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merlot-and-chardonnay · 4 months

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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 11.5

Chapter 11

"Now you see the lengths I can go to in order to take back what belongs to me," Daemon says in triumph as Caraxes stared down Geralt, the look in the dragon's eyes mirroring the same triumph and anger in his rider's.

Back inside the keep, the other witchers could only stare in awe and terror at the sight of the blood wrym.

"That's the dragon?!" Jaskier exclaims in shock, "that's THE dragon that Daemon rides?" "Caraxes," you nod in confirmation.

"I did say he was big," Ciri points out. "Yes, but THAT big?!" Jaskier exasperates.

"I have to agree with the bard on this one," Vesemir speaks, "Even if there were a hundred of us, we may not stand a chance."

"We have a sorceress to help us," Ciri points out. "I appreciate the confidence," Triss speaks, "but dragons are near impervious to magic. Just as with witchers, it would take dozens, even hundreds of us to subdue such a beast."

You sigh, taking a deep breath, thinking about what needed to be done. You were the reason Daemon came all this way. You were the one who could stop this conflict and prevent the bloodshed that was going to ensue.

"You are outmatched, witcher," Daemon continues his triumphant speech, "even with your tricks and spins and your enhanced senses, you are one man. You cannot hope to defeat a dragon on your own. Surrender now. Produce me (y/n) and my child, and I will spare you the destruction of your home, and you the pain of a burning death."

Geralt stood his ground, refusing to back down.

Right at that moment, the doors to Kaer Morhen opened wide. The witchers, lead by Vesemir, run out with swords in hand, their eyes black and skin ashen from the potions they had just consumed. Geralt turns to see the wolves join him in the fight.

Daemon's eyes widen a bit, not having realized there were more of the witcher's kind.

Geralt turned his gaze back to the prince, potion vial in hand, "as you can see, prince, I'm not alone," he downs the potion, his own eyes turning black and skin turning ashen white, "but you are, even with a dragon by your side," he points his sword at Daemon, "turn back now. There is nothing here for you."

"So you will not surrender?" Daemon asks, looking to Geralt, and the other witchers, "you would put your own brethren in mortal danger just to defend the woman you love?"

"We will all defend (y/n) and her child to the last fucking breath if we must," Eskel speaks, "they are one of us."

"You think yourself the first to invade Kaer Morhen?" Vesemir states, "Men who possessed none of what you have tried to rid the world of the likes of us once before, yet here we stand. We've survived the last raid, we will do so again."

"Go back home to your comfy cushioned palace, you fucking spoiled princeling!" Lambert sneers, the other witchers shouting and jeering in agreement.

"...So be it," Daemon says in a rather calm yet threatening tone, looking to Caraxes, who seemed all too eager to obey his master's next command. Daemon turned to the witchers, a small smile on his face, "Dracarys."

Caraxes raised his head and a pillar of fire shot from his mouth. The witchers simultaneously cast the Quen sign to shield themselves from the dragon's flaming wrath. While the sign proved to be effective, it did little to conceal the heat of the flames.

Nevertheless, the wolves stood there ground.

Meanwhile Triss stood by the entrance to the keep, gathering her thoughts and her strength, focusing on the dragon.

She begin to mutter incantations in the Elder Speech, focusing the chaos around her to surround Caraxes.

It took some time, but the spell started to take effect. Right on time as the witchers were starting to feel the heat of the flames burn through their armor and into their skin. Their magic shields were starting to falter right when Caraxes stopped.

Daemon looked to his dragon, wondering what was going on.

Caraxes swayed and started to move about in a sluggish fashion, almost as if he were disoriented, until he faltered down.

The blood wrym was down, but he was not completely out.

Triss kept repeating the incantations that kept Caraxes sedated; it hadn't even been a minute and already the effects of the spell were starting to take its toll on the sorceress.

Many of the witchers were still recovering from the dragon flame.

Vesemir, Lambert, and Coen and two of the witchers rush up to subdue the dragon. Despite the heavy sedation spell, Caraxes could still push his weight around and knock the wolves about.

Eskel and Geralt take up their swords and charge at Daemon. The prince parried each of their blows from their swords. Valyrian steel was lighter then silver, which worked in Eskel and Geralt's favor as they begin to push the prince back.

While the fighting was going on you ran to your room and found your daughter still in your crib.

You had no doubt the Geralt and his brethren could take on Daemon (one would've been more then enough to suffice), but Caraxes was a different story.

You trusted Triss to be a capable and strong sorceress, but if what she said was true, she would not be able to subdue the beast for much longer.

You take Aemma from the crib and cradle her to your chest, giving her a kiss on the head. You feel your eyes start to well up with tears.

Aemma looked up to you, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. To her, you were her whole world at this moment, unknowing of the outside world like she's been since the day she was born.

You loved her, and this was the last thing you wanted to do, but you couldn't be responsible for the needless deaths of the men who had welcomed you into their home and allowed you to stay and care for your daughter.

This needed to be done before more blood was shed.

You walk out of your room and into the main hall of the keep, heading for the front entrance.

"Uh, (y/n), what are you doing?" you hear Jaskier question in confusion, "Where are you going with Aemma?" You look to your brother with a knowing gaze.

"No," the Bard shakes his head, "no, no, no, (y/n), don't you dare, I forbid it." You scoff lightly, heart not completely in it, "when has that ever worked?"

"(y/n), you can't," Jaskier insists, "you don't have to do this, we can figure something else out." "Wait, what is she doing?" you hear Ciri ask. "Daemon is hear for Aemma and me," you say, "If I go with him, he'll spare Geralt and the others. I need to do this."

"No, don't," Ciri grabs your wrist, "you can't do this. I swore I would not let anything happen to Aemma, and I won't. I'll protect you, the both of you."

You turn to Ciri, tears in your eyes, "Ciri, you're a brave and sweet girl," you say, placing a hand on her head, "but don't make this anymore difficult then it already is." "But (y/n)-" "this is my decision, Ciri," you say sternly, "I'll be okay. Daemon won't hurt me, not as long as I have Aemma in my arms."

Meanwhile, the fight continued.

Daemon was pushed to the ground by Eskel as he and Geralt have their swords pointed at the prince. Daemon looked towards the keep to see Triss was still focusing her spell on Caraxes. If Daemon could take out the sorceress, the dragon would be back under his command once more.

Daemon got on his knees, putting his hands up to signify his surrender.

Geralt and Eskel still kept their defenses up as they slowly approach the prince.

Noticing the dagger by Eskel's side, Daemon quickly stands and grabs it, stabbing the man in the side.

"Eskel!" Geralt rushes to his brother's side as Daemon makes a run for it. Geralt was about to go after the prince, but Eskel was doubled over in pain.

The white hair witcher looked to see exactly where Daemon was running towards.

"Vesemir!" Geralt calls out, getting the elder witcher's attention, "he's going after Triss!"

Vesemir stopped fighting the dragon and ran after the prince.

Triss' nose was starting to bleed at this point, but she stood her ground and kept focus on the spell.

"Triss!" she hears Vesemir calls out.

Sure enough, Triss looks up to see Daemon about to stab her. The sorceress quickly dodged, but the sword braised her side, forcing her to falter in pain.

Vesemir ran to Triss' side and helped her to her feet.

The spell quickly dissipated and Caraxes shook off the effects, almost as if he was never under the spell's influence.

"We might want to fucking run now," Coen suggests.

Too late.

Caraxes growled and went after the witchers. One got snapped up in the dragon's jaws while the rest ran for their lives.

Daemon stood in triumph as Caraxes approached Geralt and Eskel. The prince walked towards the dragon and stared into both the witchers' eyes, ready to finish it all.

"STOP!!!"

Daemon and Caraxes both turned around towards the keep to see you by the entrance, the baby in your arms.

Daemon stood there, speechless. He felt himself start to walk towards you.

Before you knew it, Daemon stood in front of you, staring in awe at the bundle in your arms. "Please stop this, Daemon," you say, voice broken as you fought back your tears, "This is the reason you came all this way, isn't it? You came for me...and for Aemma."

"Aemma?" Daemon looked into the bundle to see your daughter's face, "you...named our daughter after the late queen?"

You nod, fighting the urge to shove Daemon away as he reached a hand to touch Aemma, rubbing her back.

"She is mine," you hear the prince whisper, "the blood of the dragon courses through her veins."

You look up to Daemon, staring into his eyes with a hard look on your face.

"Spare the witchers," you sternly tell him, "and we'll go with you. Please, Daemon, swear to me no further harm will come to them, and I'll swear to go with you back to King's Landing, or Dragonstone, or wherever it is you wish to take us. Just please, stop this madness."

Daemon looked to his daughter, then turned his gaze back to you. He leaned down and placed a kiss on your forehead, "you have my word, Little Lark. On the gods of Old Valyria."

You exhale, still annoyed by his pet name for you, but relieved that you were able to end this.

"(y/n)!" you hear Geralt call out, as he helps Eskel back to the keep, "what are you doing?"

"I'm sorry," you say, letting a tear run down your cheek.

You feel Daemon place a hand on the small on your back and escort you towards Caraxes; the prince giving the witcher a knowing and triumphant look as he did so.

The witchers, Jaskier, and Triss could only stand and watch.

Ciri walked out of the keep, to see you and Daemon walking away.

"(y/n)!" she calls out, tears in her eyes, "don't do this!"

The young girl runs after you, but Geralt stops her, "Ciri!" he says. Ciri struggled, tears falling down as she watched Daemon help you up on Caraxes.

"No..." Ciri cries softly as Daemon mounts the beast behind you on the saddle.

"NO!!!!!"

The ground began to shake. Triss, Jaskier, and the witchers cover their ears from Ciri's screams. Caraxes roared in agony. You hold Aemma close to you for protection. Behind you, Daemon covered his own ears, looking to see where the source of this power was coming from.

For one reason or another, the chaos surrounding Ciri started to cause the witchers to pass out, the injured ones first.

Caraxes managed to protect you, Aemma, and Daemon by raising a wing to form in barrier in front of you.

"CIRI! STOP!!" you shout out, but it didn't do much good.

The keep was starting to crumble from the impact.

Triss stepped away from Vesemir, summoning what strength she had left to cast another spell to subdue Ciri.

It worked, but the spell also backfired, hitting Triss and Vesemir, causing them to pass out; the spell ricocheted towards Caraxes, who had lowered his wing, and hit you and Aemma.

To your surprise, you barely felt a thing. You look to Aemma, but it didn't seem anything different happened to her either.

Daemon leaned over your shoulder, concern for his daughter taking over.

Ciri, still disoriented from the impact of the spell, groggily got back on her feet. Seeing the everyone else was down, and the dragon had not yet taken off, she runs to you and Daemon.

Both you and Daemon could only stare at the young girl, shocked and speechless, even Caraxes seem to stare at her in shock as well.

"You want to take (y/n) and Aemma away from here, you're taking me too," Ciri states with authority.

---------------------------------------

Some time later, the witchers started to come to.

By the time Geralt regained consciousness he saw his brothers walk back to the keep, many of them exhausted and wounded.

Inside, Vesemir tended to Triss' wounds while Cone took care of Eskel.

Geralt walked in and approached the elder witcher, "Where are (y/n) and Aemma?" he asks. "...Gone," Vesemir says somberly, "as is Ciri."

"What?!" Geralt's eyes widen, "she...no, no, no," he shakes his head in denial.

He runs outside to calling out for Ciri, shouting into the mountain.

The witcher fell to his knees, not able to come to terms with the fact that not only was the women he loved taken away, but now his ward was taken from him as well.

Geralt turned his gaze to the west. He was going to do everything in his power to travel to Westeros, and bring you, Aemma, and Ciri back home.

Chapter 12

Masterlist

#geralt of rivia #jaskier #geralt x reader #ciri #daemon targeryen x reader #hotd #daemon #daemon targaryen #lambert #eskel #triss merigold #vesemir #caraxes

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slumberingcorpse · 1 year

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Dagger To The Heart

The snow finally melted, the flowers start to bloom and the trees start to bear fruit. Spring is finally here and Geralt flew down the path making his way to Oxenfurt.

The town was filled to the brim with people. The noise, all the scents, everything was overwhelming to his heightened senses, and yet, he pushed through the crowds gripping a leather-wrapped bag close to his chest.

Finally, after months apart, Geralt hears Jaskier’s voice spilling out of a nearby pub. Without missing another moment, he makes his way into the bar.

As expected, Jaskier had the crowd in awe as he pranced around the room with his hair and hips bouncing with every step he took.

He was as beautiful as an elf and as graceful as a peacock. Even Geralt couldn’t help but fall for his charms.

Watching his lark play, Geralt only gripped his precious bag tighter.

After a few more songs, Jaskier ends his set causing the room to erupt in cheers and claps before tossing coins into his hat.

Geralt sits down silently and watches trying to ignore how his heart pounds against his ribcage. He missed Jaskier more than anything.

Jaskier cheerfully greeted his fans. Paying attention to the pretty lads' and ladies' praises while acting like he was paying attention to the ones he deems unattractive.

Once feeling his hat becoming heavy with coin, he bows his head dramatically and excuses himself from the crowd only to make his way toward the dark corner table of the tavern.

Unmistakable golden cat eyes greet him as he sits down, “I was wondering when my biggest fan was going to get here.” Jaskier teases.

Geralt chuckles, “I’m glad to see you’re well. Lambert was sure you would’ve been killed without me saving your ass all the time.”

Jaskier dramatically gasps, “Me? Needing saving? Never!”

Geralt rolls his eyes and smiles. For a small moment, they both silently fall into a comfortable silence talking not with their mouths but with their eyes.

Jaskier cut his hair, his doublet was new and so were his boots. He was as handsome as ever with the scent of dandelions and lavender surrounding him. It took everything for Geralt not to bury his face in the other man’s neck.

“So,” Jaskier finally speaks up, “What’s in the bag?” he asks curiously glancing down at the leather held tightly against the witcher’s chest.

Geralt’s cheeks flush as he carefully slides the bag over to the bard, “It’s for you...”

“A gift!? For me!?” Jaskier squeals with joy. Geralt has never given him a gift before let alone one from Kear Morhen.

Geralt shyly nods and watched intensely as Jaskier opens the present.

It was a dagger. With a golden handle carefully designed to look like a dandelion and a silver blade with an engraving stating something in elder speech.

“Oh...” Jaskier mutters causing Geralt’s smile to drop, “You don’t like it...”

“No! I mean, yes! I mean, it’s very pretty but umm...I can’t say I’ll get much use of it. I'm a lover, not a fighter,” Jaskier tries to explain surprised when he notices the hurt expression on Geralt’s face.

“Y-yeah...I guess you’re right...” the witcher mutters softly before quickly taking the blade back.

“You don’t have to do that! I mean it looks cool!” Jaskier says.

“No...it’s alright...it was stupid...” Geralt says turning away before quickly getting up, “It’s getting late, you should go rest...I’ll...I’ll see you tomorrow...” he mutters before quickly leaving the pub.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s been weeks and the blade was never brought up again. Even more so, Geralt has gotten beyond distant. Jasiker was used to the witcher being quiet with only a few grunts reminding him that he wasn’t alone but ever since the tavern, Geralt has been silent.

That wasn’t the only change either. Usually, Geralt didn’t mind sharing a bedroll or a bed for that matter, and yet now it’s like he couldn’t stand being anywhere close to the bard. It annoyed him to no end and he had about enough when they make it to an inn two towns over.

“What are you doing!? We hardly have enough coins to afford one room! Why do you insist on having two!?” Jaskier huffs.

Geralt sighs as his shoulders fall, “Thought you would want a separate room, that’s all...”

“Oh, so you can talk! After all this time I was sure you had suddenly become mute! What is wrong with you!?” Jaskier shouts not caring about the commotion he was causing in public.

Geralt turns away silently and it only made Jaskier’s blood boil. It was times like these he wishes he could read minds like Yennefer. It was frustrating trying to figure out what was going on in that witcher brain of his.

After a few moments, Geralt finally opens his mouth to say something only to be interrupted by someone calling his name.

Lo and behold, it was no other than another witcher who quickly walks over, “Funny meeting the two of you here. Here for the contract?” he asks cheerfully.

“Eskel,” Geralt greets giving the taller witcher a tight hug before pulling away.

For a second, worry flashed through Eskel’s scarred features but he was quickly distracted by the presence of the younger man standing beside his brother.

“I’m guessing you’re Jaskier. Geralt has told me all about you. I was wondering when I would be able to meet you myself.” he smiles shaking Jaskier’s hand.

“He talks about me?” Jasper asks surprised as he shakes the witcher’s hand.

Eskel chuckles, “Of course! You’re all he talks about in Kear Morhen.” he says before glancing at the bard confused, “Where’s the dagger?” he asks before glancing over to his brother who simply turns away in shame.

“Oh...that thing...umm...I think Geralt still has it,” Jaskier says only gaining a frown from the brown-haired witcher, “Oh...” is all he says before quickly changing the subject to lunch.

If there was one thing that Jaskier hated is being left out of something. What does the stupid dagger have to do with anything?

With the help of Eskel, the three ended up being able to afford two rooms. To Jaskier’s annoyance, Geralt and Eskel were going to share one room while Jaskier had a room all on his own.

Night fell and Jaskier tried to sleep but all he could do is toss and turn trying to figure out what was so important about that dagger but nothing came to mind. He didn’t hate the gift. In fact, he found the design beautiful, but it still didn’t change the fact that he didn’t know how to use a blade. In his hands, such a thing would rust in his hands. Geralt knew that so why give him a blade? Why was it so important?

Frustrated, the bard jumps out of bed and makes his way toward the witcher’s room. He’s done trying to play guessing games. One of those brutes has to tell him what’s going on or else.

He was ready to burst into the room before hearing muffled sniffling from the other side. Confused, and worried, Jaskier presses his ear against the wooden door.

“I...it was stupid...I should’ve known...” Jaskier hears Geralt whimper.

“It’s not your fault, Wolf. Love is complicated-”

“But it isn’t! Not for me! It was so easy to fall for him...just as it was easy to fall for Yen...and just like Yen...I’m not enough...I’m too much of a freak to him. Just an unloveable monster...” Geralt chokes out trying his best to hold back a sob.

“It’ll be okay Wolf...I promise you, they’ll be a day someone would jump for joy when you hand them a courting blade.” Eskel tries to comfort.

“No...never again...I poured everything into that dagger...I wanted to show Jaskier how badly I...I love him...I will rather be torn apart by drowners than see that look of disgust again...” Geralt sniffles.

Jaskier’s eyes widen in horror. A courting blade? Geralt made him a courting blade and he rejected it!

Jaskier could kick himself for being so stupid! No wonder his poor witcher was so dejected and distant. He just had his heart broken!

Quickly his shame turned into pure joy. Geralt made him a courting blade. He loves him!

After all these years of fantasizing about being with the witcher, never in his wildest dreams did he ever think Geralt would ever feel the same for him. Let alone try to court him.

He had to fix this by any means.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Geralt and Eskel settled down at a table at the inn. Eskel carefully ate his roasted chicken while Geralt simply poked his with his fork.

“Well, well, you boys are up and early,” Jaskier greets striding over wearing his favorite outfit as he settled down next to Geralt.

Geralt couldn’t help but look over the bard in his outfit before quickly turning away and scooting toward the far end of the table.

Eskel frowns at his brother but still smiles at Jaskier, “You seem happy this morning. Is there a special event you’re going to?”

“You can say that,” Jaskier smiles before turning over to Geralt, “Geralt, where did you put the dagger?” he asks softly.

The white-haired witcher glances at him hurt and confused, “Why? You don’t like it...you don’t want it.”

“Well, what if I changed my mind? Ever since that night, I can’t help but think about how pretty it was and besides, I think it’ll look good with my outfit,” Jaskier hums scooting closer toward his confused witcher.

Unsure how to respond, Geralt glances over at his brother who simply shrugs and smiles. With that, Geralt sighs and gets up.

A few minutes pass before the white wolf timidly walks back holding the dagger.

Smiling happily, Jaskier takes the blade into his hands. Even now he couldn’t believe it. Geralt made it just for him. It was his heart forged into a blade. Jaskier promises himself to treasure it for the rest of his life.

“You don’t have-” Geralt starts only to be interrupted by his bard smashing his lips against his.

For a second, Geralt’s mind goes blank. He must be dreaming, but then again, Jaskier’s lips were so soft, and his mouth tasted as sweet as honey.

Without another moment of hesitation, he kisses back tightly pulling Jaskier’s body close to his chest, whimpering when he feels his bard pull away.

“It’s perfect, Geralt. You’re perfect,” Jaskier hums pecking his witcher’s cheek.

“Then why did you reject Is it the first time?” Geralt questions confused by how quickly he changed his mind.

“I wouldn’t have if you would’ve told me that you were trying to court me. Normal people don’t usually give their crushes knives to show their love, “ Jaskier huffs causing Geralt to flush in embarrassment, “Sorry...”

“Don’t be dear heart. I think it’s adorable.” Jaskier teases before leaning in to get another kiss only to be rudely interrupted by Eskel clearing his throat, “I’m happy for you two. I really am but, mind getting a room? I’m trying to eat.”

#the witcher netflix #the witcher fandom #the witcher #dandelion witcher #the witcher fanfiction #witcher fanfiction #witcher fic #geraskier #geralt of rivera #witcher eskel #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #two idiots in love #courting #really? in front of my chicken?

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h3rmitsunited · 1 year

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you guys think we'll get a new jaskier song in blood origin? I mean we have to now right? Like maybe we'll get jaskier singing in elder because the elf lady said he's gotta sing the story or whatever.

Like we got two lines of jaskier speaking elder in s1 but imagine joeys voice singing in another language, he's exhausted and bloodied and whatever and he's playing this dramatic and powerful song and we get to hear that.

After not hearing any new joey singing in like a year, we get a new joey song?

Like they put him in there, we have to get at least one song right?

#jaskier #joey batey #the witcher #the witcher blood origin #blood origin #i dont know what this show is about i dont know these other characters i barely know what twn is about #but i love the bard and i love the real life bard playing him #and i want to hear him singing a new song i can obsess over pls

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mylarena · 1 year

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i think that jaskier is so essential to ciri's development as both a character and as a kid.

none of the witchers know how to be a kid. none of the sorceresses know how to be a kid. none of them had the chance. they were faced with the horrors of the world so early.

but jaskier wasnt. jaskier was a regular human kid raised in a noble family. sure, he doesnt have a 'regular' childhood, but i dont think there is a 'regular' in the witcher.

but jaskier got the chance to be a kid. he got the chance to run around and cause mischief on purpose. he got to go to oxenfurt and live his life as a college student. he got to play and laugh and do stupid shit. he got the freedom that none of the others had.

he can talk to ciri like shes just another friend. he can see things from her point of view- a noble child who just wants to fuck around instead of have the weight of the world on her shoulders. he can give her a sense of normalcy that none of the others can.

obviously, with his education and experience as a teacher, he can also give her the essential knowledge she needs as a future leader. i bet my entire left foot that the witchers know fuck all about grammar. they just speak the language, what the fuck is a haiku? prose? sounds like rich bitch shit. anyways, lets go sword fight.

jaskier knows the ins and outs of the courts. he knows court etiquette. he knows how to do a proper bow and how to speak to royalty and how to be diplomatic. yennefer likely knows this as well, being trained to be a court mage, but not to the same degree jaskier knows it. jaskier was raised to speak this language as a viscount. as a leader of an estate.

and then, living through history is different than learning it. the others may be centuries old and have seen history pass, but they cant be everywhere at once. they cant see everything. they have bias, whether they like it or not.

and elder!! jaskier canonically knows elder (despite being rusty at the beginning of the series; i do believe that after traveling the path with geralt he would pick it back up, since itd be very useful when encountering others on the path.) and i feel like hed have a much better grasp on the rules of grammar and structure and how to hold a regular conversation, compared to the others focuses on magical and professional shit.

he knows the things that a noble needs to know. he knows how courts work, how to talk to othe nobles and other people.

but back to my point of her being a kid.

the witchers were raised on brutality and danger. the sorceresses were raised on strict rules and perfectionism. jaskier was raised as a noble, but as a noble child. he was able to annoy his maids and servants, he was able to sneak around an estate and have fun. he was allowed to go to oxenfurt, he was allowed to get drunk and skip class and run around with his friends and live his life as an equal to his peers instead of a noble to people of a lesser status.

he can give ciri the humanity that the others didnt get as children.

#jasktag #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #cirilla of cintra #cirilla fiona elen riannon #the witcher #sorry this is messy but i needed to rant abt him #am on mobile so i cant edit it to be neat so his is what you get #myposting

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hudine · 9 months

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Well onto part 4 of my still nameless fic. Right now I’m just kinda posting to tumblr as I write.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

They made it into the mountains following hoof prints when they got jumped by a sylvan and a couple of elves. They came too tied up together in a cave.

“This is the part where we escape?” Jaskier asked as he worked on getting his hands free.

“This is the part where we die,” Geralt replied sardonically.

“Filthy humans,” one of the elves said and hit Jaskier.

“Leave him alone! He’s just a bard!” Geralt exclaimed and managed to head but the elf.

“No not the lute!” Jaskier yelled too late as the other elf smashed it. Jaskier was about to yell at them in elder when a familiar elf joined them in the cave and Jaskier groaned.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” He asked lips turned upwards.

“Just a couple humans. We should kill them before they bring others,” the female elf who had hit Jaskier proclaimed.

“They’re not human. Not entirely anyway. Are you blind as well as sick? He’s not only half fae, he’s also a prince. That’s Prince Julek of the Springtime Seelie Court. Considering they just agreed to take us in I don’t think killing one of the Queen’s children will endear us to my aunt any,” the new elf replied, “Hello cousin. You seem to get yourself in some of the most interesting situations.”

“Filavandrel. Well met. I’d give a proper bow but I’m a little tied up at the moment,” Jaskier replied amiably.

“So I see,” Filavandrel said trying not to laugh at the situation. He knew his cousin could get out of that if he really wanted to. “So who’s your friend?”

“Filavandrel, this is Geralt of Rivia, Witcher of the wolf school and childhood friend of mine. Geralt this is Filavandrel the last High King of the Elves. Also my first cousin. He’s he’s fae on his mother’s side which is actually rather common in Elvish royalty. His mother and my mother were sisters.”

“A pleasure to meet you your majesty. I’d also bow but am also a little tied up right now,” Geralt greeted.

Filavandrel let out a snort of laughter. “No you wouldn’t. You’re a Witcher. You’re also one of Vesemir’s pups. I have no doubt he’s taught you that Witchers are neutral and bow to no kings.”

“Yes well, Vesemir no doubt also tried his best to teach the pup manners and he’s trying to be polite,” A new voice spoke up followed by another man who looked a lot more like Filavandrel, only he had eyes that glowed more unnaturally blue and his ears wasn’t quite as pointed.

“Fuck,” Jaskier swore when he saw the second man, “I’m not going back Blaze!”

“Well I guess this answers the question of where you ran off to Jules. Is that Eric you got with you?”

Geralt grumbled a bit before speaking up, “It’s Geralt not Eric. Hasn’t been for a long time.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. Vesemir made you change your name before you could leave the keep. I don’t know why Witcher’s insist on changing their names before going off on the path the first time. While yes it is true that names have power, knowing one’s true name isn’t some sort of spell to compel people into doing things. I swear humans come up with some of the strangest rumours about my species.”

“They don’t all change their names. Although I suspect that old wives tale has a lot to do with why. I personally prefer to think of it like the old Shobogan tradition dating back to before they where fae, you change your name as a promise to who you are and/or want to be now because you have outgrown your old name,” Jaskier explained.

“Is that why you’ve been insisting on going by Jaskier?” Geralt asked, genuinely curious. “Who are the Shobogan anyway?”

“Yes, the other reason doesn’t matter since my cover has been blown. Shobogan is the name of our subspecies within the fae… lot of people just refer to us as royal fae but once the fae was a huge federation spanning many spheres with lots of different races. It’s why I’m considered fae even though I’m technically only half, it’s because I’m a citizen in the ruminants of that federation. Or species like that sylvan we tracked up here, or dryads for example are also considered fae. The elves first thought the humans where a subspecies of fae because they look a lot like the shobogan. Main difference between the two being our second heart and eyes.”

“You’re telling this Witcher our secrets!” The sylvan shouted, incensed.

“I didn’t go through the trail of the grasses, nor the tail of dreams. Never needed to. I did go through the rest. I’m technically also a Witcher,”Jaskier said as he broke out of the ropes binding them.

“Yes, very dramatic brother. We all know you worked your hands free ages ago and could break free at any time,” Blaze stated, rolling his eyes.

“Yes well. Had to find the best time for melodrama. I wouldn’t be me otherwise.”

“Yes well now I’ve found you that saves me a trip to Kaer Morhen to look for you,” Blaze stated.

“I’ve not had the courage to go there yet,” Jaskier confessed.

Blaze continued as if he said nothing, “Now the question is where is Valdo? He’s obviously not with you.”

“Who?” Geralt asked.

“Valdo Marx. My nephew. Sister’s youngest, the same age as me,” Jaskier clarified.

“And those two have been practically inseparable since he arrived back in our realm after the sacking. Have you seen him? He’s about this high.” Blaze held his hand up to indicate how high. “doesn’t actually look like he’s related because he’s got his father’s dark complexion and thick curly black hair which he wore short last I saw him, and has a thing on his face he thinks is a beard and moustache but really can’t grow one properly yet.”

“No, not seen anyone like that,” Geralt answered.

“I got no idea where Valdo ran off to. I didn’t even know he was missing, besides even if I did know I’m not going to tell you,” Jaskier added, “one of us needs to get out of court at least.”

“I’m not dragging you back to mother. I’m way too busy. Finally talked Filavandrel into bringing his people to our lands. Better to loose pride than be dead.”

“We’re resorting to stealing grain laced with iron from the humans. It seems we really need to move sooner rather than later if they’ve resorted to sending a Witcher up here. It won’t be long before they come looking themselves and probably in large numbers. We’re starving and sick. That’s not a fight we can win. The question is if we can get everyone out by then,” Filavandrel speculated.

“It will take a while to move so many,” Jaskier acknowledged, “Geralt… yes I have heard about the whole Blaviken incident. No I don’t believe you wholesale slaughtered anyone without reason. I know you. That’s not who you are. You don’t have to talk about it. I only bring it up because I have an idea but it does lean into that reputation a bit.”

“What?” Geralt asked, just knowing he was probably going to regret asking.

“Well you know how I can convince people of just about anything if I sing about it?”

“The frost trolls still ask if you are ever going to come back and preform for them after you got us all up the mountain that way,” Geralt replied ruefully.

“What if I make a song that makes people think you got rid of all the elves around here. By the time anyone thinks to look they’ll be long gone.”

“Sure, if you get people to start paying what they owe me while your at it,” Geralt agrees with obvious sarcasm.

“You know you just guaranteed it will make it across the continent and be sung in taverns for the next hundred years, right? You don’t tempt fate like that. She loves irony,” Blaze stated more than asked.

“You’ll need a new lute. I have one laying around doing nothing that belonged to my mother. Got to add to that irony after all,” Filavandrel added.

@xxx|}::::::::::::::::::::> <::::::::::::::::::::{|xxx@

#the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #fae!jaskier #wip #fanfiction #still need to name this

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twyllodrus · 9 months

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witcher s3 vol 2 thots

just full on spoilers down below

soo, just to pre-face i rlly liked these 3 episodes

there were some moments that made me especially crazy i.e.

not the resident malewife getting turned into elven soup 😭 fil bb yer still aen seidhe kingshit to me 🥲

fringilla & cahir both having realized emhyr's bs and trying to do good by the others :')) thats nice

stregobor kinda going out w/ a bit of redemption?? :// also that man was way too obsessed with falka

speaking of falka 😍 call me (also so incheresting she cut her own ears into points........ many thoughts)

ciri singing in the desert the song that jask sang to her before :'))))

WHERE IS ISTREDD I SWEAR IF SMTH HAPPENS TO THAT NERD—

fringilla telling francesca who actually was responsible for the infanticide HAD ME EATING MY OWN HAIR anyhways all their scenes are just 👌

LISTEN 👏 LISTENN 👏 JASKIER SINGING IN ELDER TO DRYADS WAS LITERALLY MY FAVE PART OF THE NOVELS im so normal about art driving ppl to tears 😌

milva 🥰

the moment radovid told his brother that he's leaving court i knew we are getting some good regicide coming up next 🥲

love how loyal sigismund is to philippa - the moment vizimir hinted at her being punished for thanedd, the man immediately started bracing himself to die in her stead. malewife material huh

tissaia (((((((((((((((((((((((( i was almost so certain they wouldnt go that route, but when the narration started, i realized she was writing that letter and 🥺🥺🥺

the last line of the season being 'call me falka' GJDYSHDHFH i actually had it on my bingo card that thats how the season will end AND THEN IT DID that's the gift of prophecy & rereding time of contempt for you 🌚👍

#the witcher #the witcher spoilers #just wanted to put it out there #spiraling a bit tbh :^)#i have a nightshift in 3.5 hours and i havent slept yet yIKES

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artistsfuneral · 2 years

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I quite liked your Witcher!Jaskier short fic! The idea that Calanthe allowed a single Witcher to remain on her lands and the pull of destiny brought them both there even in such different circumstances really caught my interest. Will you be continuing it?

Awww thank you!

Prooobably won't be writing that fic anymore, so I will just tell you what was supposed to happen, hope you don't mind :)

So the base is this: Jaskier once was a witcher of the (redacted) school, but for - apparently - no reason, left everything and everyone he knew behind to serve the crown of Cintra as a personal tool, if you will

Obviously the other witchers didn't like that so they started attacking Jaskier and the crown-wearer (Calanthe's father in this case), verbally and physically

The problem is that Jaskier is mighty strong in this one, like Eskel he's very good at magic stuff, super intelligent and high endurance etc etc - in a way he's the perfect soldier

After to many wichters got fatally wounded or died, Cintra became kind of a no-go-place for them, though every once in a while someone is stupid enough to try and take Jaskier down

The story starts with Geralt entering the cintran palace at Pavetta's betrothal, where he meets Jaskier for the first time and the reader learns about all those things I just told you

Geralt isn't really afraid of Jaskier, (he actually could take him in a fight, I tell you know) but the not-witcher makes him really really uncomfortable for a few reasons, but he's there on a mission

What am I talking about? You see, Pavetta hired Geralt to protect Duny and while Geralt doesn't want to get involved in any of those weird politics, he kinda does need the money she offered him and the curse Duny is under intrigues him

So yeah, Duny appears a la hedgehogman, Calanthe orders Jaskier to kill the monster and Geralt's and Jaskier's swords meet

Peculiarly enough, Geralt wins

Because Jaskier wanted him to

Jaskier, who hasn't said a single word yet, had let his actions speak louder than anything - the problem is, Calanthe who knows what Jaskier looks like when he's fighting, has noticed too

She starts punishing Jaskier, who does nothing to protect himself, so Geralt steps in and his brain short circuits as he calls for the law of surprise - the unborn Ciri is now bound to Geralt and what he doesn't understand yet, so is Jaskier

Years pass, things happen and Cintra goes up in flames

Geralt finds Ciri in a forest, crying over Jaskier, who is heavily wounded after doing everything to protect Ciri, Jaskier sees Geralt, smiles and passes out from blood loss

Geralt tries to take Ciri away to safety but the girl is having none of it, desperately screaming and crying that she won't leave Jaskier, that he's her best friend, that she will do everything to protect him because that's what he has to do for her, because surprise surprise Jaskier is cursed to serve the Cintran Crown until a rightful ruler (with elder blood) sets him free

So now Geralt somehow has to get Ciri and Jaskier to safety (Kaer Morhen), preferably without either of them dying

(this is the part where Yennefer and Triss help and they also discover the whole elder blood discourse etc)

Obviously Geralt and Jaskier fall in love along the way and it turns out that Jaskier has quite the cheerful personality when he's not oppressed by a certain warrior queen and half her courg constantly watching him

He still can't talk, that's part of the curse (to make him a perfect soldier and so on) but he is very quick with paper and ink and over the years Ciri has become quite excellent at interpreting his wild gestures and weird faces

In the beginning the other witchers are definitely not thrilled to suddenly have a hated "traitor" amongst themselves, but with Geralt, Ciri and the sorcerers explaining everything they slooooowly begin to trust him

Then there's this whole thing with a nilfgaardian king that decided to just declare a full on war to every single witcher and it's all vefy dramatic and heartbreaking and there's a lot of cried confessions and then everything goes to shit when said king captures Ciri and she's crowned Queen right there during the battle and suddenly you can hear Jaskier scream her name and she's sobbing and crying as she hears his voice for the first time, thinking it all ends there and that they have lost

But oh, hold on, the curse is broken and with it Jaskier regains a loooot of strength and he berserks across the battlefield like a parent throwing a car off their child with bare hands while simultaneously fighting three bears and a moose

They win because Ciri stabs the shit out of the nilfgaardian king, which also makes her queen of nilfgaard and yeah

Lots of crying, lots of hugs and then there was supposed to be a calm epilog where Ciri is back at the cintran palace where Geralt and Jaskier first met and Jaskier stands by her side as she is traditionally crowned queen and one of the first things she does in front of everybody is bow down to Jaskier

#the witcher #artistsfuneral about the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt #witcher #long post #ask answered

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cap-sweet-and-salty-sadness · 1 year

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timeless light of his wide eyes

Geraskier, Different First Meeting, Nymph Jaskier, Size Difference, 5k, PWP, E

Thanks to @borealwrites for the Monster March prompt list!

Read on AO3

Geralt was in the midst of undressing when a bush shuffled behind him, and he turned to see a tall masculine humanoid staring at him from the treeline. He seemed curious of him rather than hostile. It might have been partially because he was standing half naked and bloodied.

He slowly finished removing his chest plate and put it down with the rest of his amour. He wasn't sure if he ever met this species before, but he was beautiful. Taller and bigger than humans, their skin was various hues of greens, going from mint to basil. They were much taller than an average human, well over two metres, with a wider face and more prominent features.

A moment passed and neither moved. Perhaps they had intending on swimming in the pond, the day was warm enough for it. Sensing no hostility from them, Geralt removed his trousers and padded in the water. He would wash himself and then leave, no need to intrude longer than he needed to. He took his shirt to clean his face with, using the relative safety of the distance between them to momentarily block his vision. The friction hurt his head wound but nothing he couldn’t handle. He pulled the fabric away at footsteps coming closer. The creature was approaching slowly, his body language open. It could've been a subterfuge, Geralt’s dubious mind provided, nerves raw from today’s events.

He said something in Elder Speech, his voice flowing beautifully, to which Geralt could only understand "hurry ".

"I only want to clean up, and then I'll leave," he replied in Common, rubbing his hands into his shirt.

The creature frowned and shook his head, his brown hair catching the light. He was barely wearing anything, which was fairly distracting. The loincloth made out of leaves and tree roots wasn't leaving anything to the imagination. Encountering this gorgeous non-human wasn’t how Geralt had expected the day to go.

"You speak Common?" At Geralt's nod, he grinned. "Excellent. I haven't had the opportunity to practice in a long time, or to meet a human before, so do excuse my eagerness."

"Not a human, otherwise I wouldn't be standing here."

"Right, right. My name is Jaskier, and you are?" This sudden loss of mysticism calmed Geralt's suspicion as well as his ardour, and he turned back to his previous task.

"Not staying."

"What an odd name, but then again, I have an uncle whose chosen name is Dick. He always liked human names too much." When Geralt didn't reply, Jaskier continued, "My siblings and I saw you coming in and take care of your, uh, big pet. Is your hair naturally pink, or is there that much blood in it?"

Geralt continued to wash his chest, his head throbbing still. "Roach is a horse."

"You say the oddest things." There was a pause when Geralt didn’t reply. Jaskier turned to Roach and started to make his way towards her, making Geralt suddenly alert and tense.

"Don't touch my horse," he warned him.

"Peace, friend. I only want to heal her," Jaskier gently said. “You can assist if you doubt me, but that you might distract me." He openly ogled his chest and down where the water hid his lower half.

Geralt pushed back his wet hair, the only sign he was getting agitated. He should've chosen a different spot, or lead Roach away as soon as the non-human stepped into the glade.

"Fine," he conceded with a small sigh. He walked out of the pond and joined him. Jaskier didn't deflect his large blue eyes, not that Geralt wasn't also taking his own fill of the tall tankard of ale that the creature was.

Read on AO3

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #twn #monster march 2023 #my writing

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chaptersinprogress · 2 years

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where the sky meets the sea | 1

Watching the destined trio make plans after the encounter with the Deathless Mother—plans which don't include him—Jaskier was fully prepared to make his way off another mountain on his own (preferably without any yelling involved). He doesn't expect Yennefer of all people to demand he come with them—offering to both heal his injuries and a place by her side—irrespective of what the other members of the bound family might have to say about that.

Rating: M

Warnings: fire-related injuries, mentioned canonical torture & presumed after-effects

Pairings: Jaskier/Yennefer of Vengerberg

for @jaskierminibang 2022

Jaskier watched from out-of-view as the destined trio made plans amongst themselves out on the battlements of Kaer Morhen. Plans which very much excluded him. Then turned and headed back to the room he'd claimed for himself to finish erasing his presence from the keep.

He could ask Yennefer to portal him back to Oxenfurt or something tomorrow.

There was a knock on the door later that night.

"Come in," he called out.

The door swung open to reveal the witch.

"Yennefer," he said, rising from the bed, concern leaking into his voice. "Is there something you need? Anything I should do?"

She shook her head and stepped through, closing the door behind her.

"It's more what I can do for you, bardling."

Jaskier stared at her, bemused. "What you can do for me?"

She strode right up to him and took his wrist, her grip as gentle as it would be around a fragile chick in her hand.

Jaskier looked down, then away again quickly as the burns on his fingers and palm flared painfully in reminder. He didn't want to see them. If he didn't see them, he could pretend that their condition wasn't as bad as he had the feeling they were.

"Oh bardling…" Yennefer said softly.

His head whipped up to look at her. "Is it that bad?" he asked, horrified.

She didn't reply, only lifted up his other hand to examine it as well.

The back of Jaskier's eyes burned, matching the throbbing he was trying to ignore in his hands.

Yennefer finally broke the deathly silence that filled the room with a sigh.

"Fire magic is forbidden for a reason, Jaskier," she said gently. "The price I paid for burning half of Nilfgaard's army to the ground was the loss of my Chaos, albeit temporarily."

She stroked a thumb over the skin of his wrist. "It won't be easy. And it'll likely be excruciating for you. But I think I can extract the lingering magic, and then heal the actual wounds after."

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath, part in relief and part in fear of what was to come. "Anything... Anything as long as I can play again."

Yennefer looked him in the eye. "I cannot make guarantees, bardling. But I promise you, I will do my best to restore your hands to their former delicate state," she teased.

"It's better than nothing," Jaskier replied with a trembling smile.

She smiled back at him, a genuine one that shyly showed her teeth and made her look even more stunning than he’d ever seen her look before, dishevelled as she still was. And despite all his jealousy, she had always been so very stunning.

"Come," said Yennefer. "We best start as soon as possible. It's never good to let such magics linger longer than necessary."

Jaskier nodded, and the two of them made their way down to the deserted laboratory.

When they arrived, Yennefer immediately began pulling items off the shelves, a purposeful whirlwind of activity. With nothing in particular to do, Jaskier seated himself on a bench in the centre of the space to watch the mage work her magic.

It wasn’t long before the antsy feeling that had long made itself home in the pit of his stomach since the encounter with the fire mage had him finally speaking up.

"Can't you just wave your hand over mine, chant stuff in Elder and fix my hand like you did the witchers?"

Yennefer deposited a bunch of herbs and jars in front of him then bustled off to grab some of the beakers, mortars, pestles and other equipment.

"It's risky to try directly attacking the magic with mine now," she replied as she examined the offerings available. "And I’ve never attempted to heal damage from fire magic before."

"The chance for accidental damage from backlash is too high right now since it’s had time to seep deep into your flesh. Prying it back out is going to be quite the challenge. I plan on using pastes and balms to slowly pull the magic back to the surface over time and then use my own magic to scrape the topmost layer off, hopefully without triggering a backlash."

Jaskier kept his hands hidden under the table. "How painful will it get?"

The mage placed her bounty beside the others. "There will be a low-grade tingling or burning sensation when the paste I have in mind begins to draw out or to the surface any loose magic.”

“The actual removal however," she grimaced sympathetically, "that will probably be as painful as when you first received the burns. Maybe even more so since it's been left unattended for so long."

Swallowing thickly, Jaskier then asked, "Is this like a one-and-done thing?"

Yennefer shook her head. "If we're very lucky, 3 days."

The pit in his stomach widened. “And if I’m unlucky?”

The sorceress stilled before finally replying, not looking at him, “3 weeks to a month. Daily.”

“Fuck…” The word left his mouth in an unconscious shuddering breath.

Yennefer dumped the contents she had been examining back onto the table and crossed over to him in a few purposeful strides, then grabbed his elbows with both hands, holding him.

“You will get your hands fully healed, Jaskier,” she said, violet eyes searing into his own blue. “No matter how long it takes, or how much magic I need to pour into you, we won’t let that Firefucker win. Not while we’re still alive to stick it to him.”

Jaskier huffed, the sound shaky even to his ears. “What happened to not making guarantees, Yennefer?”

He swallowed, then dropped his gaze to somewhere beyond her shoulder, unable to meet her eyes any longer.

“You have far more important things to do than waste your Chaos on a useless bard, witch,” he said quietly. “There’s a child who needs you. Your strength and power. A child being hunted by forces beyond my most terrifying nightmares.”

Yennefer shook him lightly. "I'm the one who decides what I will and will not expend my Chaos on, not you, bardling." Her tone softened. "What is this really about, Jaskier? All this will cost me is time, application of skill, and an easily recoverable amount of Chaos."

The shards of his heart twisted in his chest, slicing new gashes into him. Fuck, was she really gonna force him to spell it out?

From the way she kept looking at him, it seemed so. Jaskier inhaled slowly.

"Yennefer," he gritted out. "I may play the part of a foolish bumbling bard most of the time, but I'm not actually an idiot. I heard you, Geralt, and Cirilla making plans earlier. And with three all-powerful beings on the run from equally powerful forces, the last thing they need is dead weight in the form of a helpless injured human bard trailing after them."

He spread his arms wide sardonically. "Let's say we're lucky and you can fix this in three days! Can you even afford to wait three days? Geralt is all for leaving as soon as possible, and with good reason too. What're a few measly burns compared to the continued safety of his daughter?"

Before Yennefer could interrupt, he barrelled onwards. "And if we're unlucky, then you'll have to account for the burden of me travelling with you for a month. Not to mention all the time and resources you'll need to spend on me, and I'm not referring to just the healing here."

"Are you done?" Yennefer asked, unimpressed.

Jaskier scoffed and waved a hand as he slumped back onto the bench. "Be my guest."

"Do you think me incompetent, Jaskier?"

His head snapped up at that. "What?"

"Do you think me incompetent? Or perhaps arrogant and overestimating my abilities? Incapable of understanding the severity of situations?"

"No!" Jaskier blurted out. "That's not what I—"

"Then what are you thinking?" Yennefer cut him off. "Because every way I look at it, it seems like you either think I'm unaware of exactly what is involved in the effort of healing you, or you think I am unable to evaluate courses of action and make appropriate decisions."

"That's—I—"

Yennefer rolled her eyes. "There's no need for you to pull the martyr act on me too. As flattered as I am, let's not forget who saved whom even without her Chaos, husband dearest. I know exactly what I'm getting into. And you are well aware that I do anything and everything required once I decide on a course of action."

Jaskier's mouth flopped open and closed. "I—You—" He jabbed a finger in her direction. "You changed your mind about killing that dragon!"

"Because the situation had evolved and so I evaluated the changed circumstances and decided on the appropriate course of action. Do keep up."

Jaskier deflated. "Yennefer, I—" He weighed the words carefully in his mouth before finally letting them out. "I have nothing to offer."

"And Geralt... he never realised, or perhaps he simply didn't care to look, and at this point I don't want to know which it was. But travelling with you all would mean that he would find out, about"—he held out his palms—"this. And I don't want him to care about this simply out of his over-inflated sense of guilt. I know where I stand in his life. And I'm not eager to have a refresher."

Yennefer shrugged. "Frankly I don't see why he or Cirilla need to be involved in this at all. I'm more than happy to keep this between the two of us. Can't give them the impression that I've suddenly caught Geralt's saviour-complex."

He gaped at her. "Then how, exactly, were you planning on explaining my presence amongst your motley crew?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" A playful smirk danced across the witch's face. "Let's start work on your hands first. Then we'll talk."

Stunned, Jaskier could only huff a laugh and collapse back down onto the bench. "Well, it's not like I have any other commitments I can attend to after all."

He watched quietly as Yennefer worked her magic: chopping and crushing herbs, boiling and filtering liquids, mixing solvents and fats into pastes and balms, murmuring spells ever so often.

By the end of the process, she had two bowls of pastes sitting between them on the cluttered workstation. Brushing the loose strands of hair that had begun to frizz out of her face, the mage stalked around the room looking for something, before letting out a noise of satisfaction as she unearthed two pieces of scrap metal from deep within the shelves.

Jaskier raised a questioning eyebrow as she dumped the pieces onto the table, only for his mouth to drop open into a soft 'o' of surprise and understanding after she waved a hand over the pieces and muttered a few words in Elder, transmuting the pieces into two small elegant tins.

The sorceress neatly packed the mixtures into the two tins, leaving behind a small portion of the thicker paste within the bowl.

"The problem," she exhaled as she slammed her palm onto the tins to tighten the lids shut, "is that these kinds of magics either require a lot of Chaos for it to linger, or needs to be remade often since the potency of it deteriorates quickly. And since we can't afford to overdo the magic, helping me remake these is going to be one of your tasks while we travel."

Jaskier looked at her with no small amount of confusion given the state of his hands but smartly kept his mouth shut. She was hardly going to make him do something that would worsen his condition, given the sheer amount of effort she was putting into fixing it.

"I assume, from your words," he ventured, "that I have other tasks you need me to complete, yes?"

"Of course." She washed her hands and dried them on a piece of nearby fabric. Then with a quick spell, filled another bowl with gently steaming water. Getting a clean piece of linen from the cupboard, she dipped the fabric into the water and wrung it till it was merely damp, unbothered by the heat. And laid her open palm on the table after. "Your hand, Jaskier."

Every single muscle in his body immediately tensed. Jaskier swallowed and breathed slowly. Yennefer was not going to hurt him.

In 4 counts, out 8 counts.

Then raised his hand, and laid it palm-up atop of hers.

Yennefer's lips quirked into a fond smile and her thumb stroked the back of his hand soothingly. "I'll be as quick as I can."

Without waiting for a reply, she began to wipe the injuries clean. As gentle as she tried to be, each passing stroke of the fabric felt like abrading his skin on jagged rock and spilling salt into the wound right after. Tears welled up in his eyes and a low keening sound filled the room, like a wounded animal was trapped inside with them.

Wet trails dripped down Jaskier's cheeks and his hand spasmed in Yennefer's, muscles blindly reacting and struggling to get away. The mage was far stronger than she appeared however, and with the speed of a pit viper, yanked her hand from under his to carefully pin his palm open with the spread of her fingers, avoiding the worst of the wounds.

She made low soothing noises even as Jaskier gasped and wriggled in place, body and head locked in battle; his flesh demanding him to get away while his mind fought to stay in place to make the whole thing less painful and get over faster.

"Almost done, bardling, almost done," Yennefer murmured.

When she finally put away the piece of fabric, a broken sob of relief escaped Jaskier. He yanked his hand back to his stomach, doubling over slightly to shield it.

It was then he realised that the thing in the room that had been whining in pain had been him.

Yennefer gently wiped away the fresh tears that fell. "You're doing well, bardling." Then tucked his hair behind his ear. "We've got to apply the paste now. Then we'll take a quick break before dealing with the other hand, alright?"

Jaskier inhaled and coughed, snot clogging up his nose and throat disgustingly.

"Okay," he warbled hoarsely, then reluctantly placed the stinging hand back onto the table.

Yennefer scooped up some of the mixture with her fingers.

"There's a mild analgesic component within this that'll help reduce the amount of pain you're experiencing," she said as she began to spread a thick layer of paste onto his hand.

It was cool, causing his skin to tingle as the burning sensation from the cleaning slowly began to abate. The sorceress made sure to cover every bit of skin, even rubbing it into the delicate skin between the fingers.

She then carefully wrapped his hand in a long clean strip of linen, each digit individually bandaged. The sensations that lingered in his hand were strange, his skin feeling tight and stretched while the tingling remained in the background.

"Here." Yennefer pulled a delicately embroidered handkerchief out of her dress pocket. The fabric was a lovely cream shade, and there were small sprigs of lavender in light purple thread decorating the corners of the kerchief. "Blow your nose. There's no need for you to sound like a snotty five-year-old."

Jaskier opened his mouth. "Are you—"

Yennefer rolled her eyes. "I'm sure. It's easy enough to clean anyway."

Jaskier laughed, the sound wet and as snotty as she described. "Alright then."

He took the kerchief between his bandaged fingers and found great satisfaction in blowing his nose like a trumpet, the sound echoing long and loud in the otherwise empty laboratory, and eliciting a delightful look of disgust on the mage's pretty face.

"Urgh," she vocalised, lips curling into a sneer. "Make sure you drop that far, far away from me."

Jaskier had to wrestle down the instinctive urge to shove it into her face at the golden opportunity to irritate her she'd handed to him on a platter. As much as he enjoyed one-upping her, he’d hardly get to savour the satisfaction before she'd crush him like a bug under her fashionable pointy heels. Plus, gift horses and mouths, you know?

From the way she side-eyed him, he had the feeling that she'd caught all of that. He smiled beatifically at her and plopped the handkerchief at the other end of the table away from her. She huffed.

"Other hand now, bard," was all she said, once again dipping the cloth she'd used to clean his hand earlier back into the still steaming water and wringing it like she was imagining it was his neck.

"Now?!" Jaskier squeaked.

"No time like the present. It's only going to get worse if you let the anticipation get to your head."

The bard grimaced. Then laid his other hand out on the wood like he was resting his head on an executioner's block. Yennefer's fingers once again spread out over his palm, holding it open and in place.

'At least there are fewer burns on this one,' was all Jaskier had time to think before the fabric was being dragged over his skin once more.

A scream caught in his throat, only a high-pitched whine escaping him. Tears bubbled over and spilled as he squeezed his eyes shut, fingers flexing as he fought to keep himself from twisting out of the sorceress's grasp.

There was a brief pause. Then a gentle hand was guiding his head into the crook of a neck. Lilac and gooseberries filled his nose.

"Breathe, bardling. Remember to breathe."

He shuddered as he breathed in for four, and exhaled hotly from his mouth for eight.

The cloth once again resumed its journey over his skin. Clear rivulets dripped down his face and dampened the fabric of Yennefer's high collar and the skin of her neck.

"Just a bit more now, bardling," she said quietly. "Almost done."

A keening noise left him, and the cloth was hastily put away. He sniffled as the paste was gently smeared over his skin, stealing away the pain, and then more fabric wrapped quickly and neatly around his hand. He turned his head slightly and was filled with a sense of quiet fondness as he spotted Yennefer tying off the bandage in a fluffy bow around his wrist.

"We're done for today," she said, rubbing her thumb over his wrist and letting him hide a little longer. "We'll leave it for about 24 hours, then see how much magic the paste manages to pull out first. Then I'll adjust the frequency and potency if required."

"Alright," Jaskier replied quietly.

She let him stay in the safety of her neck for a few moments more, before sliding her hand around his back and standing the both of them up. Jaskier reluctantly began to pull himself away, but Yennefer's arm firmly hauled him back into her side.

"You can stay with me in my room," she decided as she waved a hand and all the equipment she'd used began to wash and float back to their places on the shelves. "It'll let me keep an eye on you for any adverse effects or reactions."

With another wave of her hand, the air in the room suddenly seemed to freshen.

"So that they can't smell your..." she trailed off, tipping her head meaningfully.

Jaskier nodded in relief. "Right..."

He couldn't believe that he had so easily forgotten just how good witchers' sense of smell was. The last thing they needed was for the stink of fear, pain, and tears along with Yennefer's magic to raise questions and make things complicated. It would hardly endear her to them any further, given the amount of effort she was going through to respect his wishes in keeping the whole thing quiet.

A tremble ran through the sorceress's body which she tried and failed to hide, given that he was plastered to her side. And suddenly Jaskier was wide awake.

"Shit, Yennefer, are you alright?!"

Yennefer glared at him, opened her mouth to tell him exactly where to shove his concern, then deflated slightly. "I may have overdone it slightly," she finally said reluctantly. "I just got my Chaos back after months of being without it, my body needs time to get used to it again."

"Like a muscle," said Jaskier.

Yennefer shrugged. "Sort of."

"Well it's a good thing that the only thing left on both of our agendas today is sleep," said Jaskier, guiding them out of the laboratory and into the corridor.

"Not even those creepy monster thingies can stop me from collapsing on a mattress and dropping straight off to sleep. I've had enough excitement for the next week!"

He took a few steps down the right turn and then stopped. "Uh, which way to your room again?" he asked sheepishly.

Yennefer snorted, lips twitching with mirth. "The other way, bardling."

Jaskier spun the two of them around and began to march back down the left corridor. "Righty-ho! To bed we go!"

The two of them stumbled into the room Yennefer had claimed as her own.

It was a sad room really, as small as Jaskier's and equally as empty. The only thing that made it better than his was that it was slightly warmer naturally, no draught seeping in from some unidentifiable place.

"I don't know what I expected," Jaskier announced at large as he kicked the door shut. "But this is just sad. Isn't it, wife mine? A cold keep with cold rooms filled with cold witchers."

Yennefer slipped away from him and knelt next to the fireplace. "Well it's a good thing that I have my husband to warm my bed for me then, since we're liable to freeze surrounded by all this cold," she called.

"Yes, exactly!" Jaskier said wildly. "And so there's very much no need to go about messing with the hearth when you have this smoking hot body ready to warm the ice-cubes you call toes right up!"

The mage slowly twisted around to stare at him, one shapely eyebrow raised high on her forehead.

"Ah..." she said after a few beats.

"Can we not discuss this?" Jaskier asked desperately.

Yennefer got up. "We can leave it for tonight," she said. "But we'll have to discuss it at some point because you won't be able to hide that for long when we're travelling."

Jaskier snorted bitterly. "Yes, well, considering Geralt never realised anything this whole time, I wouldn't worry about that too much."

Yennefer considered him for a few moments, then seemed to decide that his issues with Geralt were not her problem to solve. "Well it's still winter and I would like to stay somewhat warm at least. Give me a few moments."

She pointed at the sorry excuse of a mattress. "Sit."

"I'm not a dog, Yennefer," Jaskier complained. But sat exactly as she had instructed him.

She grinned that lovely impish grin again and his heart did a little flop in his chest. "Good boy," she cooed.

The tips of Jaskier's ears reddened, though thankfully covered by the length of his hair. He scowled at her. Unfazed, her smile widened and she laughed—a soft, short sound. Then with a wiggle of her fingers, strode out of the room to do whatever dastardly deed she had planned.

Jaskier huffed and flopped back onto the bed, wriggling to get comfortable on the lumpy thing, though there was not much comfort to be found. With a long, loud sigh, he stared up at the grimy stone ceiling and tried to recall the chords of the song he'd come up with in the cell Geralt had liberated him from.

‘Whoreson Prison Blues,’ he decided to call it.

He'd been humming variations of the chorus for a couple of minutes when the door to the room swung open again, and Yennefer strode into the room, a smooth hunk of rock floating in front of her.

"Yen!" he gasped, shooting up. "You're not supposed to be using your Chaos anymore today!"

The mage simply patted him on the shoulder condescendingly. "I've been alive for decades more than you, bardling. I can push through a bit of overexertion, I know where my limit is. I found it at Sodden. Now get up."

Jaskier wrinkled his nose at her but got up. She threw back the thin covers and let the stone slowly pass over the expanse of the mattress.

"Soapstone?" he asked. "Where did you find that?"

Yennefer nodded. "Transmuted it from a broken hunk of the keep walls. It didn't cost me much, stop fretting, Jaskier," she cut him off as he opened his mouth.

"I know, I know,” he sighed. “It's just, you don't have to keep exerting yourself to accommodate me."

The sorceress gave him a wry look. "Who said I'm accommodating you?"

He stared blankly at her for a moment, then it clicked. "Ah..." he said.

"Ah..." she repeated drolly.

"Well, at least we'll be warm and toasty," Jaskier said cheerily.

"Mmm," the witch hummed. Then wrapped the stone in a fur and laid it at the foot of the bed. "Boots off and into the bed with you, husband."

"As you wish, wife!" said Jaskier, then he wrestled his boots off and tumbled onto the mattress.

Yennefer sighed, the sound irritated and fond, and shoved him further across and nearly into the wall before sitting on the bed and ridding herself of her own shoes. She then slid into the bed and pulled the thin sheet over them both.

The two of them laid quietly, staring at the ceiling, an awkward silence filling the room with its unwanted presence.

The mage loudly sighed again, then flipped onto her side, her back to Jaskier. "Come on, husband dearest. I was promised that I'd be warmed up by a smoking hot body, wasn't I?" she mocked.

A shocked laugh escaped Jaskier at that, and he turned to face the elegant curves of her side. Taking a deep breath to steal some courage, he wriggled over till there was barely any distance at all between them and tentatively draped an arm over her waist.

"Is this ok?" he breathed.

The silence remained unbroken, and for a brief moment, panic rushed through him and he nearly drew back.

Then Yennefer shifted backwards slightly, pressing her back to his front and tucking his face into the crook of her neck. "It's fine. Go to sleep, bardling."

"Ok," he whispered, fingers curling. "Good night."

"Night," came the quiet reply.

And for the first time in over a year, Jaskier closed his eyes and almost immediately dropped off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Jaskier... Jaskier..."

Two icy hands smacked his face and squished his cheeks together and the bard's eyes flew open.

"I'm up! I'm up!" he squawked, flailing.

"Rise and shine, husband dearest," Yennefer sing-songed as she pulled at his cheeks with an evil grin. "We've got a busy day ahead of us."

Jaskier batted at her with his bandaged hands, getting her to let go of him. He rubbed at his aching cheeks with an unconscious pout and shot her a glare.

"Come on," Yennefer said briskly. "Get anything you want to bring with you from your room, we're heading down to the hall for breakfast before we finish the last of the packing. Geralt wants to leave before mid-morning."

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at her. Then sighed and spread his arms open wide. "This is it."

Yennefer's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What is it?"

"I mean, this is all I have," he said slowly.

The mage's eyes flashed. "You mean to say Geralt dragged you here with nothing but the clothes on your back?"

"He was a bit preoccupied with pumping me for information about you and dragging me along on his hunt for his missing Child Surprise," Jaskier replied. "And then instructing me to bring her here, a place I've never been before in the 20 over years I've known him, mind you. I have no idea what he was thinking either. Or maybe he just wasn't."

"Of all the—" Yennefer bit out, then breathed out slowly. "Alright. So we should start with getting you a change of clothes. You're wearing the same thing from our encounter in Oxenfurt for fuck's sake!"

"It would be appreciated," he said wryly.

Yennefer sighed. "Well now's a good time to give you these I suppose," she groused, then tossed something into his lap.

Jaskier picked up the beautiful pair of supple black leather gloves. Which were exactly in his size.

"Yen..." he breathed out.

The mage shrugged. "It was nothing. I found a spare pair and simply resized it. It'll do a good job of covering those—" she nodded at his bandages "—and also keep your fingers from getting frostbite. I don't want to have to treat multiple kinds of burns, just the one is more than enough for me."

Jaskier pulled one on and Yennefer helped him with the other. "You're the best wife a man could ever hope for," he said, admiring the look of them.

"Of course I am," she said smugly. Then pulled him up and out of bed. "Breakfast, bard. Now. Chop chop."

They walked into the mostly empty hall arm-in-arm. Yennefer led him straight to a table at one corner where a plate and small bowl had been made up. Towards the middle of the room at the other end of another table, sat two witchers, quietly eating. Though they brooded more than they ate.

"Eat," ordered Yennefer, all but shoving him down onto the seat in front of which the plate sat. "There are only a few more things I need to get done, then we'll go."

When she made no move to head off, Jaskier placed a slice of hard cheese and cured meat on a piece of bread and took a bite.

The sorceress pointed a finger. "Make sure you finish the whole plate, bardling. Or else." And with that ominous threat, spun on her heel and strode out of the hall.

Jaskier glanced down at his plate and mechanically began to eat. Bread, cheese, cured meat and a small bowl of some porridge. Not quite a feast, but food was food. At least it wasn't bread rolls thrown at his head. He shook his head to clear it. There was no need to be glum when the day had only just begun.

Chewing, he let his gaze wander.

The damage from the attack the day before was even more stark without adrenaline to cloud his vision. The debris hadn't even all been cleared from the place, only shifted to the sides here and there to make the hall accessible. The whole debacle had been a shitstorm.

"Dammit Jaskier, why is it that whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it?!"

He swallowed. Suddenly, he wasn't very hungry anymore.

The sound of boots stomping down the hall, getting closer and closer to him, had him fixing his gaze on the plate. If he shoved the food into his pants, what were the chances the witch would sniff it out and turn him into a newt for not finishing the whole thing as ordered?

A plate was slammed onto the table and a body thumped into the seat opposite him.

"I'm sitting here. Is that a problem?"

Jaskier lifted his eyes to meet those of the painfully young girl in front of him, face hard and just daring him to say anything.

"No," he replied quietly.

"Good!" she spat, seeming almost disappointed that he didn't give her an excuse to start a fight, yet poorly hiding relief that he hadn't rejected her presence.

The two of them sat in silence, Cirilla tearing into her breakfast like she was imagining it was her enemies heads while Jaskier pushed the remaining few bits of his food around the plate.

"Are you going to eat that?" she asked him around a mouthful.

Jaskier looked at his plate, then at the girl's empty one. "No, not particularly hungry," he said, pushing it over. "You can have it."

Cirilla transferred the food over. "Thanks," she said. "But you're finishing the porridge on your own though."

The bard nodded and picked up his spoon. He had just been scrapping the last of it out of the bowl, Cirilla licking her fingers like a heathen instead of a Crown Princess, when the sound of footsteps filled the hall once more.

"Cirilla, we need to—" Geralt came to a stop. "Jaskier."

Jaskier gave him a false smile. "That's my name, yes."

"Fuck..." From the guilt in his eyes that he was trying to conceal, it was blatantly obvious that he'd forgotten Jaskier was even there.

Jaskier finished the last spoonful of porridge. It slid down his throat like a lump of wet coal: sticky, filthy, and liable to choke him. He placed the spoon neatly beside the bowl. Geralt just stared at him guiltily.

"We need to—I'll see if we can portal you—Yen!" Geralt yelled for the sorceress.

The sharp clicks of her heeled boots on stone heralded her approach.

"What is it, Geralt?" she gritted out as she stormed in. "Don't yell for me unless someone's dying. I'm not a dog to come to heel every time you call."

Jaskier snorted. "Pot," he pointed at her, then at himself, "meet kettle."

Yennefer rolled her eyes at him. Then turned to face Geralt. "So, is someone dying?"

"Yen, I need you to portal Jaskier back to Oxenfurt."

"No."

"What?" Geralt seemed genuinely stunned by her refusal. "Why?"

"Because he's coming with us."

The witcher's eyes flashed. "Yen," he growled.

"Geralt," she said back, a thinly-veiled mocking hint in her tone.

"Yen, he's human," Geralt ground out. "And a bard. We can't just—"

"Yes, he's human," Yennefer cut in calmly. "And when everyone is on the hunt for an easily-identifiable witcher, a mage wanted by the Brotherhood, and a lost Cintran Princess every kingdom is salivating over to use as a pawn, who better to blend in and get what we need than a regular human? Every bit of Chaos we expend from now on will leave a trace, a trail that can lead a persistent, dedicated hunter straight to us no matter how well I obfuscate our tracks, because we can’t avoid it completely."

"So tell me Geralt," she continued. "Were you planning to simply hide out and play hide-and-seek in the densest woods you can find for the next few years? Because that certainly isn't a sustainable long-term solution."

"And whose fault is it that I'm so recognisable?" Geralt snapped back. "I didn't ask to have songs sung about me and spread all about the Continent."

"No," the mage sneered. "You managed that just fine on your own decades ago, Butcher."

Geralt’s eyes blew wide as he recoiled, face turning white from the unexpected gutting. Jaskier flinched.

The witcher and the mage’s eyes immediately snapped to him, predators sensing movement from prey. Cirilla had earlier twisted around in her seat to watch the two of them argue, and stared back at them both, gaze shuttered.

Something that looked like remorse flickered in violet eyes and Yennefer looked away first, the barest hint of a sigh escaping her lips.

"The facts are these," she told Geralt. "We cannot use magic in the open on our way to Aretuza, not if we don't want to be tracked. We are far too recognisable as ourselves. We will need supplies on our journey. We cannot avoid passing through settlements. Ergo, we need someone who knows how to play people and disseminate misinformation to throw people off our tracks. Someone who is used to presenting themself as required in various situations. Someone who will not raise people's alarms nor attract the wrong kind of attention."

Jaskier dropped his head to hide the small smile that grew on his face as Yennefer spoke. He rubbed at the buttery leather of the gloves she'd made him, concealing the salved hands and carefully-wrapped bandages beneath. His ears and the back of his eyes tingled from the confidence with which she spoke about him, the way she'd recognised the skills of his trade. The value she saw in him.

His heart grew two sizes bigger in his chest. There was no denying that she cared about him. Every word, every deed she'd done from the time they met in Oxenfurt screamed it.

So of course Destiny had to burst his bubble.

"And you think that someone is Jaskier," Geralt stated with derision. "Yennefer, he's far from subtle, he gets himself into trouble every other moment thinking with his prick, he never knows when to keep his mouth shut, and has gotten the two of us thrown out or chased out from an incredible number of places. You've only met him briefly for a handful of times, you don't know him at all if you think he is the person you need."

Jaskier's ears and eyes burned, for a completely different reason now, and he ducked his head further, turning it to let his hair conceal his face. A heated flush crept up the back of his neck. Gods, Geralt wasn't even exactly wrong, he was indeed responsible for all that. It was just... Fuck, twenty years! Over twenty years they'd known each other, and the sum and total of his character in Geralt's eyes was that. Did he bother to see him at all?

Fuck, no wonder Geralt had gotten rid of him on the mountain...

Yennefer stared at Geralt for long moments in silence. Shook her head lightly as if to clear it, then laughed. It was a brittle, self-mocking thing. It twisted Jaskier's already tormented heart to hear it.

"I can't believe," she murmured, voice amused and wondering, "I ever thought you looked at me and actually saw me."

The witcher opened his mouth, but the mage raised a hand to cut him off. "Save it, Geralt. I'm not interested."

"And I'm not asking for permission," she continued. "I'm telling you. The bard's coming with us. And if you're concerned about what that means for us as a group, don't be. He's my responsibility, and mine alone. I will not trouble you or Cirilla with him."

"Are you done with breakfast, bardling?" she asked, causing Jaskier's head to jerk up to meet her eyes.

Throat tight, Jaskier could do nothing but nod at the violet-eyed sorceress.

"Then come," she ordered. "We'll wait for them in the courtyard."

Nodding once more, he stood. As he moved to clear the cutlery, Cirilla cut him off.

"Don't worry about it," she said, watching him with a strange expression. "I can take it to the kitchens with my stuff."

"Thank you, Princess," Jaskier replied after a moment. He bowed slightly, then made to move to Yennefer's side.

"Jaskier—" tried Geralt, but the bard simply walked right past, letting his hair curtain his face and keeping his gaze on the witch.

Yennefer spared Geralt a glance, but said nothing more, only turning to stride out of the hall.

The two of them walked in silence as they made their way to the courtyard.

When they stepped out, Jaskier had to raise his hand to shield his eyes against the bright morning sun, reflecting off the snow that dusted the floor. A shudder ran through him, the cold of the outdoors quickly seeping through the coat he wore. Still, the warmth of the sun's rays made the chill more bearable, and he closed his eyes and tipped his head back to enjoy the sensation.

Then spluttered as a heavy cloth was tossed over his head. Fighting his way out of it, he gathered the fabric in an untidy bundle and blinked in the light, eyes watering as they alighted on his assailant. Yennefer grinned back at him impishly from beside two horses: the black one Geralt had obtained from the dwarves, and a seal brown one. The mounts were weighed down by packed saddlebags, and two rucksacks laid at the mage's feet.

"Is there a reason," Jaskier groused, "that you decided you would rather smother me so early in the morning?"

"It's hardly early, bardling," Yennefer snorted. "Besides, I didn't need you freezing to death before we even managed to escape the keep since you clearly lack the proper wear."

"Oh..." Jaskier unfolded the bundle to discover what he had was a heavy clock, trimmed with dark fur along the inner edges and hood. "OH..."

He threw it over himself and discovered that it was wonderfully comfortable. "Many thanks, wife mine."

Yennefer hummed, pleased. Then her expression grew serious. "I owe you an apology."

Jaskier gasped theatrically. "An apology?! Are you ok, wife?! Is something the matter?! Are you dying?!"

He raced over and began to exaggeratedly fuss over the sorceress, earning himself a harsh smack on the shoulder and a roll of her eyes. He painted a wounded look on his face, causing her to pinch his cheek and pull. After watching him flail for a few moments, Yennefer deemed him sufficiently punished and let go to adjust the reins of the brown horse.

"I should have informed Geralt before he came to collect Cirilla," she said, steadily facing away from him. "I put you in an uncomfortable position, one which you had told me yesterday night you would rather avoid."

Jaskier huffed. Then stepped closer to press his arm against hers.

"Yennefer, it would have happened anyway, whether you informed him earlier or not. Geralt doesn't change his mind once he's decided on something, unless there are truly exceptional circumstances. I would know. He spent over a decade avoiding any mention of his Child Surprise and only came for her once Nilfgaard was knocking at Cintra's doors."

"Geralt’s reactions to my presence are not your fault to bear," he said quietly and shrugged. "Besides, it's not the worst he's said. At least this time, the faults he mentioned are indeed mine."

Yennefer opened her mouth, though the arrival of Geralt and Cirilla made her close it again. But from the intent glance she shot him, Jaskier was made well aware that the topic was not closed yet.

Geralt helped the girl onto the black steed, and picked up one of the rucksacks to swing it onto his shoulders. His silver sword was strapped onto the horse, while the steel hung at his hip instead of across his back like it usually did. He stared at Jaskier and Yennefer.

Jaskier looked at the mage and dipped into a sweeping bow. "Age before beauty, m'lady."

"Such a shame for you that I am both then, isn't it," Yennefer shot back before swinging herself onto the other horse.

Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. "Yeah, alright, you've got me there," he finally said resignedly.

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as he carefully swung the other rucksack onto his shoulders, avoiding touching it with his hands. When it was settled comfortably on his shoulders, she turned her gaze to Geralt.

"Shall we go?" she asked cooly.

"Hmmm," was all Geralt said in reply, before turning and leading—well, Roach, Jaskier supposed—onto the path down the mountain.

The day passed by mostly in silence as they trekked down the mountain, stopping only for lunch and other bodily needs.

Geralt and Cirilla led the front while Jaskier and Yennefer followed a few metres behind. And while it wasn't unusual for Jaskier to trail behind Geralt at some distance, the lack of his lute made it all the more conspicuous just how different these circumstances were. He often found himself unconsciously reaching for it, only to recall where he was and dropping his hand.

With Geralt's enhanced hearing, there was also not much he could talk about with Yennefer, considering he wanted to keep his more dangerous experiences on the down-low and he had no clue of how much Geralt knew of what was going on with the sorceress.

It made lunch all the more awkward as no one was open to conversation about anything beyond what was required for the meal. Even Cirilla was incredibly silent for a teenager, only watching the three adults with that same strange look on her face she had during the argument at breakfast. Jaskier wasn't sure he wanted to know what that was about either.

And so Yennefer bore the repetition of him reaching for his non-existent lute, sighing, humming, sighing, throughout the morning and well into the afternoon past lunch with no more than the occasional glance his way, until even she'd had enough.

"So, bardling," she began, "what else had you been up to apart from your... piping business?"

Jaskier couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at the non-sequitur, but being bored out of his mind and grateful for conversation, decided to play along.

"Not much really," he replied. "I took up a year-long teaching contract at the Academy as a visiting Professor. Then I did my rounds along the taverns at Oxenfurt and Novigrad with my students to give them some experience in a controlled environment as well as a court debut or two of theirs."

She grinned at him. "Gods, I remember when I was a student, they must have been a bunch of little shits! And taken right after you too!"

Jaskier barked a laugh. "Oh Sweet Melitele, they were! An adorable bunch of ducklings following me around with their starry-eyed enthusiasm, but by gods, they were absolute menaces! Do you know how often I had to bail them out of trouble? I'm supposed to be the damsel-in-distress, not the responsible one! I have much sympathy for my Professors now, I earned many grey hairs from all the stress."

"Really?" she teased him. "Have you by chance grown colour-blind in your old age, bardling?"

Jaskier leaned in close and stage-whispered back, "I had to pluck them all out, I was surprised I had any hair left on my head after that! I'm just lucky it grew back!"

She laughed. It was a gorgeous sound that made his heart soar. And her smile, sweet Melitele, Jaskier could see why Geralt had fallen heads-over-heels for her if she'd smiled like that at him even once!

Jaskier forced himself to drag his eyes away and tried to coax his shattered heart back into his chest. It never learnt, even after 20 years of continuous heartbreak at the hands of a witcher. So eager to throw itself at the next impossible love. What would a sorceress of her calibre, with anything and anyone she could have, want with a human bard?

"Tell me about them," Yennefer's voice interrupted his thoughts. "What sort of mischief do tiny bardlings get up to? Can't be any worse than Aretuza's trainees."

"Ho ho!" he cried. "You'd be surprised, witch. These menaces of mine rivalled the sort of trouble my friends and I used to get caught up in when we were students! Let me tell you about the time Alicja..."

Jaskier spoke at length about the bardic aspirants he'd taken under his wing, about the mischief they got up to, the hilarious mishaps they'd made, the silly jokes and pranks that filled his class. He gesticulated wildly, acted out some of the funniest moments, did silly voices, sang, pranced around and in front of the sorceress' steed as Yennefer laughed and jibbed back and egged him on to tell her more and more.

It was like flying, like leaping off a cliff into the sea, like dancing on stage in front of an exhilarated audience, like the rush of pulling off a successful trick with his drunk friends. Nothing in the world existed other than the delight of Yennefer's grins, her laughs, her amusement, her joy.

On occasion, he even managed to wheedle out some stories from her.

"I can't believe it!" he gasped, shoulders shaking with laughter. "You actually got the kids high during class?! And you all got caught by the rectoress?!"

Yennefer's violet eyes sparkled with mirth. "Tissaia was so pissed," she said around a satisfied smirk, lounging on her horse like the cat that got the cream. "She lectured me at length about corrupting the youth—nevermind that I hadn't been her student for decades for that to do anything—and no doubt the trainees spent a long while paying for that stunt. But it was totally worth it to see the look on her face."

Jaskier shook his head and wiped at his eyes. "Those poor kids," he said in mock despair. "Having to pay for your prank on them."

Yennefer simply shrugged, unrepentant. "It'll teach them to be more discerning about who they listen to, and what people may convince them to do at least."

"Ah yes, the treachery of court politics..." Jaskier sighed.

"We'll make camp here for the night," Geralt's voice cut in.

Jaskier nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound; much, much closer than he thought it'd be. It was then he realised that he and Yennefer had somehow ended up right behind Roach without realising. He had absolutely no recollection of when they'd sped up enough to end up that close.

"Ah, yes, sure," Jaskier stammered out, caught off-guard.

The preparations for setting up camp this time were as equally silent as that during lunch, the only difference being the tents set up for the night. Geralt and Cirilla were working together to set up a tent they'd brought from Kaer Morhen, Jaskier leaving to go search for firewood, while Yennefer set up hers with a tiny application of Chaos to an amulet.

Arriving back at camp, the white fabric of the mage's tent had Jaskier's breath catching in his throat and a sting of sadness, hurt, and shame lodging in his chest as memories of the dragon hunt—the day he'd lost the person he'd cared about most—hit him and sent him reeling backwards.

"Jaskier, is something wrong?"

He was yanked back to the present and forced his racing heart to slow.

Geralt watched him warily, a debate playing out in golden eyes whether to come closer or stay away. Cirilla and Yennefer were also watching him: the Princess trying and failing to hide her curiosity while something that looked like guilt or discomfort was quickly wiped away from the mage's face.

"Everything's fine," Jaskier replied, pasting a smile on his face. "Just had an unpleasant thought. Nothing to worry about."

He didn't want to know which option would win out in Geralt's thoughts. And it was hardly fair to keep making Yennefer feel responsible for Geralt's shitty decisions. Truth of the matter was, she was the only one on his side. She shouldn’t have to take the burden of his feelings onto herself out of some strange, misguided sense of guilt. It wasn’t her fault that he'd been in love with her partner for years.

No, that fault lay on Jaskier, and Jaskier alone. He was the one choosing to twist the knife in himself, year after year. He just wished some day he would manage to stop.

Dinner once again was a silent affair once they'd gotten over Jaskier's brief hangup.

Jaskier and Yennefer sat on one side of the fire, Geralt and Cirilla on the other. The only thing that managed to keep him in place was the warm line of Yennefer's weight against his side, a steady reassurance that no harm would come to him, not when she was there to put herself between him and anything that could harm him.

For once, the flickering flames in the night did not remind him of the snapping fingers and endless pain.

No, it reminded him of his brilliant wife.

The flare of panic as she stumbled into the inn with only a bottle of liquor, the brief tingling press of her lips against his head, the fiery blaze she spat out at his torturer, the searing brand of her grip as she dragged him out of his hell-hole.

Yennefer was the wildfire that torched Sodden Hill, the torrent of flame that blinded his tormentor. She was passion, rage, protectiveness. She burned as bright as the sun itself, with or without Chaos running through her veins. She was incandescent.

What threat did the burning branches in front of him pose? What could a measly campfire do to him?

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

It was nothing compared to the living blaze beside him.

There was no safer place for him than by her side.

A huffed laugh sounded beside him, and he felt more than saw Yennefer turn her head towards him.

"You're thinking very loudly," she murmured.

The warmth of her breath hit his neck and sent goosebumps breaking out over his skin.

Jaskier couldn't conceal the minute shiver that ran through him. He turned to face her.

She was watching him with an amused yet fond look, much like the one she wore when they'd bantered after meeting in Oxenfurt. The play of firelight against the violet jewels of her eyes was mesmerising. He couldn't help the upward tilt of his lips in response.

"Nothing that isn't true, witch," he breathed out.

A loud yawn interrupted any further conversation as all of the adults' eyes fell on the Princess. She flushed under all their gazes.

"What? It's been a long day," she said defensively.

A soft smile played at Yennefer's mouth.

"It has," she agreed, then stood up. "Time for us to retire I think."

Jaskier too rose to his feet.

"Jaskier, you—" Geralt began.

"—are sharing with me," Yennefer completed smoothly, wrapping her hand around Jaskier's arm possessively. She then smiled at Cirilla. "Sleep well tonight, Ciri."

Jaskier tipped his head and did the same. "Pleasant dreams, Princess."

Cirilla's eyes darted from adult to adult.

"Thanks," she finally replied awkwardly. "You and Lady Yennefer too."

With that, Yennefer led the two of them to her tent, not bothering to wait and see if Geralt would exchange similar pleasantries. As the door flap fell shut behind them, the tension that had instinctively formed within them when Geralt had begun to speak drained out.

They both stood there for a moment in silence.

"Well, it's been long enough for us to take a look at your hands now," the sorceress finally spoke, letting her hand fall away from Jaskier as she strode deeper into the space. "Depending on how they look we'll need to adjust the potency and frequency of the mixtures so do take the seat over—Jaskier?"

Jaskier finally picked his jaw off the floor.

"Yennefer, this is a marvel!" he breathed, unable to take his eyes off the contents of the space. "How is it so much bigger on the inside? Is everything stored as it is? How come the magic isn't traceable?"

He pulled his gaze away from the furniture and fixtures in the tent to find the mage watching him with a fondly amused tilt to her mouth.

"I forget," she said, "that sometimes things I use or do without thought can be wonderous occurances to be admired in the eyes of others not used to Chaos."

He didn't know what to say to that, although Yennefer did not seem to be looking for a reply. The mage had turned around to locate the two tins from the night before, unearthing them from a chest at the foot of the vanity table and placing them on the tabletop. She then kicked out the chair and gestured for him to come over.

Jaskier found his legs automatically bringing him to her before his brain had even registered the intent of the action. He sat down hard on the chair and fiddled with his gloves.

Yennefer perchered herself on the table, then calmly seized his hands one-by-one to pull off the gloves and place them aside. Then carefully began to unwind the bandages.

Jaskier could not help but look away, unwilling to face his damaged hands and more than that, the pain that would soon follow as Yennefer began the lengthy process of healing them.

"Seems like this version is working decently," came the mage's voice. "Not as much as I hoped, but still better than expected."

She placed his hands on the table and walked over to a curtained off portion of the tent. Jaskier steeled himself, then stole a glance at his hands. The cream paste that had been applied on them had turned a light shade of grey, with pitch-black lines snaking through them and patches of equally dark spots on the more injured areas. His stomach turned.

Yennefer came back over with a bowl of warm water and a fresh damp cloth.

"Wash most of the paste off with this, bardling," she ordered, placing the bowl in front of him. "I'll wipe the rest off."

Jaskier could only give her a sharp jerky nod, then set his jaw and dipped his hands in. Submerging them in the water, he gently rubbed as much of the paste off with his fingers, hissing through gritted teeth whenever he agitated an injury. The clear water soon turned a murky grey.

When she deemed his hands washed enough, Yennefer drew them into her own one-by-one to wipe the abused flesh clean with the cloth. Under her brisk yet tender ministrations, interspersed by more hisses and groans, the extent of the burns were once more revealed.

Jaskier was careful not to look.

Yennefer pried open the tin containing the second balm—a gel-like transparent thing—and scooped some up with two fingers, then began to smear it liberally onto his skin. Jaskier hissed a long breath through his teeth, the burns stinging as the balm was applied, even through the analgesic from before. Once both of his hands were thoroughly coated, Yennefer looked him in the eye.

"This is the part where things are going to get painful, bardling," she said. "I'm going to use my magic to subtly pull out whatever loosened and surfaced Chaos is there, using the balm as a conduit. But it is guaranteed to resist active removal, so you'll be feeling some amount of pain."

"Right, right..." Jaskier exhaled, voice wavering ever so slightly. "And there's nothing you can do for it?"

"Nothing that won't interfere with the rest of the process," Yennefer told him, sympathy briefly passing across her face.

"Right, ok..." Jaskier breathed in and out deeply a few times. Then set his jaw and stared at a point over her shoulder. "I'm ready."

Yennefer began to murmur in Elder, one hand hovering over Jaskier's, Chaos sparking in the cup of her palm, while the other cradled it from below, slender fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist.

Then his skin began to burn.

A strangled yell forced its way out of his closed mouth as he doubled-over his hand. His fingers spasmed and trembled, splayed out as they were from the pain, and he couldn't help but try to yank his hand backwards to escape it. Yennefer proved stronger however, and he remained pinned in place even as he writhed and wailed in his seat.

Out of the corner of his watering eyes, he noticed black strands twining their way through the clear gel, being pulled out of his skin like threads spun out of flesh. His stomach violently protested the realisation joining the pain and he only managed to choke out, "I'm gonna hurl", before he was spilling his guts onto the floor beside him in choking, gasping heaves.

Undeterred, Yennefer kept going.

By the time the pain finally began to die down, there was nothing left in his stomach to expel. Saliva and bile dripped out of his open mouth as he struggled to get his breathing back under control even as his stomach still roiled. Through the prickling agony in his hand, he barely felt the sorceress pass a cloth over his palm to wipe the gel off.

There was the sound of another tin popping open, and a paste was smoothed over his inflamed skin, and the hurt slowly began to ebb away. For a while, the only sound in the room was the loud heaving breaths Jaskier sucked in as Yennefer rubbed soothing circles on his back.

Finally, Jaskier shuddered, then pulled himself back up. "We should do the other hand soon."

"Yes," the sorceress replied, her hand a warm weight through the fabric of his sweat-soaked shirt. "The sooner it's done, the sooner it's over."

Jaskier sucked in a few more deep breaths, trying to steady his breathing and pulse rate. He flexed his treated hand where it lay in his lap, the white paste from last night coating it and drawing out the lingering pain. Then placed his other hand in Yennefer's waiting one.

Yennefer spared no moment for him to change his mind.

And so Jaskier screamed long and loud, the sound echoing around them as it writhed in the air, caught within the flimsy walls of the tent, trapped with nowhere else to go.

By the time the gel was wiped away and the paste applied, he was nearly catatonic from pain, only the barest whimpers creeping out his open mouth.

"Bardling, bardling, can you hear me?"

Yennefer's voice came from far away, lilting and drifting as if through water.

"Jaskier. Jaskier, I need you to respond!"

The bard's fingers twitched. His eyes struggled to refocus as the thinly-veiled panic in the voice latched onto his attention and pulled.

"Jaskier!"

A wheezing rattle filled the air as Jaskier forced air into his lungs. He tipped his head towards the ceiling from where his cheek rested on the cool tabletop and locked his gaze with violet eyes.

"Yen..." he rasped.

"Thank fuck," the mage exhaled, the tension in her frame slowly drawn out like thread spun from wool. "Jaskier..."

"I'm not sure... if I can take... much more of that..." Jaskier struggled to breath out, voice as if he'd been gargling shards of glass. From the faintly metallic taste at the back of his throat, he was certain he'd done some damage to it at least.

Yennefer placed a cool damp cloth over his forehead and began winding bandages around his hands.

"That was the worst of it, bardling," she murmured reassuringly. "It’ll get easier from now on. We got lucky that a good chunk of Chaos remained surface-level and more had been loosened up by the paste. It might be possible to pull everything out in under 2 weeks and properly heal your hands after."

Jaskier managed a nod of acknowledgement. "You didn't… overexert… yourself, right, Yen?"

The sorceress snorted, the sound amused and contemptuous. "Not in the least, bardling. Worry about yourself."

She tied the bandages off in the same bows from yesterday, causing Jaskier's lips to stretch into a trembling smile. Done with his hands, the mage dragged the cloth from down his forehead to gently wipe off the sweat and dirt on his face and neck. Then waved a hand to summon clothes which she proceeded to dump on Jaskier's lap.

"Get changed, husband," she ordered, spinning off to stride somewhere else in the tent. "This day has dragged on long enough already and I don't doubt that Geralt will force us to march on before the sun finishes rising."

Jaskier groaned at the very thought, his body already feeling like one massive slab of tenderised meat. Then pushed himself upright to wiggle himself out of his old clothes and into the new ones from his perch on the chair, underclothes included.

A sigh escaped him as he sank back against the chair once he was finished. It was a relief to get out of the sweat-drenched clothing. Frankly, he was in desperate need of a proper wash, but the toil of the day with an added dose of torturous treatment had him unwilling to move a single centimeter towards that goal.

And despite their rather spontaneous-and-willing-yet-definitely-not-legal marriage, he and Yen were not quite there yet in their relationship for her to bathe him.

He brought one of the two tankards of water she’d left for him to his lips with shaking hands, rinsing his mouth out and adding to the mess on the floor with one, then drinking deeply from the other. A brief smile pulled at his lips when he noticed the spoonful of honey she’d also placed out to soothe the burning in his throat.

The tingle of Chaos as it washed over him and erased the filth and smell of the place and from him was hardly noticed.

Even as his eyes began to slowly slide shut, Jaskier couldn't help but rub his shaking, bandaged fingertips over the soft cloth of his new outfit admiringly. The cream shirt and brown pants were simple and clearly meant for someone with a broader stature than himself. Yet the material was comfortably worn-in, butter-soft from repeated use and wash, lying as gently and lightly against his skin as the finest silk.

The repetition of the action soothed him, and his eyelids finally fluttered closed.

"Time for bed, bardling," came Yennefer's voice from beside him, settling over him like the soft fall of shadows from candlelight. "Don't fall asleep on me just yet."

Jaskier simply hummed, and automatically leaned into her side, face-planting into the soft silk of her nightgown over her stomach. Yennefer huffed, then slid an arm around him to pull him to his feet. A discontent noise escaped him at the motion, and the sorceress laughed softly, catching him as he swayed into her and buried his face in her hair. She had a lot of hair, that woman.

He followed blindly as she steered them towards the bed and tumbled the two of them onto it, their limbs flopping about wildly. With another amused huff that Jaskier hid a smile to, he remained loose and pliant as the mage rearranged them to her liking. Once she was satisfied with the way the pair of them were wrapped around one another, he felt her raise a hand and the light seeping past his eyelids winked out.

Jaskier shuffled the tiniest bit closer to her, face resting in the hollow of her throat and the scent of lilacs and gooseberries settling around him like the blanket she'd covered them with. Then with the barest whisper of a sigh against her skin, drifted to sleep in her arms.

part 2

#chaptersinprogress #jaskierminibang2022 #the witcher netflix #yennskier #yenskier #yennefer of vengerberg #yennefer #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier #fanfic #fanfiction #fucking long post - this section is over 10k I think #part 2 will be posted in about a week #where the sky meets the sea

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merlot-and-chardonnay · 4 months

Text

A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 42

Chapter 41

Masterlist

"Geralt?" Jaskier looks over to see his friend standing by, covered in blood as a result from the fighting that took place earlier.

Upon seeing the man, knowing exactly who he was after seeing him in the throne room years ago, Criston was quick to draw his sword and get in front of Aemma and Aemond. Ivan did the same out of sheer reflex. Swords pointed at the witcher as he attempted to approach. Geralt stood back, confused.

"Whoa, whoa, what's going on?" Jaskier gets in front of the two knights. "What the fuck is this?" Roche runs to the side. "Stay back!" Criston warns Geralt. "Ser Criston!" Aemma tries to call out. "You didn't think I'd forget the likes of you, did you now...White Wolf?"

Upon hearing those words, Aemond drew his own sword, ready to slay the witcher himself for Aemma's sake.

"Aemond, stop! Criston, Ivan! Stop this!" Aemma runs in front of the trio next to Jaskier. "Princess, stand aside," Criston insists, "this man is dangerous." "I know," Aemma nods, "he is. But he is no danger to us, Ser. Sheathe your sword."

"White Wolf?" Ivan realized, turning to Criston, "Ser, I know exactly who this man is. This is Geralt of Rivia. The witcher." Criston gave Ivan a somewhat incredulous look, "how do you know him?" "He is well known throughout the Continent, everyone knows the white haired witcher. He saved my village once from a pack of monsters many years ago. Before I was born that is, but the elders would tell this tale many a time when I was a child."

"Sir Criston, put your blade away," Roche orders, "the witcher is under my protection. Whatever grievance you have with him must be put aside." "Is this not the same man who is wanted for regicide?" Criston scoffs, "the same man who assassinated your king?" "It was a different man, a different witcher," Aemma speaks up, realizing what Criston was implying, "Geralt never slayed any kings. If anything he tried to prevent it, tried to stop the same man from taking me to the Scoia'tel, but it was too late."

"There see? A trustworthy eyewitness here to affirm Geralt's innocence," Jaskier exasperates.

"Didn't you want this man dead before, Aemma?" Aemond brings up, "for taking your mother away? You had plans, if I recall. To make him confess his crime before stabbing him in the heart and feeding his body to your dragon."

Jaskier looked to Aemma, shocked, "Aemma? What-" "That was my desire once before," Aemma admits, "but new information has come to light, information that...greatly contradicts what was told to me as a child. I...I don't know what to think," she turns to face the witcher, "I don't know what to think of this man. But I don't wish that anymore. Now sheathe your swords," she turns to Ivan and Criston, to which Ivan quickly obeys, though Criston waited, "...by order of your princess," Aemma narrows her gaze, and Criston reluctantly does as he was commanded.

Sensing her determination, Aemond also put his own sword away; it was unwise, after all, to anger Aemma any further then she was already was with him.

Seeing he wasn't in any immediate danger, Geralt turns to Aemma, taking out a sword. Criston was about to draw his own again, as was Aemond, but Geralt turned it over, presenting Aemma the hilt, "I believe this is yours," he tells her. Attached to the hilt was also the silver medallion Vesemir had made for her.

Eyes wide in surprise, Aemma took both items, clutching them close, "I didn't think I would see these things again. I thought the Scoia'tel would've destroyed them or sold them or something along those lines. How did you get these back?"

"One of the Scoia'tel was using them during the fight," Geralt explains, "I took it back." Aemma looked to Geralt, surprised he would've done something like that for her. She nods in understanding, "thank you."

Aemond tilted his head a little at this interaction trying to get a better understanding of this man. He didn't know much about witchers, specifically this witcher, save for what little he heard from Aemma as a child, and none of it had been good. He did hear stories of Geralt's kind from Continentals who came to visit back in King's Landing, when he and Aemma snuck to the docks that one night. Mutant freaks. Unholy, demonic spawn stripped of their emotions like the monsters they slay for coin. Another thing Aemond had also picked up concerning witchers was their unrestrained proclivities towards women, the likes which could make Aegon look like a prudish saint in comparison.

Geralt, however, didn't strike him as such an individual as the witcher stood there in his stoic demeanor. He did, after all, selflessly return Aemma's possessions, surely someone deprived of their emotions would not have acted in this way.

The white hair witcher was definitely something of an enigma.

The contemplation was rudely interrupted when a certain individual started yelling various curses both in Elven and the Common Tongue.

The Woodland Fox himself, who had been captured during the battle, was struggling against his bonds as two of the Blue Stripes kept him restraint.

"Is that the one?" Aemond whispers to Aemma, to which Aemma nods in response. "Iorveth the Scoia'tel commander, the one who wanted justice," Aemma confirms. "He is quite a fighter I will give him that," Criston speaks up, "these Scoia'tel don't play fair, that much is certain."

"What exactly happened?" Aemma inquires.

Criston gave the prince and princess a summarized version of the fight.

--------------------

After the two knights along with the Blue Stripes snuck out of Flotsam, while Jaskier was giving his distraction, the group ran into the forest. Roche apparently had an informant somewhere in the woods that gave him the bandit's whereabouts, though neither Criston nor Ivan knew it had been the witcher. Upon finding the Scoia'tel, the Blue Stripes soldiers did not hesitate to ambush the bandits and a fight ensued.

Unknown to Criston or the any of the Blue Stripes, Geralt had been in the middle of enacting his own plan with Iorveth. With the information from the captured second in command Kieran, knowing that the witcher Letho had double crossed the Scoia'tel, Geralt had Zoltan take him into the woods to meet with the Scoia'tel Commander to deliver him this grim news. Naturally, Iorveth did not believe the white hair witcher's claim, and so had plot a ruse to pretend Geralt had captured Iorveth so as to deliver him to Letho at the old ruins. The moment Letho confirmed for himself that he had betrayed the elves, Iorveth did not hesitate to have his men appear from the trees with the intention to execute Letho.

Before that could happen, however, Roche and the Blue Stripes came onto the scene. A fight broke out as a result. At least Geralt had been kind enough to give Iorveth his sword so as to give the elf a sporting chance against his enemies. Geralt meanwhile had took after Letho, but not before swiping Aemma's sword and medallion away from one of the elves.

Iorveth struck down every Blue Stripe he could get his hands on until he finally came up against Roche himself, a moment Iorveth has been waiting years for. The two clashed swords, seemingly at a stalemate at first, until Iorveth got the upper hand and disarmed Roche. Before Iorveth had a chance to deliver the final blow, Criston stepped in and parried the elf's sword. The two engaged in a one-on-one fight. This felt familiar to Criston in certain ways; it brought the man back to days past, from before joining the Kingsguard, before coming to King's Landing, when Criston had been sent to fight off the Dornish incursions. Like the Dornish soldiers, the Scoia'tel had a habit of engaging in asymmetrical warfare, albeit in a different landscape. There was also something else, in the way the elven commander fought; Iorveth was fast, light on his feet, not quite unlike the way Ivan fought when he and Criston would spar.

Alas, Criston was outmatched and quickly disarmed by Iorveth, who kicked back the knight. Once more, Iorveth was prepared to deliver the final blow, but then Ivan pushed some Scoia'tel elves aside to jump front and block Iorveth's sword.

Ivan pointed his sword at the older elf, panting from his earlier exertions; the young half elf did his best to steel his expressions, feeling rather intimidated from the hard stare Iorveth was giving him. There was little doubt in Ivan's mind that the older elf knew exactly what he was, despite keeping his ear concealed behind a scarf. That suspicion had been confirmed when the elven commander addressed Ivan in his native tongue,

"You take their side, In'hied?" Iorveth questioned, tilting his head in curiosity, "you keep your elf blood well hidden, do they even know what you are?" "I am a knight of Westeros," Ivan answered back in the same language, "I have sworn to protect the blood of the king and his family, that includes the princess you have stolen away. It would be in your best interest to return her to us so we may go and leave your comrades be." Iorveth only made a small mirthless smile at that, "you refuse to answer me question, boy. Very well..." Iorveth then made a fighting stance, "you wish to side with those who soon see you dead should your true blood be revealed, than so be it...I shall treat you as I would any other d'hoine."

The two clashed swords. Being light on his own feet, Ivan was able to match Iorveth step for step and steel for steel. While Ivan had youth on his side, Iorveth was the more experienced fighter, having centuries of fighting on his side compared to what he saw as a small boy in his eyes who was barely past two decades of age at most.

Being occupied with fighting Ivan, Iorveth didn't see Criston sneak around and hilt the elf in the back by the hilt of his sword, and then sucker punched Iorveth across the jaw. Ivan then kicked Iorveth's dropped sword away from him, leaving the elf defenseless. Iorveth faced Criston, contempt in his eye, which became more intense when Roche joined in and apprehended Iorveth. "What is your name?" Iorveth had inquired of the knight. "Ser Criston Cole," was what Criston answered. "Huh..." Iorveth said back, "Ser...and here I thought you Westerosi knights prided yourselves in being honorable...even in battle."

Criston ignored that insult and turned to address Ivan, "what was it, he said to you?" he asked. Ivan wasn't sure how to answer that truthfully, so he offered this as a response, "he thought me at a disadvantage due in part...to my age."

-------------------------

"Once the battle was all but concluded Commander Roche deigned to search for the two of you amongst the ruins," Criston finished his telling of the story.

"Your efforts are to be commended then, Ser Cole," Aemond praises, "Same as you, Ser Ivan."

Ivan looked over to where Iorveth was being held by the Blue Stripes, only to quickly averting his gaze when he saw the look of seething hatred and contempt in the elf's green eye.

"Considering these two were instrumental in the capture of Iorveth, I am inclined to agree," Roche quips in. "The kingslayer is still out there," Geralt speaks up, "he escaped during the battle." "We'll have another chance," Roche assures.

Aemma tried not to react to that news, tried not to let it get to her that the same man who kidnapped her and then tried to drag her back to the Scoia'tel camp was still on the run, and was still possibly holding a grudge against her- no not her, her father- and still wanted justice of his own.

Aemond turned his gaze to the Woodland Fox, trying to form an opinion of him now that he was captured and not likely to cause harm. This was the elf who called for justice from Aemond's arrogant uncle, the who apparently orchestrated the assassination of the Temerian king and the kidnapping of Aemma to hold as a hostage. From Aemond had heard back in Flotsam, Iorveth had a reputation- putting it mildly- for his seething hatred of humankind and what they did to him and his people, and having more human kills to his record than any other elf still alive. Aemond had to wonder if part that hatred stemmed from whoever took the elf's missing eye- something Aemond could disturbingly relate too as he still held a similar grudge albeit on a subconscious level. From what he heard from Cole, Iorveth was also a very skilled fighter, fast and light on his feet, making Aemond think of the way Ivan fights.

Must be an elf thing, the prince thinks.

Iorveth brought his attention to aforementioned prince, "you..." he sneers, "Mine eyesight must be getting old, or the dragon lords had thought to send someone else in place of the one we asked for." "Your plans have failed Iorveth," Roche states with a certain air of triumph, "your own calls for justice will be awaiting you at the capital." "...that remains to be seen," Iorveth says in a low tone, standing straight to remind the Blue Stripes Commander of their height difference, before turning his head to address Ivan in his native language, "no matter how close you are to their family, the dragons will come for you eventually...especially when they begin to notice how slowly you age as the years go by. Did that ever occur to you, boy?" Ivan turned away to face Criston, refusing to make eye contact with the older elf. Of course, he has thought about that, though not necessarily at the time he took the Kingsguard oath; Ivan knew half-elves do have a longer life span compared to humans, but he was never told how long those lives can last.

Iorveth then turned his attention over to the princess, shocking everyone by addressing her in High Valyrian of all things, "Gaomagon ivestragon aōha kepa ziry owes nykeā gēlȳn naejot se Aen Siedhe. Daor matter skorkydoso olvie jēda emagon rēbagon, nyke nykeēdrosa intend naejot gūrogon zȳhon egros hae issa trophy tolī nyke behead zirȳla rūsīr ziry." (Do tell your father he owes a debt to the Aen Siedhe. No matter how much time has passed, I still intend to take his sword as my trophy after I behead him with it)

Aemond moved in front of Aemma in response, "do not speak to her, bandit" he warns, "especially in the Valyrian tongue." Iorveth only made a small, mirthless smile in response, clearly proud he was able to rattle the young Targaryen prince. The elf stood straight once again, reverting back to his native tongue, not seeming to address anyone specific,

"And to think the Virgin of Aedirn wanted to meet you. She was certain you were the one."

Aemma stopped in her tracks upon hearing those words, something that didn't go unnoticed by Aemond. He gave the elf a hard stare, wondering what he was he said that Aemma picked up on (worth noting that while Aemond does know Aemma knows some rudimentary elven, he doesn't know she's fully fluent in it thanks to Vesemir). Ivan and Geralt, both also fluent in Elven, did a better job hiding their surprise at that cryptic statement.

"...back to Flotsam with you," Roche states, shoving Iorveth forward, "there's a place in the prison barge just for you, you whoreson."

"Are they going to execute him?" Aemma asks. "...it is a possibility," Jaskier admits, "the question is if they will even bother with a trial beforehand."

Aemma had mixed feelings about that. She may not care about Iorveth or the Scoia'tel considering what they put her through personally, but that didn't mean their grievances were not legitimate, she understood that now. And part of her was curious to Iorveth's cryptic message.

"Well we better follow," Jaskier states, placing a hand on Aemma's shoulder, "As I said before, we have much to discuss."

Aemond took another look at Geralt who followed Roche before addressing his cousin, "what made you change your mind about him?" "I don't think I have fully," Aemma admits before giving a brief description of Geralt's amnesia, hence her hesitancy to carry out any justice she believed was due, "it wouldn't seem right to do something like that right now," she concludes, "especially when it turns out I don't even know the full story. I only know what my father had told me when I was a child."

"Hmm," was all Aemond said.

-------------Flotsam Tavern------------

Back in Flotsam, there was a celebration it seemed amongst the locals, especially when they saw Roche walking into town having the Scoia'tel commander held captive. Despite Commandant Laredo's initial anger at the Blue Stripes and Jaskier for their deception, he decided to let that insolence slide in favor of commending the group for the removing the threat to the village. Roche took Iorveth to the prison barge and Geralt had disappeared to wherever most likely for some unfinished business.

At the tavern, Zoltan had ordered a mug of ale when he the Westerosi trio walk and behind was a woman he had not seen before, but could see right away this was the long lost princess the trio had been searching for. He smiled, thankful to Melite that the daughter of the Lady of Larks was safe and unharmed. Having remembered the Lady Lark, the dwarf could see the resemblance in Aemma as well.

Jaskier had gone off shortly once they arrived to remove the frock and put back on his usual ensemble before the lot at the tavern with hopes of making up lost time with his niece. Aemond insisted he, Criston, and Ivan move to another spot in the tavern so as to grant Jaskier and Aemma that space to bond with conversation.

It started with some small talk over a meal, to which Aemma was quick to devour given how long it's been since she a decent meal to fill her belly. Once satiated, this soon led into Jaskier regaling Aemma of his own adventures as well as her mother's adventures as well. "She did not!" Aemma laughs at one tale, finding it difficult her mother could've found herself in such a situation. "Oh but she did," Jaskier insisted, taking a sip of vodka he ordered, "those soldiers wouldn't leave those two she-elves alone, so she took upon herself to give them a taste of their own medicine. Obviously it pissed them off, and rather than acknowledge their hypocrisy, they saw fit to chase her out of town. Not that she minded, she was more often than used to the road life."

"...nobody ever told those kind of stories before," Aemma realizes, "whenever anybody told me about my mother it was always either about how beautiful her singing was...or her approximation to my father...it's almost like she wasn't even a person half the time, just a wisp of what she really was. She had a life before me, before her time in court, a crazy, complex beautiful life."

"It really is a shame about that," Jaskier says in a low tone, "...what did your father ever say about her?" "she was someone he loved dearly," Aemma tells him, "someone who was taken away from him by...by a bad person, and he never saw her again after that." "That person being Geralt, the one you wanted to feed to your dragon at first," Jaskier realized to which Aemma nods.

"Gods, that man really did brainwash you," Jaskier mutters, though Aemma didn't notice. "I know the witcher doesn't have any memories of me or my mother," Aemma says, "the sorceress Tris said she was trying to work on that." "She is," Jaskier nods.

"I told Geralt if he can regain those memories he would tell me what he knew of the nature of my parent's relationship," Aemma explains, "but now that I found you, my mother's brother, maybe you could tell me something about it."

The joyful demeanor on Jaskier's face disappeared at that request.

He remembered that time when he was reunited with his sister once again when she was taken by the sorceress Yennefer to save her when she was at death's door. He remembered when they were on the road to Nilfgaard, how (y/n) how fought hard to make it appear she was well and that her time in King's Landing had not effected her, tried to deny both to others and to herself that the abuse Daemon had put her through hadn't damaged her in any way. The reality was the opposite, and he remembered the times (y/n) would thrash in her sleep at night, only to wake up screaming in terror, and still thinking she was in danger, only to calm down when she realized she was safe and away from King's Landing and from the Rogue Prince. This had also led to (y/n) crying upon realizing that not being there also meant she didn't her daughter in her arms anymore. There were even times during the day when (y/n) would experience full blown panic attacks on the road seemingly out of nowhere, and not even his nor Geralt's soothing assurance could dissuade her during those times.

It had taken a great deal of time and patience along with some wise counseling from their vampire friend Regis for (y/n) to finally admit that her captivity and the abuse she endured along with having Aemma snatched out of her arms had caused significant intrinsic damage to her psyche.

It had taken some time longer for her to process the trauma, and come to terms that even though she wouldn't be the same person, even though she would still get upset about it at times, she was not damaged beyond repair.

Jaskier wanted to tell her all, and yet...

"It's not a happy story, Aemma," he tells her, "and even if I could, it is not my story to tell." "What do you mean?" Aemma frowned a bit. "your father...he did things to your mother. Bad things," Jaskier explains in a somber tone, "your mother kept those things to herself at first, especially when I came to see her in King's Landing, but I could tell something was wrong. Those bad things had a way of bubbling up to the surface at times. She had nightmares, both during her sleep...and when she was awake."

Aemma put her hand over her mouth to contain the shock. She knew her father could be scary at times, but he was never cruel, not to her, her stepmother, or her sisters. What were those horrible things her father inflicted upon her mother?

"But how- I mean...no, he couldn't have hurt my mother. He loved her, why would he hurt someone he loved? He tried to protect my mother, he tried to protect me from the White Wolf."

"He really did drum that into you, didn't he," Jaskier realized, "Aemma, your mother wasn't taken away from you that night, she wanted to leave. Geralt and myself, we did everything we could to get the both of you out of there, but then your father ripped you from your mother's arms before the two of you could get past the portal-" "my father took me from my mother?" "He didn't- of course he wouldn't have," Jaskier exasperates, "he would have conveniently left that part out."

"But why would-" Before Aemma could finish her question, she looked in Jaskier's eyes and saw flashes of memories past to that night in King's Landing, where Jaskier along with Geralt and (y/n) and some strange woman Aemma did not know were crossing through a portal. It looked like they were in a hurry. She saw Jaskier cross and eagerly await the rest of the party, only to see Geralt and (y/n) go through and the portal close without Aemma in her mother's arms.

She saw her mother cry out at that moment,

"AEMMA!"

The flashback ended and Aemma had no words to say at this point.

"Aemma?" Jaskier gives his niece a confused look at her newfound state of shock.

Aemma quickly gets on her feet and runs out of the tavern past her cousin and the two knights, who were now wondering what the Bard had said to upset the princess.

Chapter 43

#hotd #the witcher #geralt of rivia #geralt #jaskier #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #oc #aemond x oc #vernon roche #criston cole #daemon targaryen #zoltan

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