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He stood like a sentinel.
Unmoved by the show of power by the Imperial forces, undeterred by the nasty looks levelled at him by the court and in general, unbothered by the terrified whispers fluttering in the background.
Never has a man showed such impertinence to the Emperor of Nilfgaard before - though calling him a mere man was probably not correct.
Wiry arms across his chest, spine as straight as a stalactite, covered in an inky black armour which somehow managed to embrace his lean musculature like an amorous lover yet only served to increase his lethal aura a hundred fold stood Geralt of Rivia - refusing to bow even a fraction to the undisputed ruler of the Continent, so to speak.
His amber pupils glinting like that of a viper were focused in front but everyone who knew him or rather of him, knew that he was aware of even the slightest movement made by every living creature present in the hall.
The pair of swords tied to his back glinted like the ivory fangs of an ancient basilisk. And the guards shifted on their feet nervously, trying to be discreet enough to check how many more blades was he hiding in the folds of his obsidian clothing.
Anyone else wouldn't have been allowed to bring weapons in the court itself, nevertheless in the presence of the Emperor but then who in their right mind would be suicidal enough to even attempt to snatch a sword from the White Wolf's hand.
The White Flame, the Nilfgaardian Emperor, Emhyr var Emreis stood equally stoic and inanimate, staring at the cause of such insolent interruption with his steely hazel eyes.
It seemed like they were at a stalemate.
Locked in an invisible battle fought only with their gazes.
Before anyone could ask the notorious monster hunter about his business, the court room doors burst open and like a massive gust of wind, someone knocked the shocked noblemen and harried guards to make way.
It was only a blur of ash white hair and sparkling green eyes that Emhyr could see before the girl had jumped over the Witcher.
The latter hadn't even batted an eyelash or moved a fraction of an inch back, even with the sheer force of the collision. In a fluid move worthy of a dancer's grace, Cirilla of Cintra, the current heiress to the Nilfgaardian empire, had been effectively wrapped in a fierce embrace by armoured arms.
Ciri clung to Geralt like an overgrown monkey - slim arms around his neck and slender but powerful legs hooked around his waist. She laughed aloud in euphoric delight and Emhyr heard the Witcher's throaty chuckles muffled in his daughter's hair.
The court would probably need time till the next winter solstice to recover from the salacious scandal that their supposedly prim and proper princess had provided them with.
But even the impending maelstrom of diplomatic smooth overs that Emhyr would undoubtably need to do to repress the inevitable rumours, couldn't take away his wonder at the diametric transformation that he suddenly witnessed in the other man.
The chiselled lines of Geralt's sharp face seemed to have softened considerably and the severe scowl which had been hanging onto his lips had curved into a grin which split his face with a bolt of light that was almost blinding. His fiery eyes sparkled with mirth and such affection that it was almost blasphemous.
For how could the ice hearted wolves of Kaer Morhen even feel the effect of the baser humane emotions?
Yet the way he held the young woman in his arms, against his chest was equally firm and with a tenderness which could only be borne out of a ferocious paternal love.
Emhyr was fascinated.
And as if mocking him for these treacherous feelings bubbling beneath the brittle cage of his chest, the late afternoon sunlight fell on the Witcher's face, highlighting the marvellous shape of his jaw and his milk white mane shimmered like sunshine falling over fresh snow.
Maybe it was a lie spun out of a generational hatred buried so deep inside the hearts of men that it had become intrinsic to their very nature.
Witcher's had no feelings---
A lie.
For what could make the hardest of men melt into such softness if not for love.
Ciri took her face out of her father's neck and beamed at him like a million suns, climbed down his powerful frame in a smooth move, but was loathed to remove herself completely from his arms.
"I missed you...", she whispered.
Emhyr stood rooted to his spot whilst a rank filthy emotion coiled inside the pit of his stomach like a venomous snake that he had to forcefully push down.
But when Geralt's bright grin faded into a gentle smile and he unwrapped an arm from Ciri's waist, albeit with overt reluctance, if only to brush the strands of silver hair off her face, a bolt of unsolicited warmth pooled in the place of that vicious snarling envy.
A feeling he couldn't categorise.
A feeling he didn't want to categorise.
"As did I Little Wolf...", his gravelly voice was near inaudible as the court's collective mutterings slowly increased with edginess.
The Witcher looked up for a split second and the Emperor found his eyes suddenly fixated on him. It was a magnetic force which he had to answer to and his own gaze, priorly fleeting, stuck to those honey warm orbs.
The sunlight hit them and reflected a shockingly unmasked emotion which cut through the bubble of near pulsating fondness which had wrapped around the White Wolf and his child surprise like a blanket.
Gratitude.
The air suddenly seemed tight around the Emperor and he felt a lump form inside his throat which only served to escalate his fury, if only directed towards himself.
His infamous control was slipping.
He looked away immediately.
But it was all for naught.
Emhyr was already hooked.
Entrapped.
Enslaved.