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One of the few things Jaskier regrets about being Consort to the Warlord of the North is that it’s much harder to just chat with people out in the world. In Kaer Morhen, sure, nobody tries to be upsettingly deferential, because everyone knows Jaskier is a bard first and Consort second and in any case Kaer Morhen isn’t really set up for deference, but even down in Wolvenburg, where Witchers are a common sight, people will insist on bowing and agreeing with whatever Jaskier says and not just talking to him. Jaskier has been making some progress by visiting regularly and talking to as many people as possible each time, but it's still slow going convincing the townsfolk that they don't need to grovel at him.
Today he's hoping for a lovely break from the stress of planning the Progress, which is only exacerbated by the way Geralt is fretting over bringing Ciri and Jaskier into danger both known and unknown.
Which means he’s actively delighted when an older man stops next to the table in a Wolvenburg tavern where Jaskier is enjoying a very good mulled wine - accompanied, of course, by his bodyguards of the moment, Coën and Bricriu and a newly-Medallioned Crane lad named Averil who is adorably determined to do the job correctly - and says quite conversationally, “Is this seat open?”
Jaskier beams at him. If the man was a threat to him, one of the Witchers would have objected, so there’s no danger in a friendly response. “It absolutely is, my good man; please, be seated!”
The man chuckles and sits down, and Jaskier looks him over curiously. He’s an unassuming man of middle years - maybe a little younger than Jan, given the lack of grey in his chestnut-brown hair - with weathered fair skin and dark eyes surrounded by many smile lines and simple, sturdy clothing suited to a moderately successful merchant or something along those lines. He doesn’t look distressed enough to need to speak to a Witcher, nor like the sort of arrogant noble who assumes Jaskier will welcome them simply because of their rank. In short, he’s interesting.
“I’m Jaskier; these are Coën and Bricriu and Averil. May I know your name, my good man?”
The newcomer chuckles softly. “I am called Borch Three Jackdaws; it is a pleasure to meet you. I have heard many interesting tales of the Warlord of the North and his Consort and companions; I am pleased to learn the tales of your courtesy are true.” He has an interesting accent, one that reminds Jaskier of Bricriu’s, actually.
“Are you from Zerrikania, sir?” Bricriu asks, reinforcing Jaskier’s suspicions.
“I have spent a great deal of time there,” Borch confirms, smiling at Bricriu. “And my dear companions are from that land.” He gestures to a table in the corner, where a tall, dark-skinned, very lovely woman is watching the whole encounter with a wary expression. “That is Téa; her partner Véa is watching my daughter at the moment.”
“Oh! How old is your daughter?” Jaskier asks. “If you don’t mind saying, of course.”
“Mm. Old enough to cause a great deal of trouble if left unattended,” Borch says dryly.
Jaskier and Coën both laugh. “Ah, that sounds very familiar,” Jaskier says. “Beware of her befriending geese; you may never know peace again if she does.”
Borch chuckles. “I will be duly wary,” he agrees.
“But I am sure you did not come all the way to Wolvenburg to exchange tales of children’s mischief,” Jaskier says. “Nor, I expect, did you sit with me solely for the pleasure of my company, alas.”
Borch gives him a very sly smile. “Oh, I am sure the pleasure of your company would be entirely sufficient reason to join you,” he purrs. Jaskier beams and bats his eyelashes. Coën sighs softly, and Averil makes a very quiet confused noise, poor lad. Jaskier will have to explain purely performative flirting to him at some point.
“My company is a gift,” he agrees cheerfully. “Still, even if my bardic pride insists that my mere presence ought to be reason enough for any man’s attention -” he poses proudly, and Borch chuckles again - “I have my suspicions, my dear man.”
“A wise bard indeed,” Borch says warmly. “I came to Wolvenburg to learn the truth of the tales of the Witchers and their lord; where better than his seat of power to look for such answers?”
“Fair enough,” Jaskier agrees, and settles back in his chair, taking another sip of mulled wine. “If you will trust my words, I would be happy to answer any questions you might have, within reason of course, or my companions might speak to anything I do not know.”
“A generous offer indeed,” Borch murmurs. “And do your companions approve of such easiness with your lord’s secrets?”
Coën says mildly, “Jaskier would not tell anything which needs to be kept secret; therefore we can have no objections to what he is willing to say. We repose all trust in him, as he has earned it many times over ere now.”
Jaskier blushes. “Sweet-talker,” he teases. Coën smirks.
Borch looks amused. “Well. I have heard a great many songs describing the Warlord’s mercy, and a smaller selection lauding the efficiency of his wrath, and they all emphasize most strongly that the Warlord and his Witchers slay only monsters.” He tilts his head, regarding Jaskier shrewdly. “What, then, makes a monster?”
“A monster preys on people,” Jaskier replies promptly. “No more and no less.”
Borch’s eyebrows go up. “That is a very interesting definition.”
“We worked hard on it,” Jaskier says wryly. Which they did - the whole Council, with input from as many Witchers and ordinary people - human and elven and dwarven and even a very confused halfling merchant - as they could corner. They did their best to put together a definition which includes monstrous men like Borys of Leyda, or Velen, or Evertsen of Nilfgaard as well as Conjunction creatures like archgriffins and undead beings like noonwraiths, which tend to think people make delightfully easy snacks, while excluding, for instance, dopplers, who are mostly just people who happen to take on different forms, or rock trolls that aren’t causing trouble, or godlings who are causing trouble but don’t mean any harm by it.
A monster preys on people. Nice and simple and straightforward, and hopefully covers all eventualities.
“And what of creatures which are commonly considered monsters, yet do no harm?” Borch asks.
Jaskier is starting to wonder whether the man is a doppler. Well, if he is, then good on him for asking questions! Jaskier smiles warmly. “Well, for instance, if there was a doppler who was just…doppling happily about, that wouldn’t be a matter for Witchers. If that doppler was using their abilities to cheat people of money, that would be a problem, but it would be an issue for magistrates, not Witchers. But if that doppler was using their abilities to - oh - entice people into bed when they thought the doppler was someone else, or commit murder and frame others for it, that would count as preying on people, and that would be a matter for Witchers indeed.”
Borch looks very thoughtful, and takes a long drink from his mug as he considers that. “A doppler looks much like other people,” he says at last. “What if - oh - what if there was a creature which did not walk upon two legs, which was really quite dangerous, but which did not prey upon people? A sapient archgriffin, perhaps.”
Jaskier chuckles. This feels like the debates the Council had while they were hashing out the phrasing of the Wolflaw. “If there were a sapient archgriffin which did not prey upon people, then it would not be a monster,” he replies easily. “Mind you, communicating with a sapient archgriffin would be an interesting challenge, but I expect we could rise to it, if it became relevant.”
“I see,” Borch says, and takes another drink, leaning back in his chair. “And do all of the White Wolf’s Witchers hold to the same standard? For I know that before the Warlord rose to power, there were some differences of opinion between the Schools.”
Jaskier’s eyebrows rise.
“You know more than many do, then,” Coën says, sounding impressed and a little wary. “And you speak truth; before Ard Carraigh, there were some philosophical differences between us, aye. But now we all follow the Wolf, and abide by the Wolf’s laws, and all the Witchers of Kaer Morhen have agreed on what defines our rightful prey.”
Borch raises an eyebrow at Bricriu, who shrugs and nods. “I will grant you that the Cats and Vipers do sometimes express a desire to be allowed to stab annoyances rather than true monsters, but it is…something of a relief, honestly, to have a single rule defining what we hunt and what we do not.”
Borch hums and turns to Averil, who shrugs awkwardly. “I was a babe in arms when the White Wolf took Ard Carraigh. I do not know what the Path was like before the Schools banded together. I think the way ‘monster’ is currently defined makes sense, and using it will help us defend the people of the Wolflands, as is our duty.” He spreads his hands wide. “How would you define it?”
Borch smiles. “Why, I have no objections to the Warlord’s definition. It is kinder than many I have encountered ere now. But I am curious how it will hold up if the Witchers of Kaer Morhen ever encounter something…out of the ordinary, let us say.”
Jaskier tilts his head. “Such as yourself,” he says quietly. “Or perhaps your companions?”
“Téa and Véa are human,” Borch says evenly. “And I am not, as you have so astutely gathered. Nor is my daughter, for whom I would do…many terrible things, were she in danger.”
Jaskier nods. “As a good parent should.” He himself would do terrible things for Ciri, should it become necessary, though he dearly hopes it never will.
“I have enjoyed living here in the North, and my daughter was born here; it is her birthright and her home. Yet I wish to keep her safe above all else. We could, of course, leave the Wolflands; Zerrikania is a fine land, and I am fond of it,” Borch continues thoughtfully. “Or we could dwell within these lands, enjoying the peace and prosperity the Wolflaw brings, concealing ourselves always. But that is not a comfortable way to live - especially for a child.”
Jaskier nods. “So you are here to see if the White Wolf’s word is true.”
“I am,” Borch agrees.
Jaskier takes a sip of his mulled wine, thinking hard. “Ordinarily, I would invite anyone who wished to speak to the White Wolf and who could swear to do no harm to any in Kaer Morhen to visit the keep, but I think perhaps you would find that…a little fraught, to walk into the stronghold of those who might be your enemies, if all goes ill.”
“I might, indeed,” Borch says dryly.
“At the same time, the White Wolf can hardly go traipsing off into the wilderness to meet with an unknown quantity,” Jaskier points out.
“No, indeed, and if he was willing to do so, I should be very disappointed in his intelligence,” Borch chuckles.
Jaskier taps a finger against his lips, thinking hard, then nods. “So. There is a valley near here - not a bad walk even in the snow - which is not much used, due to its rocky soil. If you will agree to meet the White Wolf there, with only your companion beside you, I shall arrange for the White Wolf to do the same - him and one other.” And a great many more Witchers concealed within bowshot, of course; Jaskier is not a fool, and he remembers that terrible moment when the crossbow bolts struck Geralt very vividly.
…Though probably Geralt will refuse to take that sort of precaution, when it might be taken for a trap. Damn it. Must Jaskier's beloved lord be so very honorable?
“Agreed,” Borch says at once. “That will suit me well.”
*
Geralt doesn’t know what to expect when he steps out of the portal. Jaskier described Borch Three Jackdaws very vividly, and Coën and Bricriu and Averil all agreed that the man was telling the truth to the best of their ability to detect, but if he is some species of creature usually considered a monster, Witcher senses may not be able to identify the subtle tells which would indicate a lie.
Certainly as far as they can see in Yen's mirror, he and his companion are waiting very patiently in the center of the valley, having tromped cheerfully enough through the snow to reach it, and do not have weapons in their hands or any obvious signs of Chaos about them.
Artek still insists on going through the portal first, to shield Geralt with his body if he must. That, Geralt hates a great deal. He was raised and remade and trained to protect people, not to be protected. But everyone from Jan to Eskel to Jaskier to Milena told him in no uncertain terms that he was not allowed to risk himself unnecessarily, and Ciri gave him a look so solemn and serious that it struck him to the heart, so he waits for Artek to give the all-clear before bracing himself and stepping through the portal, shuddering in discomfort as the Chaos shivers through his bones.
Borch Three Jackdaws is waiting a dozen paces away, with a tall beautiful dark-skinned woman at his shoulder looking tense and wary, though Geralt notes she isn’t actually holding any of the several knives concealed about her person.
She holds herself like a warrior, and Geralt is quite sure she’s a dangerous person - but she is not the true danger here. He meets Borch’s dark eyes and nods solemnly.
“So you are the White Wolf,” Borch says quietly.
Geralt inclines his head. “I am.” He gestures at his companion. “Artek of the Bears.”
Borch nods to Artek, never looking away from Geralt. “Téa, who is sworn to my service,” he introduces the woman. Geralt nods to her. She nods back, tense as a drawn bowstring. Geralt takes a deep breath, trying to smell what Borch might be, and gets nothing but human - with a very faint oddness to it, but not anything he might have been surprised by if he passed Borch on the street. The oddness is…heat, he decides after a moment. The sort of smell he might expect outside a smithy.
Borch smiles slightly. “I see you are not ten feet tall, with eyes of fire, o White Wolf of the North.”
Geralt snorts. “Sounds painful. Bang my head on everything.”
Borch’s smile widens. “A very good point,” he agrees. “So. Your Consort told me of your policy on monsters, but I would hear it from your own mouth.”
Geralt inclines his head. That’s fair enough. “Monsters prey on people,” he says bluntly. “Witchers hunt the ones that harm the people we protect.”
Borch considers that. “And who counts as people?”
Geralt frowns. That question, the Council hasn’t hashed out, mostly because it hasn’t come up. People are people.
But for a long time, Witchers weren’t considered people. And there are still places where elves and dwarves and halflings are not given that status. And there are the merfolk, too - Geralt has met a few - and the succubi and incubi who do no harm, and dopplers, and trolls, and -
Hm.
“Those who can and will communicate, and their kin and kinds,” Geralt decides at last. That covers everything he can think of, and leaves room for things he can’t think of, in case someone runs across a friendly leshen or something of that ilk.
Borch looks rather struck by the answer, and Téa relaxes just a hair. “Can and will,” Borch murmurs. “Well. I stand here speaking with you, do I not?”
Geralt nods warily.
“Will you do me the courtesy of not attacking immediately when I take on my true form?” Borch asks in what Geralt thinks is a deceptively mild tone.
Geralt nods again. Artek grunts, “You do us no harm, we’ll do you none.”
“A philosophy which does seem to be a guiding principle of the White Wolf’s reign,” Borch says, with a wry sort of humor, and to Geralt’s confusion backs up another dozen paces or so.
And then there is a strange moment of blurring and Geralt is staring at something he has been taught was utterly impossible:
A golden dragon, gleaming in the winter sun.
“Oh fuck me,” Artek breathes.
Geralt can’t find any words at all. He’s never seen anything so majestic. This is the sort of sight that requires Jaskier to describe it.
Is this how people feel when they look at him and their scents go vivid with awe?
Well, Warlord of the North? a voice echoes through Geralt’s mind. Do I count as ‘people’ by your law?
“Yes,” Geralt whispers, and then repeats more loudly, “Yes. You do.”
The golden dragon tilts his head. And if I do no harm to any in the Wolflands - without provocation, at least - am I safe within your realm?
Geralt nods. “No Witcher will hunt you. The Wolflaw protects you, as any other person.”
The golden dragon stretches out his wings; Geralt marvels at the sunlight glinting from them, refracting into a thousand rainbows. Well. It is good to know the tales of your even-handed justice are no exaggerations, o Warlord of the North.
Geralt huffs. “Call me Geralt.” He hates the titles he’s been saddled enough as it is - being called such things by a golden dragon is simply absurd.
I am Villentretenmerth. The golden dragon folds his wings back and then blurs again, and a perfectly human-looking man stands again in the trampled snow. “I appreciate not being smote with silver,” he says mildly, glancing down at the swords which neither Geralt nor Artek has drawn.
“You did no harm,” Geralt says simply. And then, on some impulse he can’t quite name, adds, “Come to Kaer Morhen. As my guests.” He smiles crookedly. “Jaskier will want stories.”
Villentretenmerth - or Borch, perhaps, in this form - laughs. “A true bard,” he says merrily. “And a charming man. You chose your Consort well indeed. And I should rather like to learn more of you and your people. Yes, I and my companions will come, if you do not mind having a rather fierce little girl roaming your keep.”
“She can join my daughter and the others,” Geralt says wryly. Between Ciri, Shrike, and the Mantikittens, they have a rather remarkable number of fierce little girls just now, which will probably keep increasing if Ciri has anything to say about it.
Borch laughs again. “And we can both hope the keep is sturdy enough to contain them.”
Geralt nods fervently. Thank fuck Lambert’s lesson on flour bombs was accompanied by strict orders to never play with them inside the keep, that’s all he’ll say about that fiasco.
Borch nods to Geralt and Artek and takes his leave, somehow graceful even as he makes his way through the snow, Téa following at his heels. Geralt waits until they’re out of sight before he fishes the xenovox out of his pocket and says, “Yen.”
The portal opens immediately, and he steps through with Artek just behind him, into Yennefer’s workroom. She and the rest of the Council are gathered; they have been watching in her mirror, Geralt knows, ready to portal down at once if anything should go wrong.
“A fucking dragon,” Stefan says as the portal closes. “I thought the golden ones were myths!”
“So did we all,” Keldar agrees.
“We couldn’t hear what he said to you while he was a dragon,” Yennefer says, giving Geralt an expectant look.
“His name is Villentretenmerth in his true form,” Geralt replies. “He’ll follow the Wolflaw.” He sits down in a chair, rather grateful to be off his feet - the awe of seeing a golden dragon up close, of hearing the dragon speak in his mind, is not swift to fade.
"I fucking hope so, because I do not want to fight a golden dragon," Stefan says fervently. "I mean, I will if I gotta, but -"
"I think that is a fight everyone would prefer to avoid," Vesemir puts in dryly. "I believe the lesson on dragons begins 'do not, if possible, take a contract on a dragon', for extremely good reasons." He frowns suddenly, in thought rather than anger. "You invited him here," he says to Geralt.
Geralt nods.
"Well," Vesemir says, with a wry smile, "that ought to keep Jaskier occupied, at least."
Jaskier squawks indignantly for a moment, then laughs. "Oh, guilty, guilty; I will absolutely be pestering Master Three Jackdaws for every tale he will give me!"
"So too will I," Keldar says rather ruefully. "A golden dragon! Forsooth, I have never seen so marvelous a creature in all my years."
"So marvelous a person," Ciri says, quiet but clear.
Keldar inclines his head to her gravely. "Aye, even so; I thank thee, cub."
Ciri grins up at him. "I want all his stories, too," she says. "And - oh, glory, Papa, do you think he might be willing to take people flying, if we asked very nicely indeed?"
Geralt's first reaction is sheer horror at the thought of Ciri being that high off the ground; his second is to wonder how magnificent an experience that might be. "Wait a while," he says. "Don't know if that's rude, to a dragon."
Ciri nods solemnly. "I'll wait, Papa," she promises. "And I will be very nice to Master Three Jackdaws' daughter." She bounces on the balls of her feet in excitement. Geralt chuckles and reaches over to tug her braid.
"I know you will, cub." He glances around at his Council. "Pass the word. Borch Three Jackdaws and his companions are my guests. His other form is his to tell, or not, as he pleases."
"White Wolf," his Council choruses.
A golden dragon, a being out of myth and legend, is going to be Geralt's guest.
Truly, being Warlord of the North brings Geralt endless surprises.