he’d have to bleed into this soil before the land or its people ever accepted him.

Chapter Text

Roche had to wait the next morning for Jonas in his opulent chambers, feeling uncomfortably idle and already irked by the quiet. Normally, he’d have washed and dressed himself in minutes, but he hadn’t the faintest idea where any of his things had been stowed in this damn place. When Jonas finally entered, arms loaded with fresh garments, Roche sighed, taking in the fine fabrics with barely concealed irritation.

Jonas laid out a carefully chosen ensemble fit for a lord. The coat’s dark, rich cloth had an elegant sheen, and the boots gleamed like they’d never seen a road. Roche held up one of the silk gloves, inspecting it with a scowl.

“These won’t last an hour outside,” he said, making sure that Jonas heard him.

Soon after, Roche headed down to breakfast: the same solitary setting at the head of the main table, set out as though he were some relic on display.

—

Archivald met Roche, Jonas, and Halwick in the corridor outside the dining hall, his posture stiff with formality as he began the tour. They started on the top floor, where Archivald led them down the corridor of the left wing near Roche’s own rooms, pausing to gesture at a set of finely carved doors branching off from the main hallway.

“And here, my lord, are the family apartments,” he said, with a polite, almost hopeful tone. “These chambers are intended for a lord’s wife and children. Spacious, as you can see, and adjoined to your own rooms for easy access. Should the need arise.”

Roche’s gaze lingered on the rooms—freshly aired and cleaned, as though prepared in earnest expectation. He gave a dry chuckle.

“Not much call for them, I think. I don’t imagine these rooms will see much use.”

The seneschal’s face remained mostly neutral, though a faint glint in his eyes betrayed something—disappointment, perhaps, or simply judgement.

“As you say, my lord,” he replied, folding his hands.

“But it’s always good to know they’re here,” Halwick added eagerly, “should circumstances… change.”

“Right,” Roche replied tersely, praying the two of them won’t form some ungodly alliance. He brushed past them to inspect the rest of the corridor, keen to leave the topic behind.

The hall stretched before them, lined with thick green carpets that muffled their steps. Portraits of past lords hung along the walls, their stern faces watching the new master with solemn eyes. Roche’s gaze settled on one painting—a man in Nilfgaardian garb. This had to be his predecessor. He cleared his throat.

“This one here—Jom aep Gandlalbirn, was it?— No one’s been able to tell me what exactly happened to him,” Roche said, eyebrows raised. “Some accident?”

The seneschal hesitated before answering.

“An… unfortunate encounter with a creature, my lord. Not something to worry over. The countryside here is quite safe,” he added quickly, but his expression tightened ever so slightly. Roche’s eyes narrowed.

“Safe, except for the occasional monster? Should I be summoning a witcher, then?”

“Not necessary,” Archivald replied with a strained smile, a hint of impatience flashing across his face. “These incidents are exceedingly rare, and that particular one… well, it’s not something to fret over.”

Roche held his gaze for a moment longer before nodding, making a note to look into this later. He kept a sharp eye on the portraits as they continued, observing the slight shifts and marks on the walls where frames had been moved. Someone had been busy rewriting the estate’s story—and not subtly enough.

—

They continued the tour, Blackwood leading them to the manor’s right wing, where the guest quarters expanded in a tasteful arrangement of sitting rooms, guest chambers, and apartments. The décor followed the manor’s hunting lodge theme of  heavy furniture, hunting trophies and tapestries that had weathered decades.

Halwick, as they walked, began muttering to himself before speaking up.

“If I may, my lord,” he said, gesturing at the furniture and muted colours, “it may be wise to consider refreshing these rooms.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “A touch of elegance and refinement could make all the difference, especially if you’re to host distinguished visitors, like the Duke. Perhaps some lighter tones, updated furnishings…”

Roche rolled his eyes, cutting him off with a wave.

“Do what you think’s needed, Halwick. Just don’t empty the coffers over it,” he replied, adding a dry warning, “You won’t make Vizima out of this place anyway.” He had no doubts the infuriating steward would try. 

Archivald’s face grew noticeably stiffer during their exchange, as he inclined his head, masking his reaction as best he could. But Roche was already moving on, his gaze flicking over the well-appointed rooms with indifference. 

Archivald led the group through the ground floor, gesturing as he named each room with a practised familiarity. They passed the dining hall, where Roche stifled a grimace. Beyond it, the estate office and the library spanned the tower’s base, its upper floors spiralling up to the lookout point. Next to those were a treasury and an adjacent armoury with a small but impressive collection of weapons that Roche definitely wanted to inspect closer later on.  The hunting room followed. As they reached the front of the house, Archivald stopped to gesture at a grand ballroom with glass-panelled walls, the ceiling high and slightly arched, allowing natural light to flood the space.

“Quite a spectacle, isn’t it?” Archivald remarked, his tone wistful. “The lady of the house, before the first war, that would be, hosted balls here that drew guests from half the kingdom. Dancers twirling under the glass, musicians playing well into the night…”

Roche barely suppressed a snort, eyeing the empty space with thinly veiled disinterest. He turned to the seneschal.

“You seem to know a lot about the estate’s history, Archivald. How long have you been here?” he asked, looking to change the topic.

“I’ve served this estate for nearly thirty years, my lord. I arrived when Baron Tressard took ownership.”

“That long, then,” Roche replied, his gaze drifting across the room. “You must know more than most about the estate’s fortunes.” He paused, thoughtful. “Tell me, how is it that this manor escaped the flames when Nilfgaard torched the village to the ground?”

Archivald’s gaze flickered just slightly, and he offered a tight-lipped smile.

“It was indeed a blessing, my lord, that the estate was spared. I cannot say for certain why, but when the black army landed, they marched straight on—burned the whole village and continued towards Dillingen. I believe the aim was to cut off the supplies.”

Roche nodded thoughtfully - that made sense from a strategic perspective. Kernow had no defensive structures to capture and hold - sizing Dillingen though, and its port on Yagura would shut the gate to food supplies for half of the north and keep the Nilfgaardian armies fed. 

Roche peered out the window, his gaze sweeping over the village below. “The village looks well tended. Rebuilding’s coming along… but it seemed quite empty.” He glanced at seneschal “Have resettlement efforts stalled?”

At his question, Archivald’s expression shifted, a flash of something harsh tightening his features.

“The village is as it should be, my lord,” he replied, voice clipped. “We manage with who we have.” Roche’s brows drew together at the sharpness in Blackwood’s tone and unwillingness to continue on the topic.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord, lunch is ready,” he said, inclining his head with rigid formality. “It’s been prepared in the dining hall.”

“Very well,” Roche answered, though he could feel his appetite slipping.
Moments later, he found himself seated alone again, another solitary meal stretched before him. 

—

After lunch, Archivald led Roche down to the lower levels of the manor, the wide stone steps winding deeper than Roche had expected. As they reached the first basement floor, Archivald gestured grandly at a set of carved doors. “Here we have the manor baths, my lord,” he announced, his pride evident. “The hot springs nearby were rerouted here some centuries back. The water flows directly into the estate.”

Roche’s eyes widened in genuine surprise as they entered. The scale and craftsmanship were remarkable; stone columns lined the spacious room, polished marble floors gleamed under the dim glow of lanterns, and he could feel the warmth radiating from the pools even at a distance. He let out a low whistle.

“Elven work, isn’t it?” he said, tracing a hand over the intricate engravings along one of the pillars. A tense pause settled as Archivald’s lips pressed thin, his shoulders stiffening.

“The baths have seen recent improvements by human inventors, my lord,” he replied curtly, clearly preferring to brush past Roche’s observation. “New heating mechanisms, reinforced walls, and channels—reliable innovations, of course.”

Roche raised an eyebrow focusing on the baths themselves. “Impressive setup,” he commented, and meant it. Archivald nodded, relaxing slightly.

“Indeed, my lord. We have two main communal baths here—one for men, the other for women, accessible to all on the estate. Additionally, there are private baths for yourself and guests, each with individual pools for comfort and privacy.” He gestured down a hall leading to the personal baths. “The system keeps the entire house warm during the winter months. A most practical feature, as you’ll see my lord.”

Roche gave a rare smile.

“Now that,” he said appreciatively, “is a perk worth noting.”

As they continued down the dimly lit hallways of the basement, Roche observed a series of heavy wooden doors, though Archivald did not lead them to those.

“Servant quarters and utility rooms,” the seneschal explained, waving a hand toward the doors in passing. “As well as the kitchens, of course, though we’ll save a tour of those for another time.”

Roche frowned slightly, his curiosity piqued. A house this size surely had more tucked away behind the walls, but Roche suspected he’d have to uncover those himself.
Instead, Archivald led them further down, pausing before another door and gesturing with more enthusiasm. Behind the door were the cellars, rows of wooden casks and shelves along the stone walls. ”Pride of the estate” the senechal called them. Roche eyed the casks, hoping they weren’t just for show. Dust didn’t do as much for morale as drinking did.

They moved on through the vault, passing a few storage rooms filled with crates and barrels before coming to a darkened archway. The air grew damp, carrying a faint, earthy scent mixed with something stale. Roche glanced at the seneschal expectantly

Archivald stopped at a heavy door and unlocked it with an old iron key. The door creaked open to reveal a dim, damp space—rows of stone cells lined with rusted iron bars. The floor gleamed with moisture, and the air was thick with the scent of moss and stale water.

“A small dungeon, my lord”  Roche observed the grim space, already assessing it for potential reinforcement “Although I assure you, sir, we have hardly any need for it.” 

“Let’s hope it will remain this way,” said Roche, checking a set of rusted shackles with disgust. “These wouldn’t hold a drunk with a spoon.”

To Vernon’s surprise, that seemed to conclude the day’s tour. He looked around, frowning.

“What about the rest of the estate?” he asked. “The grounds? The unpacking? I’d like to check on the horses and my men, at the very least.”

“Of course, my lord, you are free to go wherever you please. But we wouldn’t wish to overtire you—after all, it has been a lengthy journey.” He inclined his head, his tone polite but tight. “The horses and wagons are being seen too, I assure you. Rest easy on that matter.”

Roche gave him a long frustrated look but eventually nodded.

“Fine. Don’t let me keep you, then.” The seneschal gave a crisp bow. 

“The tour will resume tomorrow, my lord. In the meantime, if you’ll excuse me—I do have other pressing duties to attend to.”

Roche made his way outside, determined at least to do one useful thing today and went on to find the barracks and check on Mavek and the soldiers. He found them comfortably settled, tucking into a meal with evident satisfaction. The barracks were better than expected—solid beds, ample space, and a full larder.

“Good to see you’re all doing well,” Roche said, taking in the scene.

“Aye, the beds are a damn sight better than the cots in the garrison” Mavek replied with a grin. “The lads are grateful,  but they’re getting twitchy. Restless fools. A proper routine’d set them straight.” He paused, then added, “When you’ve a moment, sir, I’d like to go over the guard rotations with you.”

Roche nodded, considering the manor’s layout and all he hadn’t yet seen.

“Let’s give it a couple of days. I need to get the full lay of this place myself before making any calls. But if you could start scouting the main points—make your own notes on weak spots or places to cover, maybe the constable can help too—I’ll join you soon enough.”

As they spoke, the sound of dogs barking rose from the kennels near one of the outbuildings, their frantic voices mingling with the general hum of the yard. 

—

The following day, Roche was taken on a round of the estate grounds, his eyes sharper than the day before, noting everything Archivald was careful not to comment on. They passed by rows of farm buildings, workshops, and cottages—all meant to support a place like Kernow—but many of them lay silent and dark, shutters drawn, chimneys bare.

At the stables, he found some signs of life, at least. The horses they’d brought were comfortably quartered, filling the barn stalls from end to end. The grooms were busily tending to the horses they’d brought in with them. If Kernow was to have any chance of stability, he’d need a proper retinue and trained mounts on hand to cover the massive stretch of the place.

Roche took a moment to run a hand along One’s neck, and checked her legs and hooves. Two, Three, and Four, his other mounts, neigh softly as they crowded him, curious mouths searching for snacks.

“All the horses were brought for the estate,” he explained to Archivald, looking down at the rows of mounts. “Mavek and his unit will be returning to Vyzima come autumn, but they will sail.”

Anke and Hal, the two grooms he’d brought with him from Vizima, were hard at work, tending to the animals with unusual enthusiasm for youths who got up with the sunrise. 

He approached them. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any sign of a stable master?” he asked.

Anke looked up, meeting his gaze, lips pursed in displeasure, “There ain’t one, sir,” she replied tersely.

Roche grunted. Another absence he’d need to fill. It was becoming a pattern he didn’t much like.

As he moved on with Archivald, the dogs’ barking echoed through the grounds ceaselessly. Roche ate lunch alone again, the hall feeling colder each time he sat at the table, wondering just what lay beneath Kernow’s placid surface.

—

To Vernon’s surprise, Archivald declared the next day a rest day, insisting there were no scheduled duties and that the baron would have the time to relax, catch up on his correspondence, and grow acquainted with his new surroundings.

“An opportunity to settle in, my lord,” the seneschal had said with a polite smile. To Roche, the seneschal’s suggestion was almost too convenient.

Roche used the time to write to Anaïs and the Duke, assuring them of his safe arrival and “warm welcome,” though the words felt hollow as he scratched them onto the paper. Someone would take the letters up to Dillingen to be sent to Vyzima. To fill the time, he spent hours wandering the estate, taking in the lively fields, the winding paths, and the empty, silent cottages. The sense of isolation gnawed at him, a reminder that he was far from the court’s intrigues here, but also far from the support of his units and network of informants.

Later, he sought out Mavek to discuss the estate’s layout and the barebones guard they’d need to maintain. They spread maps across a rough-hewn table in the barracks, going over every entry point, the wooded edges, and the vast, open stretches of land that would be difficult to watch. Roche’s gaze hardened as he traced Kernow’s perimeter with his finger. “Can’t leave any of this exposed,” he muttered, tapping a few places on the map.” We’ll need posts here and here.”

At Roche’s suggestion, they called in the constable for his insights. But the man only shook his head, crossing his arms with a look of indifference. “There’s no need, my lord. The estate’s been secure as it is for years. No one bothers us out here.”

Roche felt a flicker of irritation. “No one’s bothered you yet,” he said flatly. But Hola Van remained unmoved, insisting that things would remain “well enough,” as they always had and left. Roche ground his teeth.

As they continued their discussion, the ceaseless barking of the hounds echoed from the kennels, reverberating through the air like a low, persistent warning.

—

The next few days settled into the same wearisome routine—be dressed, eat alone, wander the grounds with no real purpose. By day four, Roche had had enough. He tried his luck with the estate office, thinking at least he could make himself useful with the accounts and read the estate reports, but the heavy oak door was locked tight. Archivald was nowhere to be found, and Roche was beginning to suspect the man was actively avoiding him.

A week. Only a week has passed, and he already felt like he was rotting from the inside out. He’d sat in cells more engaging than this. So this was the noble life: confined by his own luxury, his days filled with nothing but silence, mirrors, and empty meals. No wonder all the rich arseholes went insane.

When he saw the dining room set up for another lonely meal in the afternoon, something snapped. He turned on his heel and headed for the kitchens instead. At his entrance, the bustling room went dead silent. Faces turned toward him, frozen, unsure whether they should bow or bolt. But Roche only had eyes for Hannicke, who looked up from her work, hands on her hips, and shot him a look of wary curiosity.

“Forgot about us down here, didn’t he, his lordship?” she teased. He crossed the room, his smile edging on desperation.

He gave her a pleading look, lowering his voice. “Hannicke, if you don’t sit and eat with me, I swear I’ll lose my damn mind before the day’s out. I need to talk to a normal person.”

She let out a bark of laughter, one of the first real sounds he’d heard in days. She pulled out a chair at the side table and gestured for him to sit.

Roche all but collapsed into the seat opposite, rubbing a hand over his face, relief washing over him as he finally took in a friendly face. She filled a plate for him—thick stew and fresh bread—and he dug in gratefully.

“So tell me, what tortures they’ve cooked up upstairs that you came hiding in the kitchens?” Hannicke said, handing him a spoon with a smirk.

As he ate, he pelted her with questions—about her, all the staff, what she thought of the house, even the village. For the first time since arriving, he felt a sense of normalcy creeping in.

The meal was interrupted by a flurry of movement as Granny Olya, the head cook, rushed into the kitchen, cheeks flushed red with distress. Someone clearly went to fetch her not long after he arrived. Her little knobby hands wrung the corner of her apron with anxious energy. Roche barely had a second to open his mouth before she was standing in front of him, practically vibrating with emotion.

“Oh, my lord,” she wailed, eyes filling with tears as she looked at him, her voice cracking with each word. “Forgive me… I never thought—never in my life—would I hear that the lord himself had to come down here, to my poor kitchen, seeking food!” Her trembling hands clutched her apron, her voice cracking as she added, “What a shame I’ve brought! What a disgrace!”

She babbled on, her hands shaking as she listed the faults of the humble fare, clearly mortified that he’d been driven to the kitchens. 

“The shame! I’ll try harder—better—just tell me what you need, my lord, and I’ll work my hands raw to make it right!”

Roche stared at her, bewildered, guilt knotting in his gut as he watched the trembling woman. He felt all eyes on him—some of the servants looked frozen with fear, others glaring at him with reproach.

“No—no, Mistress Olya,” she wailed harder. “Fucking hell,” he muttered.

“Granny Olya,” he corrected, stammering, hands raised as if to ward off her distress. “Please…the food has been nothing but excellent,” he said. “If anything,  I’ve simply missed the company at meals.” The sight of her, the way her wrinkled hands shook as she clutched her apron, made him gather himself—this woman clearly devoted herself to the kitchen and her craft. 

“Forgive me for startling you,” he tried again, voice steady “but if it’s not too bold, I’d be grateful if you’d invite me back now and then, when… the burdens of my lordship grow heavy. Your kitchen is splendid, and I’d be honoured to join you here.”

Granny Olya’s lip trembled, but she took a deep, shuddering breath, her tear-filled eyes lifting to meet his.

“My lord,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion, “you’ll always be welcome here in my kitchen. If it's a company you need, you’ll find it right here.” She gave a watery smile, clutching his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. “Whenever those grand halls feel too big, come down here. Sweet Mother Melitele, we’ll keep you warm and well-fed.”

Roche managed a faint smile. “Thank you, Granny Olya. And please forgive me for the disturbance today.”

Granny Olya gave a quick, vigorous nod, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She glanced around the room, straightening herself with newfound pride.

“Of course, my lord. It’s just… an honour to have you here,” she said, though her voice wobbled a bit and she wandered away, giving him wide eyed glances over her shoulder.

Across the table, Hannicke grinned, leaning back in her chair. “Well, damn,” she drawled. “Didn’t think you had it in you to sweet-talk like that.”

Roche let out a strangled noise, but Hannicke wasn’t finished.

“You want advice? Too bad, you’re getting it. Stop letting them push you around. Have you left yer bollocks in Vizima, too? You’re the baron—you can sit and eat wherever the hell you like.”

—

Roche stepped out into the brisk late afternoon air, pulling in a deep breath to clear his head after the chaos of the kitchens. Only the relentless barking that had gnawed at his patience all week grew louder, echoing from somewhere behind the manor.

With a sigh, he waved over the passing servant boy. The boy hesitated, wide-eyed, as though Roche might bite harder than the hounds.

“Those dogs,” Roche said, nodding toward the source of the racket. “Who do they belong to?”

“Th-they ‘ere the old Hunt Master’s, my lord,” the boy stammered.

Roche raised an eyebrow. “And where is the Hunt Master?”

The boy glanced at the ground, scuffing the dirt with his foot. “Gone, sir.”

“Fucking helpful,” Roche muttered under his breath, and the boy visibly wilted. “Have they been let out at all?” The dogs sounded feral by now, as if they hadn’t seen daylight in days. “They’ve been barking themselves mad.”

The boy shook his head, looking positively miserable. “No, my lord. Everyone’s too… too scared of ’em. They only listened to Hunt Master Vyrra. We’ve been throwing food over the fence.”

Roche let out a sigh, feeling a headache brewing.

“Right,” he said tersely. “Fetch me some heavy riding gloves and a couple of horse leads. And get someone to bring some meat or whatever scraps you can get from the kitchens.”

The boy looked at him like he’d just suggested dancing with the creatures. He nodded quickly and scurried off.

Roche waited, listening to the dogs' howling and pacing near the kennel. Foltest had kept hunting dogs, good ones too, and Roche had learned to handle them over the years. In his experience, they were loyal, pleasant creatures when treated well. With any luck, these ones would calm down enough to be handled, once they understood he wasn’t their enemy.

The groom returned with long leather gloves and sturdy leashes. The lad practically dropped them at Roche’s feet before bolting back the way he’d come. 

He squared his shoulders, gloves on and leashes in hand, and made his way to the kennel. The barking grew frantic as he approached, the dogs leaping and growling, snapping at the bars in a display of pent-up rage. He sized them up as he drew nearer, his movements calm. The dogs were wild-eyed and matted, their teeth bared, but Roche recognized the bark—frustration, not true aggression.

“Alright, you lot,” he said, voice steady. “Let’s have a look at you.”

The stench of uncleaned waste hit him as he leaned forward, but he ignored it, extending his gloved hand just far enough for them to catch his scent. The dogs eyed him cautiously, tails low, sniffing the air. He murmured low and steady, letting them grow used to his presence as the hounds circled restlessly.

Up close he could get a proper look at them: one was a mottled grey hunting hound, large and floppy-eared, watching him with bright, wary eyes. The other, a black dog with a tan muzzle and sharp, muscular build, looked more like a guard dog, pacing back and forth, hackles raised but more wound-up than hostile.

Roche tried a few gentle commands, along with a whistle or two, but the hounds’ ears only pricked momentarily before going back to their anxious pacing. 

Finally, a kitchen servant appeared, holding a silver platter weighed down with chunks of meat. Roche gave him a long, unimpressed look.

“Silver platter, really?” he asked.

The servant flushed, mumbling something but Roche waved him off.
“What are their names?” he demanded, voice sharp enough to jar the lad from his stupor.

“B-Breth and Ceadva, my lord,” he stammered, his Temerian accent strangling the vowels.

Roche raised an eyebrow, repeating the names in his mind. Breth and Ceadva— Wind and Brave Heart in Elder. He waved the kitchen boy away, watching as he all but bolted. His estate was full of champion runners, it seemed.

“Elven names,” Roche muttered to himself, slipping scraps of meat through the bars, watching the dogs’ eager reactions. Now that he thought of it, the old Hunt Master— Vyrra —had an elven ring to it, too. Not a coincidence, then. He kept a few scraps back, holding his hand out for the dogs to sniff between their barking and pacing.

But the constant yapping wasn’t letting up, even with food in their mouths. An idea struck him, a memory from his days drilling the Blue Stripes and preparing them for Scoia'tael raids.

Roche raised his voice just enough to get the hounds’ attention, cutting through their yaps with one sharp word: “ Lútha! ”

The response was immediate. Both dogs stopped, ears twitching, and then fell silent, eyes fixed on him with an attentive, questioning look. He grimaced; his elder-speech was rusty as hell, but commands were something he used often enough with prisoners.

“Well, look at that,” he muttered, a bit of satisfaction creeping in as the dogs waited, quiet and watching.

“ Sídhe ,” Roche commanded, and immediately the dogs planted their rumps on the ground, eyes fixed on him, alert and ready. He let out a slow breath, muttering, “Well, let’s get you out of here, then.”

“ Hael !” Quickly, he slipped a heavy leash through the kennel bars, fastening it around the grey hound’s collar, and then doing the same with the black dog. As he unlatched the kennel door, just enough to let them out, both hounds strained at the leashes, eager for the open air.

“ Eir, ” he commanded, and after a few seconds of straining, the dogs fell beside him, though he could feel the coiled energy in every step they took, barely containing themselves at the scent of freedom.

Leashes wrapped firmly around his hand, Roche led them out of the estate, the dogs trotting close, noses twitching as they took in the smells of the world beyond the kennel. He was too focused on keeping them steady to notice the cluster of estate staff watching from windows and doorways.

The dogs’ pent-up energy soon overwhelmed Roche’s grip, forcing him into a jog as they pulled ahead, nearly yanking his arm from its socket. He called out a few commands, which they responded to—barely—before getting distracted by every new scent on the wind.

By the time they got half-way to Kernow, the sun started to dip lower, shadows stretching across the fields. Roche paused, steadying his breath as he decided to test their trust. Loosening Ceadva’s leash first—she tore forward, muscles taut and powerful, but at his command, she turned sharply and raced back to his side.

Pleased, he let Breth off next, watching as both dogs ran across the field in a frenzy of freedom, tearing through the grass like demons set loose. 

Roche stood watching them, his thoughts circling the past few days. Hannicke’s words echoed in his mind—stop letting them push you around. She was right. If he was going to settle here, he’d need to set the terms before the formalities and secrets of this place devoured him whole.

His gaze shifted to the village in the distance—preparing for Belleteyn next week but hollow beneath its surface. There was something awry with the place and Roche will root it out.

As he returned to the manor, his three handlers were waiting for him, their faces grim, clearly displeased with his current state. Mud splattered his boots, paw prints smeared across his trousers, and the dogs at his side looked just as dishevelled, their coats streaked with dirt and burrs.

Jonas made a sound of horror at the sight, but Roche only shrugged.
“Seems we could use a wash,” he said mildly, glancing down at the dogs. “All three of us. We will be down there shortly.”

Halwick looked ready to launch into an admonition and Archivald’s mouth was set in a thin line. Roche raised a hand to stop them.

“Don’t you fucking start, Halwick. I’ve got no patience for your lectures right now. Blackwood—since you are finally here, first thing tomorrow, I want the office to be unlocked. I’ll need a meeting arranged with the bailiff, constable, and the reeve.” He pinned the man down with his famous glare that sent recruits scattering. 

The seneschal’s jaw tightened, but to his credit, didn’t look away. He inclined his head with a terse, “As you wish, my lord.” Roche brushed past them, the dogs trotting along at his heels, and headed to clean up.

Later, after washing away the grime, he found himself back in front of the fire, feeling lighter than he had since he’d arrived. The dogs lay sprawled at his feet, their coats now gleaming, eyes half-closed in contentment. He leaned back in the chair, watching the flames flicker, letting the quiet warmth settle over him.