Work Text:
There was something undeniably magical about winter in Oxenfurt. Snow fell thick and soft from the sky, settling over rooftops, clinging to window ledges, and filling the grooves of the old cobblestone streets until the entire city looked as though it had been tucked beneath a pristine white blanket. The river slowed beneath a skin of ice along its edges, and the air carried a sharp, clean chill that bit at the lungs and made every breath feel alive.
Jaskier had always loved the first snowfall of the season—the moment he arrived in Oxenfurt and realized the world had changed while he was gone. The city transformed overnight, becoming quieter, softer, almost reverent beneath the snow. Lantern light reflected off icy streets, turning every evening walk into something out of a fairytale.
Vendors lined the main streets despite the cold, calling out cheerfully as they sold roasted chestnuts wrapped in paper cones and steaming mugs of mulled mead fragrant with cloves and citrus. The scent alone was enough to pull Jaskier back years into the past. During his university days, he had darted between lectures with numb fingers and flushed cheeks, spending the last of his coins on hot food from street sellers, savouring every bite while huddled under archways with his classmates.
As Yule drew closer, the city only grew livelier. Carolers gathered on street corners and beneath balconies, their voices weaving together in bright harmony that echoed off stone walls. Jaskier loved that part best. Sometimes he joined in openly, other times he merely listened, humming along under his breath. Of course, singing in the streets wasn’t reserved for winter alone—Jaskier sang at any time of year—but there was something about winter music that felt deeper, warmer, like a promise that the cold wouldn’t last forever.
Yet for all its beauty, winter carried one bitter edge Jaskier could never quite ignore.
Winter meant Geralt was gone.
When the cold season came, Geralt always returned to Kaer Morhen, vanishing northward with the first real frost. And Jaskier was almost certain—painfully certain—that he was not allowed to follow. Witchers and their stronghold were matters of secrecy, of distance, of closed doors. So Jaskier stayed behind in Oxenfurt, surrounded by music and warmth and people, yet feeling the absence like a hollow ache beneath his ribs.
That evening, snow drifted steadily past his window as Jaskier sat in his small university room, hunched over his desk. Candlelight flickered over scattered papers and half-written notes as he finished a lesson he needed for the next day’s class. Outside, the world was muffled by snow, quiet enough that even the city seemed to be holding its breath.
That was when he heard it.
A sound—soft, indistinct, but unmistakably there.
Jaskier frowned and straightened, heart giving a small, startled jump. He reached for his candle and lifted it, the flame trembling as shadows stretched across the room.
“Hello?” he called out, trying to sound braver than he felt.
The darkness offered no reply. No footsteps, no voice—nothing at all.
Then, without warning, the candle went out.
The room plunged into darkness.
When Jaskier woke, there was only darkness.
For a disoriented moment, he thought he’d rolled out of bed and tangled himself in his blankets. He tried to move—and froze. Something rough and close pressed in around him, fabric wrapped tight against his arms and chest. Not sheets. Not his cloak. The space was far too small.
“Hey,” Jaskier called, his voice echoing strangely, muffled and hollow.
No response.
His heart began to pound as he shifted again, confirming what he already feared. He was bound, hands tied, his body enclosed in what felt like a sack—coarse fabric scraping against his skin every time he breathed.
“Let me out!” Jaskier shouted, panic sharpening his words.
Still nothing.
The realization hit him all at once, settling heavy in his stomach.
Someone had kidnapped him.
Him. Jaskier. Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. Acclaimed bard. University lecturer. Beloved by crowds and taverns alike. Stuffed into a sack like contraband.
“This is not how you treat a famous bard,” he declared indignantly, even as fear trembled through him. “I have rights! Important ones!”
The sack lurched suddenly, jolting him sideways. Jaskier yelped as he was thrown against something hard and wooden. The whole world rocked beneath him, swaying rhythmically. Wheels, he realized. He was in a cart.
Judging by the way the air grew colder and thinner, they were heading uphill—up a mountain.
Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.
He was jostled for what felt like ages, left alone with nothing but the creak of wood, the crunch of snow beneath wheels, and his own increasingly creative insults directed at absolutely no one.
Finally, a voice broke the silence.
“You talk a lot, bard.”
Jaskier huffed
There was no reply. Just the steady movement of the cart, the wind howling faintly through cracks, and an hour of oppressive quiet that followed. Jaskier was beginning to wonder if his kidnappers had decided to leave him like this forever when another voice joined the first—lower, amused.
“What’ve you got there, Lamb?”
The original speaker answered casually, far too casually for someone transporting a bound human being up a mountain. “Oh, just a little present for Geralt.”
Geralt.
Jaskier’s breath caught.
Geralt was here.
Before he could process what that meant, hands grabbed the sack. He was lifted abruptly, the world tipping end over end, and then—without ceremony—he was dumped out.
Jaskier landed hard, directly in someone’s lap.
Strong arms wrapped around him instantly, steadying him before he could fully sprawl.
“Jaskier,” Geralt said.
The witcher’s voice cracked just slightly, and when Jaskier looked up, he found golden eyes wide with shock—so wide they looked on the verge of popping straight out of Geralt’s skull.
“Umm,” Jaskier said weakly as Geralt instinctively adjusted his grip, pulling him closer instead of letting him fall away. “Hello.”
Now free of the sack, Jaskier could finally take in his surroundings. They were in a stone keep—ancient walls, roaring fire, snow clinging to boots near the entrance. Kaer Morhen. There was no mistaking it.
Two other witchers stood nearby, watching the scene unfold with varying degrees of interest.
Eskel tilted his head, brows raised. “Did you really kidnap the bard?”
Lambert shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “It was easy. Broke into Oxenfurt Academy like it was nothing.” He smirked. “And did you really want to spend another winter listening to Geralt mope?”
Eskel snorted. “Absolutely not.”
“You mope?” Jaskier asked, indignant despite everything. He attempted to slide off Geralt’s lap, but the witcher’s arms tightened reflexively, holding him there.
Geralt looked away, suddenly sheepish. “I… miss you.”
Lambert grinned. “Yule gift,” he announced, already turning toward the door. “You’re welcome.” Eskel followed him out, shaking his head fondly.
The room fell quiet, save for the crackle of the fire.
For a moment, Jaskier sat there, stunned. Then he cleared his throat. “Well. I suppose I can find somewhere quiet to stay, so I’m not in the way.” He tried again to move.
Geralt didn’t let go.
“No,” he said firmly, arms secure around Jaskier like he might disappear if released. His voice softened. “You’re my present.”
Jaskier blinked—then smiled.