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A winter wedding was not said to be auspicious, especially reaching further into the north when gray and withered vegetation decorated frost-bitten landscapes with a snow that silenced the already hibernating population of men and monsters alike. Kaedwen expends its energy entering the winter season and does not seek to be bothered by trivial matters of celebration until spring begins to thaw. Even then the style of practical Kaedwenian ceremonies feels contrary to what is expected from a Redanian wedding and considerably lacking in a standard royal wedding affair.
However, such an unfortunate event is proceeding regardless. Not because of two desperate lovers becoming impatient enough to bind themselves to each other in the cold or even the attempt to mask a bastard child. No, simply put; Vizimir and his entourage of tittering nobles have finally reached a boiling point.
With the retreat of the School of wolf witchers to their stronghold of Kaer Morhen—nearly ten years ago at this point— and the remaining schools to follow, there was a significant problem left to the kingdoms of the continent. Monsters, beasts, curses, and any other a nasty creature that was typically the work and employment of witchers fell to the people. Or more accurately, it was the people who began to fall.
Hungry dying villagers soon turned to angry villagers rioting at the house of the alderman who could do no more than send it up the chain of command. But of course, the common man did not so easily stir the king to action.
In fairness there were many items to consider: The witchers gathering in the north expanding beyond their mountain into surrounding towns and becoming more prominent concerns for the Kaedwenian monarchs. Kaedwenians although practical and blunt by nobility standards, were quite paranoid at the whispers reaching their ears of mutants eyeing their throne. Possible beliefs of elves and dwarves joining the witchers also grew stronger by the day. Of course, no monster had reached the throne room of Tretogor, and so the beasts remained ignored by their king.
But then of course as swiftly as Witcher disemboweling a cockatrice Kaedwen fell in under three nights. The tails of the mutants cutting down waves of guards were spread as horrific gossip. More beast than man, a hunger for blood, cruel things that hunted the Kaedwenian royals for sport in their own home and ate their children.
And so, a panicked and starving population became a desperate population clawing at anything that could set things right. Vizimir could work with these desperate men, the sack of Kaedwen would not be taken lying down a would be seen appropriately as a threat to the three remaining kingdoms. A desperate man could be sold on a military wage, guaranteed rations, and the guarantee of a burial, the alternative of the mouth of a beast was not so luxurious.
Thus began the war. The pitiful stalling desperate death throes of a war. It was a wonder the Redanians had enough men to draft by the third year, and only thanks to occupation of sorcerers that they were able to manage for the five years on the front.
By the fourth year of fighting, it was becoming increasingly clear that for any Witcher cut down nearly ten times the men had fallen before, optimistically. Vizimir, a discerning man, knew it had come to reason with the beasts. A treaty, a trade, a promise of peace, and while not desperate yet himself, he began to consider offering anything.
The peace talks began and then of course felt like they’d never end. Sending ambassadors, gifts, and luxuries to Kaer Morhen did nothing to sand down the demands of the witchers. Their leader, spoken of as the White Wolf was steadfast and unyielding, for his men did not dwindle like Vizimir’s.
But Redanians were equally stubborn. How to earn a deal in their favor? How to tamper down the monsters in the forests and fields? How to get the mutants to submit? Marriage.
Of course, not the traditional fair, but a functional marriage. A Redanian tether to ensure a level of control, if anything were to happen to their bride then retaliation was only expected. Redania could draw their borders and agree to the Wolf’s demands with the benefit of having Redanian eyes and ears in their enemy's court. And with a Witcher's inability to procreate not even a valuable daughter ought to be spared, no, any available noble could be of use.
From the perspective of the Witchers: wolves, cats, bears, manticores, vipers, and griffins It had seemed the Redanians had decided to end the fighting with a year of pathetic attempts to get them to acquiesce. Only to start up with another more ridiculous proposition of marriage. While nearly a year of standstill had seen the Redanians attempt to bargain and twist their way through a treaty had been exhausting, they clung to the proposition of a union like a dog with a bone. Redianian stubbornness had seemed to win in the end. The offer of a marriage with a near perfect agreement to the demands of the witchers seemed too good to be true.
And so, with such speed unprecedented of the Redanians so far, a candidate was found and a date had been set, and if all went according to plan the war would be done with.
——-
Geralt finds himself standing int the snow of the mid afternoon contemplating what higher power he had ticked off to land him here. Marriage was not something considered by witchers, not in the way nobility played at marriage. There had been life bonds and pacts between them that vowed a closeness but not the song and dance of political trade and monetary security that royals use marriage for. Not even children were a factor for this farce as they so commonly were when two nobles needed to secure their bloodline.
No, if you had asked Geralt if he ever saw himself being married, he might have genuinely thought you insane. Although if you told him he were to be the White Wolf, Warlord of the North and ruler of Kaedwen, he might attempt an exorcism before writing you off.
The initial retreat to the north was simply the result of death by 1000 cuts. The winter he and his brothers collected in Kaer Morhen had led them to come to the realization that they were tired and underpaid. Why travel to Temeria or the coasts of Redania to work for scraps? His child surprise was babe when it was his duty to collect her; the path would be no place for her.
And for the first time in Geralt’s years on the path, he stayed in Kaer Morhen past winter. Word of this action soon spread to other Witchers, those close with the wolves, but soon even distant schools had heard of their non-lethal retirement.
Although retirement might be an inaccurate term. There are still beasts on the mountains and in the villages dotting the foothills, they were never out of practice.
All this Geralt could understand. The title of Warlord came with the dispatching of the Kaedwenian king. An action spurred on by the starving villages of Kaedwen and their loyalty to the Witchers compared to a king they had never met. Vesemir had no interest in being the face of their front when the kingdoms of the continent needed a sole person to blame, and by his own sword cleaving the king’s head from its shoulders, Geralt was given that role.
The Redanians were frightened into action, but without the support of Cintra —for their favor lay with their princess— and Temeria providing more money than men Redania chose to fight a losing battle.
And then of course the marriage of it all. Geralt did not need to be tied to anyone, whether it be destiny or the whims of stubborn kings. Nor did he want anyone tied to him, he’s heard what they say about Witchers, vitriol worse than it had been on the path. He’s heard what they call him, and what they imply by it. White Wolf, a mad fucking dog seeking to bite a hand not yet reached out.
And yet the path of least resistance, the lesser of evils, marriage. Yennefer was quick to point out that this union was likely to be seen as an espionage opportunity for Redania. The Witcher’s could have their demands met for safe passage for elves and dwarves, protected supply routes, and the practition of chaos all for the price of one spy and a seasonal rotation of men out to deal with monsters. A fortress of Witchers could cut down one man, after a year of stalling it was too good to pass up.
What he knows of his soon-to-be husband, which was an interesting choice of Redania’s part as well, is next to nothing. Julian Alfred Pankratz Viscount de Lettenhove is educated and graduated from Oxenfurt Master of the Seven Liberal Arts, where he was teaching until now. He’s young by Witcher standards but considered more of an older bachelor by the rushed standards of nobility. From what Yennefer knows, the Pankratzs are not gifted toward chaos, or at least not to the degree to be under her purview. But otherwise, he is an insignificant noble from a small area of land close to the sea.
Which tells nothing of this Julian’s character. How strong is his Redanian loyalty? How willing is he to be here? Will he perish at the face of his first winter storm upon the Blue Mountains?
It stands to reason that he has done something to gain the notice of Vizimir. Is this a punishment for him or simply a duty to his king?
“I’ve heard a few of the things he’s written,” Yennefer had said. Gathered in many of the hearth-lit meeting rooms of Kaer Morhen when they were first looking over the information they had been sent about Julian.
Yennefer is one of the few people of Kaer Morhen who has any desire to travel the continent frequently. Although more difficult with the war, she’s disguised herself and traveled to Redania a number of times. Creature comforts or gifts for Ciri, she’d said; Geralt can understand the stir craziness of the fortress.
“I haven’t heard HIM perform, but his material isn’t bad. Or at least it's good enough to be passable through other people.”
Which still did not tell him much aside that his musical training did not go to waste if he is passable by Yennefer’s standards.
He’s set to meet him any moment now, there had been word that the Redanian’s had made camp along the mountain side the night before. This morning scouts were sent out to collect them and lead them to the gathering place where Geralt stands now.
Yennefer and Ciri had seen to his attire, Yennefer understanding what was fashionable by Redanian standards and Ciri excited by the idea of ceremony. Instead of solely black leathers and worn armor, Yennefer had commissioned a deep blue formal set accented with faint details in silver. Styled to elevate the non-negotiables of his swords and defensive padding. It felt foolish to only wear something that seemed like armor, rather than actual armor.
“Geralt it’s a wedding; I’ve gotten you the darkest color I could find. He is a human man with one guide and one witness, if they attempt something, and they’d be fools to try, you won’t need armor.” Yennefer snapped this morning.
“He’s a bard for Melitele’s sake. On a mountain full of Witchers. If he’s a Redanian spy they’ve done a poor job picking one that would blow it on the first day.” Eskel had agreed with her.
The sun peaked through the trees causing the freshly fallen snow to reflect a pure white. Clear and crisp but bitingly cold. On the lefthand side of the clearing sat his brothers, Ciri, Yennefer, and Triss. Vesemir stood with Geralt at the front near a makeshift altar where the treaty was to be signed. A priestess of Melitele stood behind it bundled up and mildly exasperated. She was requested by the Viscount and gathered by the witchers on short notice. They'd pay her well and feed her properly for the trip down the mountain so as not to incur Nenneke’s ire.
“I did not think Redanians were particularly religious.” Geralt had commented.
“I believe it may be a personal thing. Lettenhove has some history with the cult and its worship. A token of home perhaps.” Was all Yennefer had in reply.
A sharp whistle could be heard further away from their clearing. It seems the Redanians were approaching. According to the scouts reports from last evening they were not traveling heavily. Largely just clothes and camping supplies along with a few of Julian’s personal affects.
Geralt’s breath clouds in front of him as he sighs, knowing his fate arrives sooner rather than later. The forest is quiet, save for the chittering of hearty birds and horses tethered a handful of paces away.
It strikes Geralt that doesn't quite know what to do with a noble husband once he has him. He was a professor, but Gerlat would sooner throw himself off the blue mountains than trust a Redanian to teach Ciri or the other Kaedwenian children alone. With no talents towards chaos, he’s uncertain if Triss or Yennefer could find a use for him. Vesemir might have some ideas, never short of chores for Geralt and his brothers throughout their winters off the path. How delicate would his constitution be? If he expects to be waited on hand and foot, he’ll have a rude awakening. Geralt is no king, merely a figure head, and he does not expect subjugation.
There is the employment of maids and cooks, but only because they became a necessity when more than four men started to live in a space the size of Kaer Morhen.
The sound of men and horses wading through snow grows closer. Geralt can make out the sound of conversation but not what is being said. Teleportation had been shot down on both fronts; Redania’s slipperiness and the fear of the White Wolf’s mages meant that Julian and his traveling group had been ambling their way through the continent for close to a month. Hence, the timing of the whole affair. Deep winter had not struck just yet, but it looms overhead, if the Redanians waited any longer their bride might be buried under snow before ever reaching Kaer Morhen.
Geralt stands stock still as the scouts enter his line of view. He makes a stark image of midnight blue and silver with only the yellow of his eyes against the backdrop of snow and gray forest.
The scouts are proceeded by a practically dressed guide and likely guard, a formally dressed man without any signifiers of Redanian patronage, and finally who Geralt can only assume to be the Viscount.
The vivid cardinal red of Redania worn proudly in a doublet and trousers, the black accents left minimal to encase the shimmering of red embossing throughout the fabric and his figure contained by a long heavy black winters coat. He looks as if he dawned the attire of freshly spilled blood against snow. And looks as if he costs more than the earning from years on the path.
The Viscount nearly hurts to look at, and so Geralt diverts his gaze to the man’s face. It contrasts his attire to a degree. He still has a rounded youthful face, clean shaven, and short cropped brown hair. Most strikingly though are the blue eyes that face Geralt head on, unyielding, and oddly enough amused.
Humor was not an emotion he had expected from the Viscount.
Julian and the formally dressed man continue along the clearing’s path to meet Geralt and Vesemir at the altar. Julian smiles slightly at the sight of the priestess; his companion looks confused but schools his expression quickly. The witness smells like mildly of fear, or nervousness, there is not much difference. But the Viscount smells like nothing more than the road and incense that latches onto his clothing.
With little fanfare the freezing priestess begins the rites. Geralt loosely follows. Melitele’s blessing, although appreciated, is not his priority. That rests on the treaty laid on the altar. She progresses quickly; there are no vows, no audience blessings, nor anything besides what’s been agreed to in the treaty.
Julian bows his head at the priestess when she has completed, seemingly satisfied. Geralt tosses a glance towards Vesemir who procures a quill and ink from his side bag. Geralt writes his name like it was any other document, his agreement upheld.
Julian removes a glove from his hand as the quill is offered to him. He looks up at Geralt with the piercing gaze of a man cataloging the slightest inflection. He breaks his stare, gathering whatever knowledge he thought he needed. With little hesitation, he signs his name and title alongside Geralt's at the bottom of the page. His writing is fast and loose, following the arcs and points of shorthand but extended.
And like that Geralt is wed, in the eyes of the law and the Mother Goddess. Years of conflict, death, and turmoil ended over a piece of paper and a prayer.
“Well then, that was rather painless, wasn’t it?” The Viscount speaks for the first time in the clearing. His voice is pleasant enough. His sarcasm is not lost on Geralt, though.
Geralt doesn’t give him a response; he doesn’t have much to say to the Viscount. Or well his husband now, not that it will ever feel normal to admit.
There is a shuffling now that the deed is done, Geralt’s brothers standing to ready the horses. Yennefer and Triss streatching their legs with Ciri. Who Geralt notes looks bored. He’ll admit it has not reached the heights of entertainment as Pavetta’s and Duny’s fateful union, not that Geralt needed a margin of it with the importance of today’s events.
“Your witness, does he intend on staying the night?” Vesemir asks Julian frankly.
“Ah, no. And my apologies, this is my cousin, Ferrant de Lettenhove. He serves Kerack. He should suffice as unbiased in his report to His Majesty King Vizimir,” he says the title with a strained look “He has a good head on his shoulders as well. Helpful in preventing me from screwing any of this up, no?” Julian looks at Ferrant ruefully.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Ferrant does not speak as eloquently in tone as his cousin. “The remainder of our traveling group waits at the foot of the mountain; we did not wish to camp with more than necessary.”
However true it may be Geralt can infer his meaning. He is not interested in being near them any longer than strictly needed. It does not make a good impression on Geralt that Ferrant views this as leading his cousin to a slaughter. Julian does not indicate grievances at this; perhaps Redania can pick their spies well after all.
“We’ll collect your belongings and head to the fortress. The scouts will aid your cousin and company down and have word to your king when we are able,” Geralt states briskly.
“Right then,” Julian responds, taking in the first words Geralt has spoken to him. His wide blue eyes still lock on to Geralt and do not seem cowed by the apathy.
——-
Jaskier can’t help but be somewhat disappointed at the quietness of the whole ordeal. He wasn’t expecting a grand feast or gala like the weddings he attended with his family as a youth. But perhaps some music or at least applause of the treaty’s signature would have been appropriate.
There’s no dancing, or congratulations, or drinks, but simply the attitude of proceeding with the rest of the day. Even the elopements observed at Oxenfurt at least had friends buying the couple a meal or toasting.
Ah, but perhaps that’s his mistake. He and the White Wolf are not a couple; they are two signatures on a slip of paper. Jaskier is more akin to a ward if anything.
Saying goodbye to his cousin for the foreseeable future had not been difficult. Ferrant is good company, but he is still family, and more importantly was Jaskier’s babysitter for the entire trip. Ferrant is more duty bound than he, but less a climber than Jaskier’s father. A bit of a buzzkill lightly put.
Supposedly this marriage is to be a punishment or reprimand for Jaskier in some way. One to many political pages posted by the Sandpiper. One too many comments made in passing to his students. One too many embarrassments to his father’s house. When an eligible bachelor was needed, his father was all too eager to be rid of him and earn favor with Vizimir as well.
Jaskier is not sure if he is learning the lesson his father thought to teach here. Jaskier already pulled by flights of fantasy was not opposed to the union. If him living up in the mountains meant a mother’s son would not have to die by a blade of iron then, despite his indulgences, he’d go. He’s seen a funeral for one-to-many classmates, and his student population only got smaller by the year.
Redania also wanted a spy out of him. Which only got funnier on the trip to Kaedwen. Jaskier's father certainly knew he was the Sandpiper, advocating the elves and dwarves and only mild slander of Redanian nobility. But his father has certainly not dispelled that information to Vizimir. No, it would be much more beneficial for Alfred de Lettenhove to offer a willing tribute without the embarrassment of his political choices and appear as loyal as ever to Vizimir. Earn favor and be rid of a pesky child all at once, Jaskier would admit it was a solid plan.
Until Vizimir doesn’t receive his return on investment. Jaskier may be at times foolish, but he was not stupid enough to attempt subterfuge isolated on a mountain with men who could flay him six ways to sundown! No, Vizimir will be drip fed minor information if any.
Gathering his lute, clothes more suited to him — the red doublet he was wearing was stunning. Not his first choice, and not as warm as he’d like. But it sent a message— and his writing supplies he took in the small crowd of guests. Two other burly men similar in age to the Warlord. One with a mangled scar across his face and the other a fiery redhead. Two women dressed similarly to Jaskier in luxury, who he assumed to be the sorceresses rumored to serve the White Wolf. A young girl, with hair about as white as the Warlord’s. Was she his daughter? If the things people said about Witchers were remotely true, then Jaskier believed them sterile. Partially why Redania sent a man in the first place.
The Warlord speaks to the older Witcher who had joined him at the altar. Neither speaks very impassionedly, but they have familiarity with each other. The White Wolf casts an intimidating figure just as everyone said he would. His garments look like they’ve been cut from the night sky. The is not a heavy amount of decor, but it seems the effort was made to meet Redanian expectations.
The crowd have begun mounting the horses, save for the sorceresses and the girl who step through a portal. Jaskier has never been through one but has heard they’re quite bumpy rides. He doesn’t need his breakfast to make an exit as a first impression.
Mounting Pegasus, the gelding he’d favored for the trip, he thinks passingly that his mother was right in the end: that the day would come that he’d settle down and bind himself to another. This is likely not what she had in mind and was properly peeved she’d miss witnessing it. He hoped the blessing of Melitele might cool her coals so to speak. She’d always been the most devote of his family.
He assumed the priestess might be by after the treaty had been signed to grant her rites. It was short notice and downright freezing, he would not blame her for not arriving before spring.
And yet to his surprise the Witchers had obtained a priestess and read the blessings out before getting the ink to the quill. How odd, and touching in the part of Jaskier that cared about these softer natured things.
Despite this consideration, hospitality did not appear to be the strong suit of Witchers, least of all the White Wolf. Or Geralt of Kaer Morhen his signature read, Jaskier did not actually know his given name before reading it, and it seemed introductions were so old fashioned these days.
The ride started silently aside from the horses trudging through the snow and puffing out heated breaths. Geralt led the group with the two other witchers only slightly ahead of him and the older gentleman coming up behind.
The silence was broke by the redhead.
“So, what do even know about us, boy?” Jaskier hasn’t been called ‘boy’ in a long while. While his tone is clearly meant to provoke, Jaskier is more curious on why he’s asking at all.
“Lambert please, save it,” the scared Witcher to his right interjects, his brow pinching in irritation
“Excuse me?” he tries to hold back the annoyance on the ‘boy’ comment and figure out more about his new hosts.
“What do you know about us, witchers, wolves, whatever the fuck?” he says curtly
“Ah, not much. There was a drowner? I believe they’re called, in the Pontar while I was still in school. It had killed two laundry maids of the staff before the guard had hired a Witcher to dispatch it. This was when they were still around to hire, mind you.”
He makes great effort to phrase this a mildly as he can. The maids’ bodies were gruesome when they had retrieved them, but it had sparked an investigation on beasts and Witchers alike. Jaskier has learned that many do not appreciate his rambling, especially if they are subject. He’s yet to have much of an up-close study, but perhaps the fascination made the decision to wed one slightly easier.
“What? You aren’t worried we’ll eat you and take your children in the dead of night?” This Lambert fellow goads
“Lambert.” Is said sternly by the other man again.
“Ah, not particularly? I don't have any children, and sources have told me I don’t taste very good.”
“Hah!” Lambert barks out. It's not quite a laugh but amused feels better than ignored to Jaskier.
The silence returns however with Lambert’s question answered. They ride for maybe an hour until they reach the iron gates of the fortress of Kaer Morhen.
It’s older than any estate or castle Jaskier has performed at, aged and tall its towers nearly disappear into the clouds that peak the mountain. The stonework is dense but rounded at its edges from years of holding strong. There is not much decoration; no need to flaunt wealth this far removed from noble social circles. But it is still dauntingly impressive.
The noise of people moving about is also deeply exciting. Likely groups of people working or cleaning, but the prospect of conversation with new people with entirely unique stories and lives spins his mood from growing too maudlin at the silence.
Geralt whistles to the men manning the gate’s lever in the same way the scouts had on their way to the clearing. The cold metal groans in agitation as the gates pry open leading Jaskier’s gaze to take in the courtyard.
In the late afternoon with the sun still out there are maids airing out laundry and men crossing the yard with supplies of many kinds. There are certainly more Witchers but also elves and dwarves and humans exchanging paths and mingling with each other. Not quite as vibrant as Oxenfurt but certainly as busy as it’s square.
Additionally, many people pause from their work to stare at him. And while he’s used to attention, it’s typically because he is performing, giving the audience a reason to look. He feels more like they’re dissecting him on his horse.
They march on to a very spacious stable where an older human and an elf boy, who is possibly sixteen, help undo his bags and dismount from Pegasus. The Witchers still do not speak much aside from passing their reigns to the older man.
“We’ll run a quick tour of the main areas of the Keep and set you up in your room for the evening. I wouldn’t advise wandering unless you’re keen on freezing over,” the scarred Witcher says toward Jaskier. He's got a nice smile and doesn’t seem as stern or as aggravated as Geralt and Lambert.
Geralt and the scarred man head forward to the entrance hall of the keep. Jaskier trails behind them still receiving looks from the residents and trying to pass smiles to those who especially feel like they’ve been burning holes into him.
The interior of Kaer Morhen is practical and rustic as the rest of the keep he’s seen. There is wooden furniture and stonework that bring the place to life in a way uncommon for castles. It is large because of the people it holds not for the sake of its own opulence. It feels like the clustered apartments of his fellow professors, knick-knacks and supplies strew about until it felt like a den of pure creative output and morning hangovers.
Home-y in a sense. Not exactly his style, not yet at least but for practical folks it feels like the place to be. After reaching the main areas of the entrance way, the Keep narrows into tighter halls which funnel into many wings. They pass the servants quarters, which is largely empty at this time of day as many of the staff are completing their duties. And a wing likely dedicated to the other Witchers who did not originally call this place home. They reach what the scared man calls the guest wing.
How Jaskier will manage to find his way without a guide seems mysterious at this point. While not designed to distract the halls of Kaer Morhen become a labyrinth very quickly.
Jaskier was not expecting a room with his new husband. Most married nobles don’t, but it still feels odd being placed so far away. He's actually not sure if there are other guests in this wing or if its just him. There were no candles lit for the other rooms, so Jaskier must assume.
“Here you are, there’ll be a maid by later tonight if you need anything washed after being on the road, there’ll be some of us by on rounds just before midnight,” The scarred man says. Jaskier feels a little bad at not knowing his name; he’s spoken to Jaskier more than his husband has. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen Julian.”
“Thank you both again for the tour,” He bows his head subtly to the Warlord “Although I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir?”
“Eskel,” He smiles nicely again before turning away and joining Geralt back down the hall.
And like that Jaskier is alone.
The room is spacious, more than his apartment had been at Oxenfurt. There’s a large bed and a lit fire and desk that does seem good enough to write on. He sets his lute down gingerly; his other items already collected off Pegasus and placed in the room. He doesn’t have much to do aside from disrobe into his slightly warmer yet still sufficiently decorative clothes. His favored cornflower dye incorporated into something woolen and nicely layered.
Once his routine is done, he splays out on the bed with all the exhaustion of travel, and stress of behaving for uptight Redanians hitting him all at once. Of course, creeping up is the less positive or productive side of his brain. While he might have done this for his countrymen they likely won’t benefit until much later than Vizimir licks his wounds from war. His friends and colleagues are far far away from here. And despite the Keep full of people, he knows no one and is trusted by none. He is terrifyingly alone.
Some part of his brain knew marriage would likely reach him at some point, political or otherwise. But he had at least thought that his partner might speak with him. It leaves a bitter feeling in him that he tries not to dwell on.
He dozes for some time, not quite asleep but not energized enough to move until the cold creaking hinges of his door alter him.
He is expecting the maid Eskel had mentioned, but his eyes land instead on the young girl who was at the clearing. Shaking the sleep off himself Jaskier sits up and greets her.
“Hello there?”
“Hello.” ah, she’s just as brief as the rest of the Keep then.
“Do you need me for something?” He tries again gently.
“No. You’d make a pretty awful spy if you’re just sleeping all the time.”
“I make a pretty awful spy regardless.”
“Then why’d you come up here?” She frowns slightly at information that’s contradicted in her mind.
“I thought freezing my arse off in the mountains sounded like a fun vacation.”
“That’s a strange thing to think.”
“Yes, well comes with the territory. Bards are full of strange thoughts.”
“You’re a bard? So, you sing and stuff?”
“And stuff,” Jaskier chuckles. “I’m actually a master of the Seven Liberal Arts, renowned across the continent. I could play something for you.”
“Like what?”
“Mmm, I’ve got ballads, some folk rotations, a few appropriate bar songs, some ditties.”
“What about an inappropriate bar song?”
“We can’t start inappropriate we have to learn our audience. What if you’re a dreadful prude and you chase me off stage? There’s ought to be some build up.” She sticks her tongue out at him.
“I’m Ciri. Do you know the one about the dragon? I heard it once when I was little.”
“The Bewitched Bandwagon Dragon?”
“Yes!”
It's a slightly more youthful song about a dragon being cursed by a sorceress to party all winter and melt the snow of surrounding towns until it gets too drunk and falls into a river and drowns. Jaskier certainly knows it and performs a rousing rendition for Ciri. She chimes in the chorus but otherwise sits enthralled.
It feels good to be in his element. To have an audience and someone willing to speak than more than three sentences to him especially.
By the end of the song Jaskier has zoned back into his room and out of the head state he reaches when performing and notices Ciri sitting entertained but standing in the doorway watching silently is the man with many titles. The White Wolf, Geralt of Kaer Morhen, Warlord of the North, and now Jaskier’s husband.