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Chapter Text

He'd been known by many names and titles in his short twenty-four years. 

Julian Alfred Pankratz. 

Julek. 

Prince Julian.

Dandelion. 

Jaskier. 

Bard. 

Songbird.

Bastard, and a colourful variety of other insults and names flung at him by scorned lovers and fanciful youths who wanted more out of his heart than he was able to give. 

Once, for a shockingly brief and poorly thought out period of time, he'd been known as fiancé, and well, gods, that had been a mistake. 

Yet here, as he sat pressed into plush velvet, heavy furs draped around his shoulders and the weight of an entire kingdom seemingly resting on his brow, the chanting priest bestowed a new title upon him that he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to. 

King. 

"All rise, for your king!" the call echoed around the chamber, stunningly silent for the sheer amount of people crammed into it. His people. His subjects. To care for, to guide. To protect. 

Chairs scraped across the floor as the crowd rose to their feet. 

The new king tried to school his features into what he hoped was a reserved, confident and regal expression. It would do his kingdom no good to see their new king shaking in the throne like a nervous schoolboy called upon to present to the class. As the priest's chants and various noble mutterings faded into the background, he surveyed the sea of faces in front of him. 

His mother, Annette, her sparkling blue eyes a mirror of his own, stood smiling, face flushed with pride and quiet confidence. His own eyes softened as he nodded at her. 

His younger sisters by her side—one blonde, one brunette, one redhead, with their unruly mops of hair having been tamed and wrestled into courtly braids. He smirked, knowing the maidservants would have had one hell of a morning bribing, badgering and negotiating with the girls to get them into their dresses and all their finery. 

His eyes flitted over to his advisors. Zoltan, Shani, Essi and Priscilla. Warmth bloomed in his chest. He remembered them all as a filthy, wild and ragged group of younglings barrelling through fields and scampering over rooftops, eyes wet with the kind of tears that come from joyous laughter.

He remembered the scrapes, the cuts and bruises, how he would be hauled in front of his Father and berated about how a prince, a future king, should behave. Yet time and time again, he would seek them out and they would play with the freedom and imagination only children possess. 

They were mages, witches and warlocks. They were pirates, princesses in need of saving, horrible monsters and mad scientists performing unholy experiments. They were slaves on the run, circus performers, musicians, Witchers. 

They were his best friends then, and now. He couldn't imagine trusting anyone else to be by his side. 

As he grew older, his duties and responsibilities changed. He was being molded, shaped. A future king. His schooling was increased, more days spent at a desk slaving over books, learning laws, memorising the history of his country and having traditions and expectations pounded into his head. They played less, and studied more. His friends had been there through all of it, even when their life paths took them in different directions, they all came back to each other again and again. 

A month before his father died, Julian had been dragged in front of the court's barber. His father, ever the stern and disapproving mentor, stood behind him in the chair as the barber began his work. "This will be your final trim, Julian. As is tradition. When you take over as king, you will not cut your hair, for as long as the empire lives in peace." 

Julian had sighed and nodded. "I know, Your Majesty," he murmured softly. "When the sword is sheathed, the hair grows long. To draw the sword and cut the hair is a declaration of war. I listened, Father." 

His father's steely grey eyes met his own in the mirror, not a speck of emotion, and the old king nodded slightly. 

For all his faults as a parent, Julian could begrudgingly admit his father was an excellent ruler. Firm but fair, diplomatic and slow to anger. His people respected him and he had worked hard over the years to maintain positive political relationships with the surrounding kingdoms. His once-chestnut brown hair, now gray, twisted and coiled down his back and pooled on the floor at his feet. 

The kingdom had not seen war for many, many years. 

Julian himself had never seen war. The last time his father had cut his hair was before he was even born. He had heard the stories. 

Their kingdom, Cidaris, was one of the smaller ones on the Continent. Their army, however, was well-organised, well-trained and most importantly, had a deep respect and trust in their king and were willing to lay down their lives for their kingdom. When the bloodthirsty and ruthless warlord of Temeria had sought to annex their lands, Julian's father had stood in the city centre among his people, dragged a sword through his hair then rallied his troops and marched them out to defend their border.

The warlord, an arrogant and long-dead prick whose name no one cared to remember, assumed it would be a quick and easy takeover and had brought only a tenth of his army, not expecting resistance.

The whole thing had been over quickly. The Temerian soldiers were no match for the Cidarisian army, most were swiftly and efficiently slaughtered on the spot and the remaining quickly broke ranks, unwilling to die for a king who saw them as little more than livestock. 

That had been several years before Julian was born, and no one since then had bothered to try. 

His father had passed unexpectedly, an illness entering his lungs and eating him from the inside out in a little under a month. 

Which left Julian. 

Here. 

With impossibly high standards to meet, impossibly heavy expectations to rise to, and the entire kingdom's future held in his hands. 

He brushed a chestnut curl out of his eyes, the unruly fringe pushed down by the heavy golden crown. 

He smiled out at the crowd and raised his hand in a gesture of acknowledgement. 

My people. 

Simultaneously, the crowd erupted in a deafening roar. 

"Long live King Julian! Long live King Julian!" 

At the priest's indication, he stood from the throne and stepped out to the edge of the platform. He drew a shaky breath in, settling it deep into his stomach, steeling his nerves and willing his voice not to crack.

He'd given plenty of public, princely speeches before. Played his lute and sang in front of crowds four times the size of this one. Delivered words of comfort at funerals, gave blessings at weddings. 

This, however, was different.

This was his kingdom. These people were here, waiting for their new king to address them. 

"May my reign be marked by peace, prosperity and unity—unity within our own kingdom, and with those outside its bounds. I stand before you, your king, and ask that you pledge your loyalty to me. Walk beside me, as friends, when times are good. Walk behind me, under my protection, when times are trying. May the ancestors favour our kingdom kindly, may Melitele herself pour blessings out on us." 

His voice rang out, warm and clear across the hopeful faces of his people. As his speech finished, silence hung heavy in the air. Not a soul dared breathe or break the spell. 

It was Priscilla, ever the boldest, who broke it. 

"King Julian!" She cried, joyful and bright like a bell. 

"King Julian!" came the answering chorus from the crowd. 

Julian closed his eyes and let it wash over him. 

This is it. Let's do this. 

Chapter Text

Three Years Later 

Julian—Jaskier, as he was desperately trying to get his people to call him—sat draped across his throne, legs over the arm rest. He picked away distractedly at his lute as Essi hummed a little tune. She was braiding flowers into his shoulder length hair, tying back the longer strands so they didn't get into his face. He loved when she did his hair, it helped quiet the noise and sort his thoughts out. 

He didn't sit on his throne much these days, preferring to be out and about among his people. He loved the marketplace, the economy thriving under his steady leadership, he adored sampling wares and the light in someone's eyes as their king bought something they had made, grown or built. He loved visiting the healers in town, spending time with the sick and injured they were tending to, lifting everyone's spirits. He spent time on the farms, listening intently as the farmers discussed their crops with him, lamenting the dry seasons or rejoicing with him in the abundance of rain. 

He especially loved visiting the schoolhouse and playing his lute for the children of his kingdom. 

Perhaps that was what he needed. A visit to the school. 

The adults around him were very set in their ways, bowing on sight, refusing to look him in the eye, calling him Your Majesty or Your Highness. He knew it was out of respect and tradition, not fear, and he was slowly chipping away at the old ways. His close friends and family called him Jaskier, at least. 

But the children, those innocent souls with their wide-eyed wonder, knew no such formalities. They would run to him and fling their arms around his neck, squealing with laughter. They called him Jaskier. They weren't afraid to trust him with their problems—the big ones, and the little ones. 

Mari snatched my book! 

"Oh dear, Mari, did you forget to use your words and ask for a turn?" 

A sullen nod and huff from the little brunette, then a begrudging handover of the book in question, leading to smiles all around. 

My daddy said his horses are sick, and we have to put them down later. Put them down...where? 

Jaskier's eyebrows furrowed. He made a mental note to check in on that little boy's father, the resident tailor, later. No horses meant no way in or out of the city to gather supplies and sell his wares. 

He absent-mindedly drew the little boy close for a hug. "Sometimes when animals get sick, the kindest thing to do is to help them along to the next life so they don't have to feel pain anymore." The little boy, Aleks, nodded sagely. Gods, children were smarter than most people thought. They understood so much. 

Jaskier's eyes were drawn to a small, quiet girl in the corner of the classroom. He flicked the school mistress a questioning look. He recognised the child from a brief interaction with her family when they first arrived in the city. They had moved to the area all the way from Aedirn, their small town having slowly dwindled in number as people left for bigger and busier cities. It had gotten harder and harder for them to make a living there, so they packed up and set out for Cidaris. 

When Jaskier had curiously questioned why they didn't settle somewhere else in Aedirn, the parents had shrugged. 

"Word travels," they told him. "They say you are a kind and fair ruler. That we would be safe here." 

Jaskier's heart had warmed at that. He nodded at them gently. "You will be." 

Excusing himself from the litter of children in his lap, on his back and hanging off his arms, he brushed off his pants and stood up to have a quiet word with the school mistress. 

"Is she alright?" he asked. 

The school mistress nodded and shrugged. "I'm having a hard time getting her to open up. She doesn't talk a lot, she hasn't really made any friends." 

Jaskier thanked her and gently made his way over to the corner, where the little girl glared at him. He knelt down and made eye contact with her. 

"I'm Jaskier, what's your name?" He tried. 

She stared at him, unimpressed. 

"I think I remember you," he said softly, "your parents were very kind." 

The little girl looked away, eyes filling with tears. 

Jaskier made a questioning noise. "I'm sorry, are you...is everything...okay?" 

The little girl's lip trembled and she sized Jaskier up, before apparently deciding he was safe and launching herself into his arms, sobbing. 

He caught her, almost tumbling over, and steadied himself. He waited, not wanting to push. Something was wrong. She would tell him when she was ready. 

"My..." she hiccuped, in between sobs, "my...my..." Jaskier ran a hand over her hair soothingly. "My Ma is gone!" the little girl wailed in his arms. Jaskier looked at the teacher, confusion on his face.

Gone? he mouthed, one eyebrow raised, did she...?

The teacher, confusion written on her face, held out her hands and half shrugged. I have no idea. Her dad...didn't say anything?

Jaskier hummed. He gestured at the girl with a tilt of his head picked up the little sobbing child to pass her into the waiting arms of her teacher, who held her close. 

Gone...? Like she died? Or gone, she left? Jaskier tumbled the thoughts around in his head. His time spent with children always gave him something to follow up on, or check in with. 

This, and the tailor, would be added to his list of urgent things to do. 

As he was saying his goodbyes to the children, Zoltan came barrelling through the door, gasping for breath. Jaskier's expression darkened at the look on his face. Whatever this was, it couldn't be good. 

"Thank goodness, Jaskier, you're needed in court. There's a—the scout came back, they—" 

Jaskier hushed his friend with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

"Not here, Zoltan. Not in front of them," he gestured to the children behind him who were watching with apprehension. "Let's go." The men nodded at the teacher and the children and left the classroom. 

Zoltan's horse, Patch, was haphazardly hitched next to Jaskier's own stallion, Pegasus. Jaskier swallowed. He must have really been in a hurry to get here. Zoltan preferred to walk and wander around the city, friendly and easily distracted, chatting with everyone wherever he went. It was one of the qualities that endeared him to Jaskier. Wordlessly, the two men mounted their horses and set off back to the castle swiftly. 

Jaskier's heart pounded in time with Pegasus' rapid hoofbeats as they tore up the city streets. What is happening? Is someone hurt? Is it Mother? No, he said the scouts. What did they find? 

Soon enough, they were within the castle walls, swinging off their horses and leaving them in the capable care of the stable boy. Zoltan led the way, setting a hurried pace which Jaskier had to jog to keep up with. Oh. This is bad bad. 

Saunter, is the word Jaskier would use to describe the way Zoltan usually moved. He rarely hurried anywhere. He certainly didn't hustle, the way they were now. 

They made it to the court room, where Jaskier was greeted with the sight of his advisors surrounding one of his scouts, who was seated and being fanned by the castle healer. He was clearly still recovering from a rapid and urgent journey where he had pushed himself to the brink. Jaskier frowned. 

"Kaleb, are you okay?" 

The scout nodded and waved a hand dismissively. "Your Majesty, please, I'm not important, it's—" 

Jaskier clicked his tongue, cutting him off. "Kaleb, that's not—" 

The boy interrupted, fear creeping across his face. "Please, king Julian, please. It's—there's a convoy. Coming here."

Jaskier's brows knitted in confusion. "And we will welcome them with open arms, Kaleb, this is hardly—" 

Kaleb groaned and shook his head. "No, please. They're Witchers. From Kaer Morhen. My king..." he trailed off, uncertain. "They fly the flag of war. They are coming here, to declare war." 

Jaskier's stomach fell. 

"They...what?" He wracked his brain as he felt bile rising up the back of his throat. The cold and sharp tendrils of panic started weaving their way through his mind.

What could we have possibly done to anger the Witchers of Kaer Morhen? We have no dealings with them. We do no trade with them. They don't interfere in human matters. What...what is going on? 

Jaskier, rattled, searched out Zoltan's eyes. Zoltan nodded in understanding and pressed a hand to Kaleb's shoulder. "Thank you, lad," he murmured. "You've done your kingdom proud. You may go." 

As the boy left and the doors were shut behind him, Jaskier whipped around to face his advisors with panic in his eyes. 

Priscilla held up her hands. "Hang on, Jaskier. Take a breath." He did. 

Shani spoke next. "We don't know what they want yet. A convoy, he said, not an army."

Jaskier nodded. She was right. He took a big breath and blew it out thoughtfully. "Sorry, yes. I...don't know what came over me." He looked over each of his advisor's gratefully. "No need to panic. The Witchers don't get involved in human affairs. Maybe...I don't know. We need to just wait and hear them out. Did Kaleb say how far away they were?" 

Essi nodded. "He saw them yesterday, by now two days ride." 

Jaskier frowned. "How...gods. See to it that he is paid handsomely and given a proper break. He must have pushed his body to the limit to arrive here so quickly. I don't want my scouts to work themselves to death." Shani nodded in agreement. 

Jaskier sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, which now sat at his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly and his father's long, coiled braid flashed across his mind. Gods, don't the drums of war beat louder warnings? Don't let this be a fight. Please. Not now. 

"Two days, then. Shani, please take care of Kaleb and disperse a message among the people. We are expecting visitors, do not be alarmed. Priscilla and Essi, prepare our halls and rooms to receive guests. Alert the kitchen, the servants. We will be nothing if not courteous and welcoming. Zoltan, to the barracks, if you would please. Let the commander know to be on alert, but restrained. No one lifts so much as a letter opener towards them without my word." 

His advisors nodded their assent, and left one by one, clapping him on the shoulder as they left the room. 

When he was alone, he sunk down slowly until he was seated on the floor. He stared off into the distance, eyes unfocussed. Kaleb might have been mistaken. There would be no reason for them to have drawn the attention of the Witchers. They had done nothing worthy of a declaration of war. This felt like a test. His first real test. 

He really, really, hoped it wasn't one he'd fail. 

His people deserved peace. 

Chapter Text

The Witchers arrived under the cover of night. 

Jaskier was woken to panicked hammering on his door and a call of, "they're here!" leaving him bleary-eyed and stumbling around the room trying to wake himself up and form some sort of acceptable first impression. 

He heaved open his wardrobe with a huff and ran his fingers gently over one of his favourite doublets. It was red, dark red, a stunning piece that he wore many times when he had been training in Oxenfurt. When he was just Jaskier. A student, an annoying bard. Jaskier, who played bawdy songs and danced on tavern tables. Jaskier, who slept under the stars and in strangers' beds. Just Jaskier. Not King Julian Alfred Pankratz, who had one chance at making a good first impression on the Witchers who brought themselves and a war to his doorstep. Not King Julian, who held his people's future and safety in his hands, a fragile thing. It was in these moments that, despite his deep love for his people, he found himself wishing he was born a nobody. A commoner. A child born to a little farming couple somewhere, whose biggest responsibility would be to keep the family farm going. Someone who could leave, travel, spend his life seeing the Continent in all its glory and putting it into song. 

Someone who was free. 

"Enough of that," he scoffed out loud. "Don't keep them waiting!"

He settled on a pair of dark linen trousers and a cream coloured shirt with the top two buttons undone. He left the shirt untucked, rolled the sleeves up to the elbows and slung his short sword strap around his waist. It gave the impression that he'd been interrupted, awoken, was unprepared. Always ready to fight, but please, gods don't let it come to that. 

The only thing that betrayed his status as king was the gold chain around his neck, and the many rings adorning his fingers that he never took off. Without those, he could have passed for anyone else in his kingdom. 

Unassuming. Non-threatening. Rushed, but calm. 

He left his chambers and made his way towards Essi's room. Priscilla would more than likely be in there too. He knocked gently on the door, giving her (or them) a moment to wake. 

"Our guests are here," he called through the wooden door. "Please make yourselves presentable and join us in the courtroom." 

Essi mumbled, "Aye, Jaskier!" sounding mostly asleep still. He paused, a smirk lingering waiting to see if he'd need to swing past Priscilla's room as well. 

"Yes...king," came the second muffled reply. Jaskier laughed warmly and made his way toward Zoltan's room. 

Forgoing any sense of formality, he swung open the door to his oldest and dearest friend's room. Jaskier moved through the space like a breeze, or a hurricane rather, grabbing a pillow off the armchair and slinging it at his friend's sleeping form. 

Zoltan rolled over and regarded him with a huff. "No." 

Jaskier laughed, shrill and tense. "Our guests are here!" 

Zoltan sat up rubbing his eyes. "And you sound happy about that, because..." he trailed off, surveying Jaskier with narrowed eyes. Then he laughed. "Oh gods, you're losing your mind." 

Jaskier flopped dramatically onto Zoltan's bed with a put upon sigh. "Yes, oh yeah, you got me. Maybe it's mania. Hysteria. They're here, it's the middle of the night, they might be about to start a war—gods, Zoltan, I don't really want to cut off my hair, you know—it's all exciting I suppose, and—"

A pillow to his face cut him off with an oof. 

Zoltan smirked. "Sorry, Your Majesty. Someone had to stop that spiral," he teased lightly. His face settled into something more serious. "It's going to be okay, Jaskier. Let's go welcome our guests." 

Jaskier laughed, for real this time, not the nervous thing he'd choked out earlier. "Yes. That's it. Let's not keep them waiting." 

He sat on the bed, staring at the fireplace while Zoltan hopped around the room, tugging on clothes.

He'd spent the past two days in his thoughts, trying not to ruminate on the wild and unhinged rumours he'd heard over the years about Witchers and terrify himself before they'd even arrived. 

More monster than man. 

Mutated, soulless killing machines. 

Hunters, butchers, fierce and unrelenting. 

He'd mostly managed to avoid overthinking it thus far. Now that they were here, on his doorstep, it suddenly felt all too real. What if they simply slaughtered him where he stood? What if they were here to ransack the city, take whatever they wanted, set it on fire and take over with the ashes still smoldering? Did they want him to defer without a fight and become a vassal state? 

A pair of gentle hands on either side of his face snapped him out of his musings. He met Zoltan's warm eyes and huffed, leaning into the touch. Zoltan nodded and gestured to the door. He was ready, it was time. 

They met Priscilla and Essi in the hallway, wordlessly exchanging grim looks. 

Just get it over with. 

When they arrived at the courtroom where the convoy of Witchers was waiting, Jaskier took a deep breath, steeled his nerves and swung the doors open with a hefty push. 

Straightening his spine and assuming an air of confidence, he strode into the candlelit court room and swept his eyes over the group assembled before him. 

Sweet. Fucking. Melitele. 

He swallowed, expression remaining neutral. If he was intimidated (and he absolutely, definitely was) now was not the time to show it. He flung his arms wide in a gesture of welcome and smiled charmingly. 

It was just that they were so big and stunning. 

A quick assessment had confirmed six of them stood waiting for him, fanned out in a slight "V" formation. He scanned over them, feeling rapidly out of his depth. There was a beautiful woman on the end, raven-black hair and shockingly purple eyes. A mage, he guessed, fucking good start. She stood next to an older warrior, with grey hair that somehow made him more frightening, despite his obvious years. He wore a silver wolf medallion around his neck, a quick perusal of the group confirmed that they all had one. On the other side of the group stood a snarling, red-headed beast of a man and a lean, lithe, wicked green-eyed warrior with dark olive skin. The green-eyed one had his hand on the red-heads' shoulder, Jaskier noted—and his medallion was different. Curious. 

That left the two at the front. Jaskier kept his expression steady as he sized up the Witcher Warlord and his closest advisor. The right hand man had dark, curly hair, bright amber eyes and a jagged scar across half of his face. Jaskier winced internally. Did the Warlord give him that? Was it a kind of...punishment? He grimaced. He did not want to know what kind of man would do that to one of his own. 

And then there was the Warlord himself. Jaskier felt like the breath had been knocked out of his lungs when he made eye contact with eyes so golden they looked like someone had captured sunlight. The warlord had long, white hair, tied  with a leather thong that fell to about halfway down his back. Those golden eyes were filled with rage, and Jaskier felt the room shrinking around him. 

Get it together. You're the king, for Melitele's sake. SAY SOMETHING! 

"Welcome to Cidaris, friends," he started. The red-head warrior snorted. Rude. "I am King..." he hesitated, unsure, "...Julian, but you may refer to me as Jaskier. Please excuse my state of dress, we did not expect, uh...visitors so late. If you wish to rest and retire, say so, and my servants will escort you to some guest rooms." 

Jaskier smiled again, warm and friendly. That wasn't so bad right? Get them to bed, be a good host, business in the morning? 

Oh, gods okay, yeah that was the wrong thing to say, oop—

All eyes on the room centred firmly on the white-haired Witcher who stalked forward to where he stood. Jaskier gulped, raising his eyes to meet the man who was quite a bit larger than him. 

The scraping of steel rang out through the room as the warlord drew his sword. 

Fuck. 

Jaskier held up his hands. "Whoa, wait, hang on a second, I don't even—" he stopped, as the witcher wordlessly took his long white hair in hand and lifted the sword to it. 

Jaskier's eyes widened. Dear gods, no–

A slice, then gasps from around the room as a long white ponytail was thrown at Jaskier's feet.

 Fucking fuck.

He swallowed and raised his eyes to meet the warlords'. 

The warlord, who was now holding a dagger by it's blade, handle outstretched towards him.

Ah. My turn. 

He took a deep breath and lifted his face to meet the Witcher's gaze. "No. You are mistaken."

And this is how I die, he thought wryly as the Witcher stepped forward. "At least...tell me why," he managed to choke out, searching golden eyes filled with burning fury. 

The Witcher regarded him, saying nothing for a heavy moment. Then he spoke. 

"Return the girl. You have three days. Failing that, there will be more of us, and your city will be torn apart brick by brick." He spat the words out as if they tasted of poison. 

Genuine shock plastered it's way across Jaskier's face.

"I...the girl? I'm so sorry, I have no idea what you mean. There...there's been a misunderstanding—" he was cut off as the warlord suddenly crowed into his space, a low growl coming from deep in his chest. 

Everything around Jaskier was eclipsed as he stared up into the Witcher's golden eyes. He felt a rough hand snake it's way into his hair, pulling it tight. The warlord raised a dagger and Jaskier's heart sank. 

"No, wait, just listen–" he begged. He's going to kill me. 

A swift sching sounded, a brush of air whizzing past his neck as the witcher flicked his wrist.

The warlord released Jaskier, who dropped to his knees, numb. His ears were ringing as he stared at his long, chestnut-coloured locks now littering the ground. 

The warlord, without another word, had turned and walked back to his convoy, who were now making as if to exit. 

Time slowed down, to a stop.

He could hear his own heart pounding, blood rushing, lungs filling with air as he tenderly traced a finger over the jagged cuts of hair. 

Then, he laughed. 

It was a dry, harsh thing. 

Three years. His father hadn't cut his hair in decades, since before Jaskier was born and it remained uncut until the time of his death. Jaskier made it three years. The decision not his own, for reasons unclear, even still. 

Do not let them leave. The thought echoed through his mind, and he snapped his head up, blue eyes burning a hole in the Warlord's back.

Jaskier hauled himself to his feet, brushing stray hairs off his pants. He strode confidently over to the retreating convoy, heart racing. 

Placing himself between the Witchers and the door, he gave them one of his grins, this time sleazy and dripping with spite. His blue eyes flashed dangerously, daring them to take another step. 

Something akin to hesitation flashed across the warlords eyes. Good. Jaskier's reaction had caught them by surprise. 

"Please," he purred, an edge to his voice, "stay. At least the night." 

Red-hair raised an eyebrow. "And be murdered while we sleep? Pass." 

"No harm will befall you here," Jaskier replied breezily. "My carpets were too expensive to defile with your blood. If it's a war you want, a war you shall have...in the morning." 

The green-eyed Witcher choked off a laugh, covering it with a fake cough. 

The warlord hummed, considering, then nodded. Jaskier clicked his fingers in the direction of his advisors, who had long since been shocked into silence. 

"Yes, king," murmured Shani. She stepped forward and gestured for the convoy to follow her, which they did, after a grunt and a jerk of the warlord's head. 

Not much for words, that one, Jaskier though dryly. 

When Shani and the Witchers had left the room, Jaskier whirled around to face the rest of his advisors. 

They stood, silently, various expressions of shock, disbelief, anger and confusion written on their faces. Then, they all spoke at once. 

"Jaskier, what the—" 

"Are you perhaps short of a—" 

"What could you possibly—" 

Jaskier held his hands up to silence them. "Please," he said, softly, "just hear me out." 

Chapter Text

Geralt closed the door softly behind him and waited to feel the hum of his medallion, alerting him that Yennefer had cast a locking spell on the door. Probably a silencing spell too, he mused. You could never tell who might be sneaking around, listening through walls or under doors. He felt the familiar hum vibrating against his chest and he let out a sigh. Finally, he could breathe a bit.

The King's advisor had led them to the guest wing, giving them a brief tour with clipped, icy words. Not that they were expecting a warm welcome. The advisor had assured them they would be left unbothered, and that someone would fetch them in the morning, then whisked herself away into the dark hallways of the castle.

Geralt doubted they could trust this cocky, young king. The arrogance basically radiated off the man. Did he really think he could lie to a group of Witchers? He felt his mouth twist inadvertently into a snarl as he recalled the way the young man had acted so innocently, pretending he had no idea what was going on. The nerve. 

Geralt turned to face his group and bid them goodnight with a curt order to get some sleep. Instead, he found each of them glaring him down with a similarly unimpressed expression on their face. Shadows from the fireplace danced around the room, lending a ghoulish feel to the proceedings.

He scowled. "What?" 

Vesemir exhaled through his nose. "That was not the plan, Wolf." 

Yennefer rolled her eyes. "We agreed that you'd cut off your own hair, as a declaration of war." 

Geralt hummed, unimpressed. "And?" 

He was met with groans and more eye rolls. Eskel stepped forward and placed his hand lightly on Geralt's shoulder. 

"You cut off his hair, Geralt. Why..." he trailed off softly, eyes searching, "...that wasn't the plan."

Geralt grunted. He had done that. Shit. He hadn't meant to. 

He went to offer some form of explanation when Lambert laughed suddenly. "You fucked up, Geralt! Did you hear the way he laughed? Oh ho, you are in for it now!" 

Geralt winced at the memory. The way the king had cackled, dark and manic...a shiver ran down his spine. It had not been a pleasant sound. 

"He has Ciri," he stated firmly, pushing any other thoughts aside, "he has Ciri, and he had the gall to look me in the eye and claim he had no idea why we are here. He's a liar, a kidnapper, an actor, a power-hungry—I don't know why we didn't cut him down there and be done with it." 

Eskel cut him off. "Wolf." 

Geralt's eyes locked onto Eskel's, breathing hard, mind hazy with anger. 

Eskel spoke softly, cushioning the blow. "You let your fears, and anger, cloud your judgement. Geralt...he spoke no word of a lie. He doesn't know why we're here." 

Geralt swallowed, hard. 

Fuck. 

He searched his other family member's eyes, looking for confirmation. Vesemir nodded, Eskel spoke the truth. Lambert was still smirking about the whole thing. Prick. Aiden met his gaze coolly and confidently. He nodded. The king had not lied. 

Fuck! 

Geralt let out a ragged sigh, collapsing into the closest chair. 

"I just...I just want her back. I didn't want a war, I just want her home. Safe. With us." 

His pack murmured their agreement, crowding closer together, offering warmth and comfort. In the months it had been since Cirilla went missing, the gap she had left grew larger and more painful each day. 

Yennefer broke the silence with the drumming of her long nails. A mix of amber, golden and green-eyes fell on her. 

"Why are we here, then?" she asked coolly. 

She was met with confused stares and raised eyebrows. She sighed. "Why are we here?" 

Lambert snorted. "For Cirilla. Keep up, Witch." He snarled the last word like a slur and Yennefer flicked a little bolt of energy at him. Just enough to tingle. 

"Hush, dog," she commanded. "We are here, in Cidaris, declaring war, because our intelligence gathered through our network of spies led us to the conclusion that one King Julian of Cidaris, has kidnapped her to use her for her powers. Correct?" 

The Wolves nodded. 

Yennefer continued. "The information that we were fed indicates that the King of Cidaris paid someone, who paid someone else to contract a couple to steal Cirilla from right under our noses. The king planned to settle her in as a civilian, until the heat died down and we all thought she was dead and gave up searching. Yes?"

Her audience nodded again. They had been over this from every angle, over and over again, since the information had come to light. Eventually, they decided on this current plan they were enacting. Or trying to, at least. 

Send a convoy, declare war, scare the young and arrogant king into handing her back over and return home with as little blood shed as possible. 

Simple. Ish. 

"Yet we have arrived here, and the king clearly has no idea what we're talking about and either convincingly lied to a group of highly skilled witchers, or, is telling the truth. And we've just declared war on him." Yennefer paused and let her words sink in.

More blank stares. 

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Melitele's sake, these Wolves could be so dense. 

"We've been set up!" she shouted, with a dramatic flourish. 

Understanding dawned on Geralt's face. "Our information was...wrong?" he queried. 

Yennefer nodded. "Wrong, and deliberately so." 

Aiden frowned. "Not possible, our network is iron clad. To get that kind of information back to us it would have had to be fed through many, many people. Unless—" he groaned, suddenly. 

Geralt hummed, low and deep. "Yen, you think someone in Kaer Morhen is...a spy?" 

"I think we've been used, Geralt. I can't see for what yet." Her lips pressed into a thin line as she mulled over the consequences. 

Vesemir cleared his throat. "Who benefits from us going to war with Cidaris?" 

Silence hung heavy over the room as they considered.  

Lambert broke it. 

"The fuck are we supposed to do now? March out and say: sorry, our mistake! We'll be leaving now. You already hacked off your hair and his, you think he'll let us go quietly?" 

Geralt ran his hands through his hair. It felt wrong. Short and choppy, ending far sooner than the lengths he was used to, fingers slipping out into the cold air. At least he'd done it to himself first. A reminder. His heart twisted as his mind wandered back to the way the young king had looked as Geralt had grabbed his hair and cut it off. Those bright, blue eyes, clouded with fear and...determination? Resignation? He shook his head to clear the thoughts. What's done was done. They had until dawn to figure out their next move. 

"Maybe we throw ourselves at his feet and beg for mercy," Geralt huffed, only semi-sarcastically. 

"And ruin all that hard work we put into our reputation? Fuck off," scoffed Lambert. 

"You could try talking to him," pointed out Yennefer, ever so helpfully. 

Eskel hummed in agreement. "Yen is right, tell him the truth." 

"And apologise." Vesemir commanded.

Geralt groaned and put his head in his hands. "There are no amount of words that can fix this," he sighed. 

The same heavy silence as before settled over the room as the pack sat and considered their options. Dawn was rapidly approaching, only a few hours of darkness remained. 

He had gotten them into this mess, he was going to have to be the one to get them out of it. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier couldn't sleep. 

Not a surprise, really.

Instead, he lay sprawled on his plush comforter, head hanging upside down off the edge of the bed just so, so that he could stare out his window up at the moon. It was just shy of dawn, when the first few rays of light began to creep over the horizon, turning the sky from black to a soft orange. The moon hung low and defined among the morning light, crisp and clear, almost close enough to touch. He'd always loved the night sky, charting and following the phases of the moon as it waxed and waned. He loved the stars that speckled the yawning black expanse and twinkled, dancing and sparkling like gemstones. His next favourite times were dawn and dusk, the transition from day into night or the reverse. There was something about the softness, the silence of it all. The reverance, like a breath held, as stars began to push their way through the darkening purple sky, or when the dawn poked it's fingers over the edge of the world and stretched. It was peace. The kind of peace he desperately needed right now.

His mind was a tangled web of chaos as he sifted through the events of the day and tried to make heads or tails of it. He sighed. It was all just...exhausting. He closed his eyes and hummed a little tune, the same one Essi had made up just a few days ago while she was braiding his hair. 

His hair. 

His stomach clenched and agony scraped a wicked claw through his heart, leaving him gasping. 

He sat bolt upright on the bed, eyes wide. 

They were at war. What was he doing sitting around gazing at the moon? A warlord with eyes like the sun and hair the colour of moonlight (cut that out, Jaskier, he warned himself sternly) had stormed into his castle, cut his own hair off in a flagrant challenge and then had done the very same to him. 

We are at war, was the declaration. We are at war with you, and you don't have a say in the matter. Well, okay, that was kind of how war usually went. Still. 

Chestnut brown locks fluttering to the ground around him flashed across his vision briefly. 

We are at war and you are at war with us. 

Jaskier choked back a sob. 

He was not prepared for this. 

He let his thoughts drift away and reflected on the brief, hushed and frantic meeting he'd had with his advisors after Shani had returned from the guest wing. He'd tried to convince them to trust him. 

Jaskier had talked them into let the Witcher convoy stay, so they at least had a chance of figuring out how to fix this. Maybe one of the terrifying lot was more understanding than the others. Maybe one of them could be convinced to listen. Maybe the witch could be...actually no, not her. She might have been the scariest of the bunch. Something about her eyes...

Jaskier shivered.

All he knew was that if they had made it out the door, the battle was already lost. They couldn't produce the girl the Witchers were searching for, and if the Warlord and his crew weren't close by, they had no chance of convincing them otherwise. 

At least for now, they were here. 

He let out a shaky breath. That was something. Maybe they could be reasoned with. 

Then Jaskier gasped and his hand flew to his mouth. A terrible, truly awful idea started to work it's way into his mind. 

It would never work. 

But maybe...

He threw on a robe and dashed out of his room down the hallway towards Zoltan's room. He flung open the door and rushed in. 

"Not again..." mumbled Zoltan, rolling over to appraise the intruder. "Can it not wait until morning, you motherless whore?" 

Jaskier laughed, deep and rich. "I have a mother, but the whore part I won't argue. This is important, get up!" He dragged Zoltan up and out of bed and shepherded him back towards Essi's room. 

He rapped on the wooden door, grinning widely as Priscilla opened it, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. She groaned. 

"Not again." 

"That's what I said," grumbled Zoltan.

Priscilla regarded Jaskier warily, then gestured for the men to enter. Essi's room was large, like all his advisor's rooms, with a separate sitting area and office. They filtered into the sitting room and collapsed on couches, blankets piled between them all to stave off the early morning chill. 

"Speak," mumbled Essi, dropping indelicately onto the couch next to Priscilla. 

Jaskier huffed. "Alright, alright. So. The Witchers think we have 'the girl', right?" Everyone nodded. Jaskier cracked a grin. "What if we did?" 

Zoltan rolled his eyes. "Speak plainly, Julek. It's too early." 

Priscilla mumbled her agreement. "We don't know who she is, what are you getting at? You want to kidnap her in retaliation or...?" She trailed off, confused and unimpressed. 

Jaskier raised his hands. "No, no, gods, no." He looked at Priscilla in annoyance. Kidnapping? Come on. Wait, that's on me, I didn't explain it yet. He shook his head and continued, "they think that we have her. Which means we have something to bargain with, right?" 

"But we don't–" interrupted Essi. 

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "But they think we do. So let's tell them we have her, she's somewhere safe and won't be harmed, as long as they play nice. Then, we use the time and distraction to send out our scouts and spies, find out who this mysterious girl is and where she is, then surprise! We bring her back to the Witchers and all is saved!" He finished with a dramatic flourish and a little shake of his hands. 

His friends were silent. 

"Jaskier..." started Priscilla.

"That is the dumbest thing you have ever said," came Zoltan's reply. "No. No, Jaskier, it won't work. The second they find out we don't have 'the girl', they'll slaughter us all." 

"It's buying us time!" argued Jaskier, arms crossed. He tried, really tried not to pout. 

"It's too risky," said Priscilla, a frown marring her delicate features, "it only gives us three days to find out something, anything, about this girl. If we come up empty handed, we'll be fucked." 

"Well maybe in the meantime we can convince them they're mistaken and we don't have her—wait." Jaskier planted his face in his hands. "That's the opposite of the plan." He moaned dramatically. 

Zoltan patted his back comfortingly. "Let's just.. survive breakfast, Jaskier." 

Jaskier shrugged non-committally. "It's about that time anyway," he sighed and rose to his feet, offering a hand out to pull Zoltan up. "Rise and shine, my lovelies. The fate of the kingdom rests on this meal! No pressure." 

He was met with a chorus of groans. He grinned. 

"I'm serious. Get to it!" he laughed. His kingly voice was never very convincing when used on the people he'd known since he was a child. Oh well. I tried. 

He left Essi's room and wandered back to his own chambers, mind thrumming with restless energy. He kept thinking back to his plan. Maybe it wasn't the best idea, but it was the best one they had. 

He considered the only other option he could think of—throw himself at their feet and beg for mercy. 

There weren't really any stories out there about how merciful Witchers were. It seemed...unlikely to work. They hadn't shown any inclination they would listen yesterday, why would it be different today? Jaskier pored over the events in his mind. 

The warlord, the white-haired, golden-eyed terror of a man did not speak much. He was ruthless and unforgiving. Jaskier ran his hands over the back of his head, feeling the short, blunt edges. He was a walking reminder of the witcher's temper. 

A man like that was not likely to respond to a plea for mercy. He hadn't seen a shred of it in his eyes. 

Jaskier reached the door to his chambers, mind turning like clockwork. 

He was right. It was what needed to be done. Risky, yes. But necessary. Mind made up, he strode into his chambers to get dressed for the day. He had a story to sell, he was an actor, gods be damned, and he was going to make this believable. 

Regal robes? Check. 

Jewellery? Check. 

Eyeliner for that little extra something something? Check. 

Weapons? Absolutely. 

Jaskier regarded himself in his full length mirror. He could make this work. He'd taken plenty of acting classes, this was...more or less just like that. He could do this. Best not to think about what could go wrong and just get on with it.

Before he left for the mess hall to join his court and the Witchers for breakfast, Jaskier quietly summoned a guard. 

"Bring me Kaleb," was the hushed order. The guard complied. Jaskier finished putting on the final touches to his outfit, looking and feeling appropriately intimidating. Golden eyes, white hair and threatening black armour flashed across his vision. He swallowed. 

The Witchers had being intimidating down to an art form. 

Maybe this was a terrible idea. 

A soft knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. 

"Come in, Kaleb," he called. 

The young scout let himself in. 

Jaskier gave him a once over and nodded approvingly. "You're a very hard worker, Kaleb, my best scout. I think you're ready to handle something important for me." 

Kaleb's eyes widened. "M-me, your Majesty?" 

Jaskier smiled warmly. "It's very, very important Kaleb." 

The young boy drew his brows together and stood up a little straighter. "I'm at your service, Majesty." 

Jaskier produced a key from somewhere in the folds of his flowing robes, using it to unlock a hidden compartment behind his mirror. He pulled out a neatly folded stack of papers, rifling through them to find what he was looking for. 

With an elegant flick of his wrist, Jaskier offered a piece of paper out to Kaleb, who took it, mouth dropping open as he perused what was written on it. "This, this is..." 

Jaskier nodded. "My spies. Their locations, every court that has my eyes on it. Every fake identity, right there on that paper. Do you understand the gravity of what you are holding, Kaleb?" 

Kaleb nodded, unable to form a response. Jaskier pointed to three names. "Memorise these details. You have six minutes." 

Kaleb complied, eyes rapidly poring back and forth over the paper, lips moving silently as he committed the names and locations to memory. When he was done, he handed the page back to Jaskier. Jaskier returned it to the pile and locked his papers safely back in their spot. He'd move them tonight, just to be safe. 

He placed his hands firmly on Kaleb's shoulders. 

"Here's how it's going to go. You have twelve hours from now to extract these spies. Their code word is—here–" he scribbled down something on a piece of paper and held it up to Kaleb. "You got that?" 

Kaleb nodded and Jaskier shredded the piece of paper. 

"Kaleb, I know I keep stressing the importance of this mission. After you extract the spies, you need to pass on some information for me. The Witchers are looking for a girl. The girl, they said, and they believe we have her. They believe we have taken her. That is all the information I have. The four of you must search high and low, rip libraries apart, interrogate witnesses, I don't care what you do, it is of a vital importance that you find this girl. Or at least find out who has her." 

Kaleb nodded, the determination in his hazel eyes burning brightly. Jaskier knew he had chosen well, Kaleb had proven himself ready to take on such a responsibility. He gestured for Kaleb to leave and the boy rushed for the door. 

"Oh, wait!" Jaskier called. "I forgot. The Witchers have given us three days from today to produce her. There is not a moment to be wasted. Melitele go with you."

The boy nodded, bowed, and left. 

Well that was one part of the plan. Arguably the easier part. Now he had to threaten six very large, very angry, bloodthirsty Witchers who could snap him in half without expending much energy. 

Brilliant. 

Chapter Text

Breakfast was an event. 

Geralt had come out of his meditation that morning in a foul mood, feeling not at all rested. 

There was too much at stake. 

The Witchers roused and dressed, waiting for the knock at the door to summon them to breakfast.

The whole situation was just wrong. Something was off.

They'd arrived in the middle of the night, planning to throw the young king off his game and use that to their advantage. It had not worked. 

They had planned to make a big deal of Geralt cutting off his hair (it really wasn't, he was overdue for a haircut) and put the fear of the gods into the king by invoking an old human tradition. That had not worked either. 

They had expected to already have Ciri and be headed back to Kaer Morhen. And yet here they were...guests. Guests of the monarch they had just declared war on. Eating breakfast at his table. It was all so wrong. 

The advisors had greeted them as they entered the mess hall with curt nods and formal introductions. 

Geralt observed their faces as he recalled their names to commit them to memory. There was Essi, the court's resident diplomat. She was small, blonde and had a ferocity to her that reminded him slightly of Ciri. She gave a brief rundown of her role, which by and large had to do with maintaining relationships with bordering countries and required a lot of travelling. Priscilla, her partner, was introduced as such but Geralt knew the Witchers would have sussed that out anyway. Their scents were all over each other, entwined in the way that only people who spent years together had. Priscilla's title was Royal Counselor for the Arts, Agriculture and Science. Valuable things for a kingdom's strength, Geralt had noted. Mentally, of course. During the introductions he'd merely nodded respectfully at each advisor, face schooled carefully into a mask of disinterested, yet polite, neutrality. Courtly nonsense was exhausting. 

The only man on King Julian—Jaskier's?—advisory council was introduced to them as Zoltan. Zoltan, from what Geralt had gathered, was the king's all-around second in command. He was clearly intimately involved with the Cidarisian army, dabbled in financial matters, helped advise on political matters when Essi was travelling, was vital in regulating educational standards across the kingdom and was the king's oldest friend. 

Much like Eskel was to himself. 

The advisors had sat on one side of the table, the Witcher pack on the opposite side. 

Beyond introductions, no one spoke. 

The clatter of silverware on decorative plates echoed through the room, loud as a griffin's screech, as the company ate in silence. 

King Julian had not yet made an appearance, something clearly not unusual based upon the reactions, or lack thereof, from his advisors. They had simply gestured for the Witchers to begin eating, even without the presence of their king. 

Lambert pushed his chair back, scraping loudly against the floor, and Geralt winced. All eyes turned to glare at him. Lambert grimaced and went to apologise, when—

"Good morning, my beautiful people and dear guests!" King Julian barrelled through the mess hall doors with a flourish and far, far too much energy for a king who was supposed to be intimidated into submission, publically humiliated. It made Geralt feel like he'd missed a step, landed on the wrong foot. This was not a man ready to submit. This was a man who was in control. He raised his tankard in greeting to the king and regarded him warily over the rim.

Julian strode over to the head of the table and casually plopped himself into the empty seat there, one leg swung over the arm rest. Geralt narrowed his eyes. 

None of this is what they had expected. 

In the morning light he was able to examine the king more closely than he had been by candlelight several hours ago. The sun's early rays that danced across his face made his ocean-blue eyes shine. 

Geralt's grip tightened on his mug, knuckles white. Nobody had eyes that shade of blue. Was it a glamour? He frowned. His medallion hadn't warned him of any magic. The young man, which he estimated to not even be thirty years of age, had not a single wrinkle on his face— not stress lines or those of age. Hmm. 

Unlike the hurried dress the king had worn to meet them last night, this morning he was decked out in all his finery. A deep blue royal robe, lined with extravagant fur was draped across his shoulders. He wore jewellery on every part of the body the eye could see—Geralt did not find himself wondering about jewellery on parts the eye could not see, absolutely not—rings, bracelets, necklaces, earrings, all golden and set with jewels. He studied the king's face, was that kohl? The whole look was incredibly put together, and, if he assigned any value to physical things like gold and jewels, might have served to intimidate a lesser man than himself. Like a peacock showing off its glorious tail as a threat. 

He made eye contact with the king, caught staring. The king's blue eyes darkened as his gaze turned angry. Shit. Of course he's pissed, we're supposed to be fighting or something. 

Geralt coughed and turned his gaze away, locking eyes with Eskel and gesturing slightly to the door. 

We need to leave. Now. 

Eskel blinked slowly, then shook his head. He looked over at the king, then pointedly back at Geralt. Apologise, he mouthed. 

From the head of the table the king cleared his throat. 

He looked, not intimidating—Geralt couldn't put a finger on how to describe it. The young king had the innocent look of a child, wide eyes filled with wonder, a charming grin, a pleasant demeanour. Everything about him made you feel like you could let your guard down. The nickname he'd given, Jaskier, wasn't that some kind of flower? It suited him. Every time he entered the room, he simply commanded the attention of everyone present, and they found themselves all too happy to give it.

Yet even with all of that, there was something hard and unyielding behind his deep blue eyes. His expression was all hard lines, dark emotions swirling under the surface.

The king leaned forward. "So. You're here for the girl." 

Geralt sat back in his chair and met the king's gaze, unwavering. He didn't speak. 

Jaskier made a quick gesture at the servants lining the mess halls, who stepped forward to clear out the remainder of the breakfast meal. He rose from his seat, food untouched, and pointed at Geralt. 

"You, and...you," pointing at Eskel now, "let's discuss in my office. The rest of you may explore the grounds and make use of the facilities, but please, do not bother my subjects or servants."

He turned back to face the group of Witchers and advisors both, face softening ever so slightly. "We may be...at war," he started softly, "but for the time being you are my guests and you will be treated as such. Dismissed." 

Essi made a questioning sound, clearly confused at the dismissal. Geralt watched as the king met her eyes and shook his head minutely. Her expression darkened and she raised an eyebrow. A challenge? The king merely beseeched her with a pleading look and a gesture too quick to interpret, and she relented. The whole exchange was done in a matter of seconds, but spoke volumes of the king and his subjects. This was a man who spent time with his people. Who valued their opinions and listened to them. A man who was so close to his advisors they could carry out an entire conversation without words. 

Geralt rose to his feet and nodded his thanks to the servants who appeared at his side. When Jaskier's gaze fell on him, his mouth went dry. Gods, those eyes. Piercing right through my soul. He knows something is up. He cleared his throat. "Geralt," then he gestured to his brother. "This is Eskel." 

The king nodded and spun on his heel.

Right, they were supposed to follow him. 

King Jul—Jaskier's?—office was ornate and well-used. Floor to ceiling shelves were stacked full of books that seemed not to have a speck of dust on them. Well-read. Knowledgeable. Various musical instruments—is that a lute?—filled in every corner and space. There were trinkets, art pieces, sprawling maps spread over the desk and candles of all shapes and sizes squeezed into every possible spot. The effect was...not unpleasant. This was a comforting space to be in. 

Then Jaskier—King Julian—sat down at his desk. He leaned back, crossing his long legs at the ankle elegantly. Upon entering, the king had removed his royal finery and draped it over the back of the chair, leaving him in a practical, relaxed outfit similar to what he had worn when meeting the convoy the night prior. 

Jaskier regarded the Witchers in front of him coolly, leaving Geralt completely off-kilter. The plan had gone completely off the rails and this king was not reacting how they expected at all. 

Geralt swallowed thickly, preparing to break the silence. 

Jaskier beat him to it. "She's safe, by the way." 

Geralt gave Eskel a sideways look. What the fuck? 

Jaskier continued. "The girl. She's safe...for now. As long as we get what we want." 

Eskel growled, low and warningly. "And that is...?" 

Geralt watched as the king's blue eyes widened ever so slightly. He could hear his heart rate pick up and beat faster. Fear. 

As soon as the look crossed his face, it was gone, and the king settled back into his chair haughtily. "We want you gone." He said it as though it was obvious, a line tossed away without thought. 

Geralt's eyebrows quirked up. "You...kidnapped her...so that we would leave?" 

There it is again. The king's heart beat sped up again and the acrid scent of fear permeated the air. Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. "You said you didn't have her. You said you had no idea what we were talking about." 

For the first time that morning, a little crack appeared in the king's facade. He stuttered and flushed, tripping over his words, unsure of himself. If Geralt spent a little too long looking at the way the pink dusting his cheeks disappeared down into the neckline of his shirt...that was absolutely no one's business. 

Jaskier scoffed indignantly. "I lied," he started, the shake in his voice unnoticeable to anyone bar a Witcher, "I don't talk business in the middle of the night and I knew you wouldn't let it go without a fuss, so I lied." He sniffed. "I care for my bed more than I care for late night...discussions." 

Geralt hummed, levelling Jaskier with his gaze. 

Jaskier started up again. "Look, the point is, we have her, she is safe, and as long as we get what we want no harm will come to her!" He punctuated his sentence with a fist on the desk, knocking over some small trinkets in the process. 

Eskel spoke, trying to hide his mirth. He had definitely clued in. "So, you want us to leave without bloodshed or war, correct?" 

Jaskier nodded, mouth pressed into a firm line. 

"Give us the girl and we'll leave, right now." 

Jaskier's eyes widened. "And what assurance do I have that you won't turn around and retaliate as soon as you have her?" 

Geralt shrugged. "Our word." 

Jaskier barked out a laugh. "Try again." 

Eskel caught Geralt's eye and raised an eyebrow, surprise mixed with humour written across his face. This was not how they expected it to go. He tried a different tactic. "Let us see her. Proof of life. How can we trust you that she's even...alive?" 

Jaskier set his jaw and pushed his chair back from the desk. 

"I don't think so, gentlemen. As it is, I have the girl and you want her. You'll play by my rules if you want her back. I will return her in three days, as agreed when you assaulted me, and not a moment earlier. You are dismissed." 

Geralt and Eskel rose wordlessly and allowed themselves to be herded out of the office. The door was unceremoniously slammed shut behind them. They wandered, slightly dazed,  back towards the guest wing of the castle. 

They stood outside the door, waiting to enter, when Geralt turned to Eskel with a puzzled look on his face. 

"He was lying." 

Eskel nodded. "The whole time. Start to finish." 

"...why?" 

"Beats me, Wolf. Let's see what the others think." 

Chapter Text

Jaskier waved goodbye to the tailor, Reginald, and his wife before hopping smoothly over the fence that bordered their property on the outskirts of the city. After the frankly rather disastrous chat with the Witchers—with Geralt—he found himself buzzing with restless energy, desperate to get out of the castle walls. 

It was then that he had remembered he was due to check in on the poor tailor with the sick horses. 

The fresh air and the ride had done him a world of good. Something about warm mid-morning sunshine and the calls of birds in the trees mingling with the hustle and bustle of the city sounds just...cleared out his mind. Soothed his anxieties. Gave him a moment to breathe. 

The tailor and his family were grateful for the visit, and Jaskier was pleased with the outcome. He'd offered one of the mares from his stable at a heavily discounted rate as she was getting too old to be used by the guards, but still had many years left in her as a well-cared-for family work horse. It always warmed his heart to find solutions like this, where everyone benefits. Rosette, the mare, would be loved. The tailor could continue to provide for his beautiful little family. 

As Jaskier swung up onto Pegasus, his heart twisted a little, reflecting on the tailor and his loving wife, the way their house was full of laughter, noise, chaos and happiness. He'd felt something stir watching the way they interacted. Could that be something that he wanted? Is it something he could ever have? 

Jaskier urged Pegasus into a comfortable trot, ambling down the city streets as he mused. He didn't think he wanted a family, and gods know he was lucky to have a council of advisors who weren't going to pressure him into a marriage he didn't want. A king's duty, and all that nonsense. They cared about genuine issues, not appearances of a perfect court. Most kings were expected to have a dutiful queen by their side, to produce a litter of potential heirs and strengthen the kingdom. Jaskier grimaced. The 'dutiful queen' part had always sounded...unpleasant. If not for love, why marry at all? 

His mind drifted to his parent's marriage. What had started as a marriage of convenience had turned to a marriage of love over the decades. They had four children, Jaskier being the only boy and the eldest was always going to have to be the king. But what would happen when he was gone? 

He thought of his little sisters. The topic of an heir had never really been brought up—in all fairness, he was only in his third year of ruling, at a spritely twenty-seven years of age he didn't think passing over the crown was something anyone was much worried about. 

Even still, accidents happen. 

Wars happen. 

Warlords happen. 

Jaskier could have been killed in the dark of the night by a group of bloodthirsty Witchers and their savage warlord, and come the morning his kingdom would have been left without a leader. He shook his head to dislodge the thought. His sisters were too young to be burdened with the crown should something happen in the next...five or so years, at least. 

But did he really want a family? An heir? Did he want to agree to wake up beside the same person every day for the rest of his life?  

Jaskier clicked his tongue and urged Pegasus to pick up speed, carrying him back towards the castle. No point in ruminating on what could be or might be, he reasoned. Other problems need to be sorted out first. 

As Jaskier rode into the castle courtyard he was met by Zoltan, Priscilla and Essi, waiting for him with thunderous glares. 

Fuck, maybe it's not too late to turn around. 

Jaskier looked back over his shoulder.

Maybe...

 Ah fuck it. 

Jaskier dismounted, boots clacking on cobblestone, and greeted his friends with a sheepish grin. "So...what's with the welcoming party?" 

Priscilla stepped forward and shoved Jaskier lightly. "You idiot!" 

Essi crossed her arms and lifted her chin. Ah, shit, okay. 

Zoltan, for his part, looked more 'unimpressed' than 'in the mood to murder a king', which Jaskier figured was about as good as it gets. 

"We told you it was a bad idea," hissed Priscilla, poking Jaskier in the chest. "And you went and did it anyway!" Her eyes flashed with rage, mouth turned into a scowl. Jaskier gulped. 

Zoltan sighed heavily and rolled his eyes heavenward. "Jaskier, it was a dumb idea. It still is. What in Melitele's name overtook you? It's like these Witchers walked into the castle and stole every shred of common sense and rational thought from you! What were you thinking?" 

Essi chimed in. "This poorly thought out plan of yours is going to doom us all, Jaskier, how do you expect to produce the girl, hmm?" She paused, eyes dark. "You know the red-headed one and his shadow approached me. Said that the girl better not have one hair on her head harmed. Said that we'd pay with our lives if we hurt her. And you know what's funny about it all, Jaskier?" 

Jaskier twisted his mouth, displeased, and gestured for her to go on.

"We don't even know who this girl is, you damn fool!" Essi threw her arms up to the sky and spun around as if to storm off. 

Now it was Jaskier's turn to cross his arms. 

"Are you all quite finished?" 

His advisors eyed him warily. When none of them spoke, he continued. 

"Wonderful. First of all, I understand your apprehension. I do. And I'm sorry. Your opinions are important to me, and I ignored them. I am sorry. However, what's done is done." He paused to take a deep breath. "I'm actually a little injured by your lack of faith in me. You think I've charged into this without sparing a moment's thought, no?" He playfully placed his hands over his heart and adopted a wheedling expression. 

The three of them shrugged, nodded and murmured assent. 

Jaskier's expression dropped and his tone hardened. "I'll have you know, I sent out Kaleb this morning to collect Arach, Kael and Daryck." At the mention of those names, Zoltan's eyes went wide. "By now, Kaleb should have extracted Arach and they'll be on their way to Kael. By supper tonight, he will have all three of them and they will begin the search for the girl. You know as well as I do, if there's any trace of her on the Continent, one of them will know something about it. I expect word with an update no later than dusk tomorrow."

Essi chewed on her lip thoughtfully. Priscilla at least had the courtesy to look a little penitent. 

Zoltan paused for a moment, mulling over the thought. He laughed and clapped Jaskier on the shoulder. "Should have known better than to underestimate you. Arach's time on the Redanian court will have provided excellent insights, I don't doubt. Kael is sharp. He was a good choice. And Daryck," Zoltan hummed thoughtfully, "his connections will be very useful indeed. You're right. They have a decent shot, together. Sorry for doubting you."

Jaskier smiled ruefully. "It was deserved. I can admit it was maybe not the most well thought out, or explained, plan." 

Zoltan grinned. "Bit late to do anything about it now. Come on, let's go inside, see what our esteemed guests are up to." 

Jaskier's face dropped. What have the Witchers been up to all morning? Oh, gods, I left in such a hurry. 

Zoltan saw Jaskier's look of dawning horror and stopped him. "It's fine, we handled it. The witch—by the way, her name is Yennefer," 

Jaskier's mouth fell open. "Not—please, not..." 

"Of Vengerburg, correct." 

Jaskier groaned. Excellent. Not only a mage but a rather powerful and volatile one. Noted, don't piss her off. 

Zoltan continued. "Anyway the witch has been holed up in the lab, making potions or whatnot, horrifying concoctions out of whatever she can find." Jaskier nodded. "Eskel, the one you spoke to, has been in our library. He is very well-mannered, probably the nicest of the bunch. He even said please!" 

That earned a snort out of Jaskier. "At least one of them is civilised." 

Essi piped up. "After they were done trying—trying—to intimidate me and Priscilla, the red-headed one, his name is Lambert by the way, and his partner, what was his name again? Anyway they asked if they could use our training grounds." 

Priscilla laughed. "Aiden. And if the training was also a way to intimidate us, that actually is working." Her mood sobered as she looked deep into Jaskier's eyes. "Jaskier...I hope you know what you're doing. We watched them train. These are dangerous men, my King. We won't stand a chance against them if they decide to lift the sword." 

Jaskier blew out a breath, nodding thankfully at Priscilla and Essi. "So what about the old one?" 

"Vesemir," offered Zoltan. "He's, er...he's in the kitchen." 

"The kitchen?" 

"He wanted to talk to our chef." 

Jaskier paused. "And you LET him?!" 

Zoltan laughed. "Don't worry, they're fine, we checked in on them just before you returned. Turns out the old one was very impressed with the food. He's in the kitchen learning our cooking techniques from the master himself." 

Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gods above," he murmured, "what is happening?" 

Something was up. This didn't feel like a war. Was one supposed to treat the enemy convoy like honoured house guests? Why were these Witchers acting like house guests? If they really believed this mysterious girl was here, why hadn't they burned the place to the ground? 

They did seem fairly honourable, he supposed. They said three days, so three days it must be. A man is nothing without his word. The warlord, Geralt, as he had introduced himself, definitely seemed...noble. Honourable? A man of his word, if nothing else. Jaskier had little doubt that he would tear the city apart if they failed to produce the girl. He almost groaned out loud as he thought about those sunshine-coloured eyes, all ablaze with anger...

Wait. What has Geralt been doing? 

Jaskier considered for a moment then snapped his head up to look at his advisors, who were now looking very interested in the cobblestones, the sky and the castle walls. 

He crossed his arms and straightened his back. 

"And where," he started, voice low, "is Geralt?"

Essi hummed. "Um, I think..." 

Jaskier cast his gaze on Priscilla with a raised eyebrow. 

Priscilla crossed her arms and stared back at him, deadpan. "Ask Zoltan." 

"Zoltan?" 

Zoltan rubbed the back of his neck. "Okay so now—I need you to hear me out. Jaskier, that is a very intimidating and powerful man. You did say to treat them as guests, and we didn't want to risk angering them by denying a request. We–we all—" Zoltan narrowed his eyes and glared at Priscilla and Essi, "we all agreed it would be best to allow him to wait where he wanted to, he said he wants to talk and I don't think..." 

"Zoltan, get to the point." 

"Oh, he's uh," Zoltan grimaced. "He's waiting in your room." 

Jaskier stared at him for what felt like an eternity. 

"You didn't think to LEAD with that?!" 

Chapter Text

Jaskier stood outside the heavy wooden door to his own room, muttering darkly under his breath. If he had any form of chaos whatsoever, Zoltan would be so dead right now. 

Bloody hell. 

He replayed the events that led here over and over in his head. 

"Stupid Witcher warlord with his stupid golden eyes intimidating my advisors," he murmured. "Now he's in my room and I'm out here, just open the DAMN DOOR, Jaskier, it's your room..." he trailed off as the door swung open and he found himself looking up into said golden eyes. 

Instead of the rage he expected to see, those eyes shimmered with something lighter. Mirth? 

The Witcher bit back a smirk as he gestured for Jaskier to enter, and Jaskier found himself rooted to the floor, staring dazedly into his own bedroom. Move! He shook his head and stormed past the warlord with a huff. 

"Thank you," he enunciated, honeyed tone dripping with sarcasm, "for inviting me in. To my own room." He spun around and levelled Geralt with a hard stare. "Come to give me another haircut, hmm? Wasn't short enough the first time?" 

The Witcher stood silent, closing the door with a gentle click. Something flashed across his ever-unreadable face that made Jaskier look twice. 

Did...did the Witcher just wince? Surely not. 

Whatever look had crossed Geralt's face was gone in an instant, replaced by the cool, simmering rage Jaskier had gotten used to seeing. 

The Witcher stalked forward, one slow step at a time, and Jaskier found himself moving away until the back of his legs hit his desk, and he almost fell over the top of it. Shit. Why did you antagonise him again? 

Jaskier looked up from his half-seated position and found himself once again studying the Witcher's face. He wasn't sure he could help it at this point. There was just something about Geralt that demanded deference. He was truly a beautiful man, like a marble statue sculpted lovingly by the gods. It was unfair that in addition to being beautiful he was also so tall and strong, built like a brick wall. The midnight-black armor with metal studs just added to the whole...aura. It left Jaskier feeling like a chastened child, not a king. Which was unacceptable. This was his kingdom, godsdamnit, his room! The Witcher was in his space and yet Jaskier found himself crowded against his own desk waiting for Geralt's next move. It was...disconcerting at best. Downright horrifying, at worst. What kind of king was so easily bent into submission like this? 

Geralt closed the distance between them until he was standing only a breath away from Jaskier, arms crossed, glaring down his nose at him. 

Jaskier swallowed. Shit shit shit, say something. "Did you come in here just to get up in my personal space, or did you actually want something?" he snarked. Say anything but that. 

Geralt hummed. Or was it more of a growl? The sound was low and deep, rolling over Jaskier like the first thunderstorm of the summer. 

Then he spoke. "The girl. What do you know of her?" 

Jaskier blinked. Fuck. "She's...special?" No shit! Try harder. Jaskier crossed his arms and lifted his face to meet Geralt's gaze. "She's powerful." 

Golden eyes flashed like a lightning bolt and Jaskier felt his heart thudding through his chest. It's intimidation, he told himself, you are not into this, not even a little bit. Get it together! 

Jaskier recognised that he'd hit a nerve when another low growl emitted from Geralt's chest and he moved in closer. "Enough games," the hulking man rasped, "tell us where she is." 

Jaskier scoffed. "You must think me very stupid if you think I'll give that up so easily." 

Geralt leaned back and hummed. "You're scared." 

"Please." Scorn and sarcasm punctuated his response. 

Geralt leaned in close, far closer than before, and tilted his head into the crook of Jaskier's neck, inhaling deeply.

Jaskier froze, heart pounding. Fuck fuck fuck what is happening, is he SMELLING me? Fuck fuck what the fuck—

Geralt lifted his head and leaned in until his lips were brushing against Jaskier's ear. He shivered. The Witcher's own scent was overpowering, leather oil and wood smoke, something deep and velvety. He found himself subconsciously leaning in, wanting more, chasing the source of it. He closed his eyes and imagined closing the distance, burying his face in Geralt's chest and—wait, what the fuck?

"You know," the warlord purred, "Witchers can smell human emotions." He leaned back, a satisfied, smug look painted across his face. 

Jaskier's eyes were wide, chest heaving as he panted for breath. He shook his head, irritated. Are you twelve years old? Get it the fuck together. Jaskier narrowed his eyes. 

"I'm not sure why you're here. If you're trying to scare me then sure, you've succeeded. But here's the thing." He poked Geralt in the chest, rage simmering in his own. "Even if you kill me right now, you will never, ever find the girl without my help. You need me. Regardless of how scared, or intimidated I might be, I will not change my mind. We will give the girl back on the agreed upon date and no amount of swaggering, posturing, intimidating or growling is going to change the situation. I hold all the cards, Witcher," he spat the word out, "you are here at my mercy." 

Geralt, to his credit, had stood back and let Jaskier monologue for a moment with naught but a stoic expression on his face. Jaskier had hauled himself off the desk by this point and brought himself face to face with the white-haired, golden-eyed god that stood in front of him. The moment hung tightly between them, silent save for the sound of Jaskier's breaths. 

Then Geralt smiled. 

It wasn't a friendly thing, it was...predatory, Jaskier realised with a shiver. The Witcher's canines were sharper than a human's and Jaskier felt his breath hitch in his throat. Sweet Melitele, will you ever learn when to shut up and stop pushing buttons? 

Still, Geralt said nothing. Then he tilted his head and looked Jaskier up and down. 

"We can also smell lies, little king." 

...fuck!

Before Jaskier could respond, the Witcher had bowed mockingly and seen himself out of the room. The young king stared at the back of the door for a long time after he left, watching the afternoon shadows falling across it dance and shift. 

What the fuck just happened? 

—*—

Jaskier was absent from the evening meal that night, much to the consternation of his advisors. 

Zoltan, Priscilla and Essi were too busy trading worried glances among themselves and having silent conversations to notice the Witchers doing the same. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier had not come to dinner. That was...odd, but none of their concern. Not really. 

Come the morning, when they went to the mess hall to break their fast, Jaskier was still not present. 

Tensions ran high as the Witchers sat in their unspoken assigned spots, across from Jaskier's advisors. No one spoke, but glares were traded across the table, muttered insults and curses flung about the room under breath. 

Geralt grimaced. He doubted they'd make it to the end of this meal without someone blowing up.

He directed his question to Essi, who seemed the least ready to explode out of the three advisors. "Will Jask—will the king, be joining us this morning?" he winced inwardly at the gravelly tone, voice betraying his lack of his sleep the night before. He didn't need anyone else (except poor Eskel, who was sharing his room) to know how he'd spent the night tossing and turning, replaying the day's events in his head. 

Essi quirked an eyebrow, lips pressed thin in disapproval. "The king is refusing to come out of his chambers. He has requested to be left alone." 

Priscilla snorted. "What's it to you?" 

Lambert shoved his dish away and stood up, slamming a fist on the table. "Watch your tone," he growled, "we don't trust him. What's he up to?" Aiden grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him back into his seat. 

Priscilla had jumped to her feet at the same time Lambert did, eyes flashing wickedly with a scowl on her face. Geralt got the feeling if there was a bottle in arm's reach, she might have smashed it and brandished it as a weapon. He smirked behind his mug. She could probably put him on his ass.  

Eskel and Zoltan were the ones to try and settle the situation down.

Zoltan started, "the king is merely resting, please do not—" 

"We apologise for Lambert, he's—" they stopped, voices overlapping. Zoltan gestured for Eskel to continue. Eskel smiled warmly. "We applogise. I'm sure you can appreciate that emotions are running high right now. We are not used to...being guests, like this, and simply wish to find—" a swift kick under the table stopped Eskel in his tracks. He nodded at Geralt, mouthing thank you. "We just want the girl returned safe and unharmed." 

Zoltan hummed and nodded. "We understand. Julian will rejoin us when he is ready. Please, excuse us." The advisors nodded at the Witchers and filed out of the mess hall. 

When they were alone, Eskel turned to face Geralt with that look on his face. "You didn't apologise." 

Geralt hummed. "No." 

"You didn't tell them we know they don't have her." 

"Not quite." 

"Did you make it worse?" 

Geralt paused. "Likely." 

"Did you at least manage to find out why they're lying to us?" 

Geralt's mouth went dry as he remembered the way Jaskier's pupils had blown out as he was crowded against the desk. How he'd felt powerless in the closeness to resist bending down to inhale the man's scent. Gods, he'd felt drunk on it. It was addicting. Tinged with the acrid scent of fear, yes, but not fear of him. Fear of being caught out in a lie. Buried underneath that was the fresh, bright smell of an ocean breeze and something light, like lemon...Jaskier smelled like freedom, like wanderlust and the coast. Geralt coughed. That little meeting had really gotten away from him. He'd intended to put a little pressure on the king, try and get him to crack and admit he didn't have Ciri so they could all leave. Once again, it had all gone to shit. 

Something about Jaskier just sent him wild. It was anger and irritation, annoyance...it was begrudging respect, intrigue. Attraction, however unwelcome. He left every conversation feeling more off-balance, less in control of the situation. But he wasn't about to verbalise all that to Eskel and the others, so he answered Eskel's question hurriedly. 

"I did not." 

Eskel groaned and dropped his head to the table. "What did you manage to talk about, then?" 

Geralt sighed. "I, uh...I told him we can smell emotions." Lambert choked on his drink, howling with laughter from the other end of the table. "And lies, too." 

Eskel regarded him with narrowed eyes and lips pressed thin. "So. He knows that we know he's lying." 

"Yes." 

"But we don't know why he's lying." 

"No." 

"You couldn't have asked?" 

Geralt's stomach twisted at the memory. How the king had gone from a wide-eyed, panting, flushed mess to a stern and noble ruler, putting Geralt in his place, unafraid to stare down the fabled Warlord of the North and talk back. He couldn't tell Eskel how the air had crackled around them, their energies vying for dominance, for power, taking turns sweeping the other's feet out from underneath them. He couldn't tell Eskel how he'd needed a moment to get his reaction under control before he'd coolly tossed out the truth, that he could smell the lies dripping off the king. He was definitely never, ever going to tell him that he'd basically run out the door afterwards. 

It was mortifying. 

"...no, I couldn't have." 

Eskel sighed. "Go see him. You still have time to fix it." 

"No." Geralt glared at Eskel. "He doesn't have Ciri. We know that. He knows that. We need to cut our losses and leave." 

"He knows more than he's letting on. Go." 

Geralt huffed, unimpressed. He looked over Eskel's shoulder to Yennefer, arching an eyebrow. Are you in agreement?  

Yennefer shrugged. "Eskel's right. I told you to talk to him and thus far, you've failed to do so." 

Geralt groaned. Defeated, he pushed his chair back from table and stalked out of the mess hall. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he found himself making his way towards Jaskier's room. He steadfastly ignored the way his usually slow heartbeat picked up as he approached the door. 

Then he froze. 

From behind Jaskier's door came melancholy music. The lute. He's playing his lute.

Skilled fingers danced over the strings, crafting a melody that washed over him and left him unable to move. 

Geralt closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the wooden door. 

Then, Jaskier began to sing. His voice was warm and rich, somehow gentle and velvety, dark and rasping all at once. Geralt quietened his breath, powerless to do anything but listen. 

I am weak, my love, and I am wanting 

But if this is the path I must trudge 

I welcome my sentence

Give to you my penance

Garrotter, jury and judge—

Geralt heard the scratch of a quill on parchment and Jaskier's mutterings as the music stopped and he wrote something down. He held his breath as the sound of the lute strings started up again. 

Jaskier played wordlessly this time, a haunting melody that told a story in the universal language of music. Geralt closed his eyes. It was heartbreak, it was fear, it was anguish—he imagined Jaskier's long, elegant fingers forming shapes over the lute neck, rings glinting in the sunlight. The song swelled and crested, sinking hooks into Geralt's heart and tugging. The breath he was holding was punched out of his lungs as he listened, head pressed to the door. Gods. 

He listened helplessly as Jaskier muttered and sang bits and pieces, turning phrases and stopping to scratch down his notes. 

It steals all my reason, 

Commits every treason 

Of logic, with naught but a look 

Geralt bit back a groan as he thought of those impossible blue eyes. How expressive they were. He wasn't sure if the king knew, but he could read every single thought that flashed across the young man's mind, reflected in his shining eyes. The rage, the confusion, the mirth, the hurt, the fear, all of it was there in the endless oceans, laid out in front of him. 

A storm raging on the horizon

Of longing, and heartache, and...lust

Was it a magic spell? Geralt couldn't have moved his feet if he tried. 

He's always...bad news

It's always lose, lose 

So tell me love, tell me love, 

How is that...just? 

Geralt exhaled and sank to his knees. Everything outside shifted and faded until all he could hear was the music. He let it wash over him, lilting and sweet, soothing like a balm. 

He was so lost in his thoughts he didn't hear Jaskier put away his lute and stand up from his desk. 

He was so far gone in the trance he didn't hear Jaskier's footsteps. 

Both of which is how he came to find himself on his back, having tumbled into Jaskier's room staring up into those sparkling ocean-blue eyes, when the door was suddenly wrenched out from behind him.

Jaskier looked appropriately shocked for having had a Witcher land in his room, flat on his back. 

Neither of them spoke. If ever there was a time to be swallowed alive by the ground, it's now. 

"Um...come in?" offered Jaskier. 

Geralt tipped backwards and launched himself to his feet in one fluid motion. Jaskier's eyes widened and he faltered backwards. 

"Uh, okay, that was impressive, sure...can I help you?" 

Geralt hummed. Come on, White Wolf, words. "Your...uh. Everyone was worried. About you. You didn't come to dinner. Or breakfast." 

Jaskier's gaze darkened. "And I asked to be left alone." 

Geralt hummed. Just spit it out. 

"I think...we need to talk. Honestly. No more lies, no games. I...we, have...hmm. I think we need to start from the beginning." 

He thought he might have been imagining things, the way Jaskier's eyes softened and sparkled with something he couldn't name. Was his mind playing tricks, the way the king leaned forwards, poking his tongue out between his lips ever so slightly to wet them? 

He heard Jaskier's heartbeat speed up, drumming with anticipation. That was definitely real. Jaskier's eyes flashed and a grin crept across his face as he leaned in even closer. 

Kiss him. 

Geralt immediately backed up, golden eyes wide with shock at the thought that flashed through his mind. Definitely do not do that. He took a couple of steps back, mouth opening to stutter out an apology when a soft cough from the hallway drew both their attention. 

Geralt looked in annoyance at the young boy who had interrupted them. The kid didn't back down or falter, merely shifting his gaze towards Jaskier with a questioning look. 

"Your Majesty," the boy started, "we received word from..." he hesitated, flicking a glance at Geralt. 

Jaskier nodded. "Thank you, Henley. Please, go wait for me in my office. I'll be over shortly. As for you," Jaskier turned his blue eyes on Geralt, who felt his chest do that thing he didn't really want to pay attention to, "I'll see you at dinner?" Jaskier offered a small, soft smile and Geralt grit his teeth. 

"Your Majesty," he ground out, nodding.

Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt's shoulder and locked eyes with him, fixing him with an impossibly warm look. "Please," he whispered, "just Jaskier." 

Geralt swallowed. "Jaskier." 

Chapter Text

"Jaskier?" 

Jaskier startled and focussed his gaze on the young boy seated on the other side of his desk. "Yes, Henley, gods, sorry." He cleared his throat. "What you've told me is a lot to process." 

Henley nodded. "Do you need me for anything else, your Majesty?" 

"No, no, that's quite all. Here." Jaskier rummaged through his desk and flicked the young boy a crown for his efforts. The kid's dark eyes lit up in wonder as he caught it. 

"Thank you, Jaskier!" Henley clutched the coin close and ran from the room, rushing a low bow on his exit. Jaskier chuckled, then sat back against his office chair, running his hands through his hair as he was often wont to do. 

It had been a strange forty-eight hours. 

Jaskier grabbed a loose piece of paper and started scribbling, desperate to make heads or tails of the situation, before he forgot anything Henley had told him. Start at the beginning. 

Number One. The Witchers arrived at his castle, declared war for kidnapping "the girl". Jaskier wrote "THE GIRL" in the middle of the page, circling it for clarity. 

Why did they come here? They were so certain I took her. Why? 

He absent-mindedly dotted the page with question marks as he mulled it over. They have to be getting their information from somewhere. 

He knew the Witchers of Kaer Morhen were resourceful, well-organised, swift to act—everyone knew that. It wasn't a stretch to believe that if a little kingdom like his own could set up a decent spy network across the Continent, then the Warlord of the North could too. Jaskier wrote "spies" along one of the edges. 

So "the girl" goes missing—scratch scratch—and something leads the Witchers to the conclusion that she's here. But she's not. 

His spies and scout had come up with a name that was somehow tied to all this.

Jaskier scrawled the name in the far corner of the paper. Tissaia De Vries. Rectoress of Aretuza. 

According to Kaleb and Kael, one Ms Tissaia De Vries had been sighted in Novigrad and Vizima with a small child in tow. Witnesses could remember no details about the child when pressed, they couldn't even identify the gender or hair colour. Just that a child had been there, with her. According to his sources, she had given a false name. For both of them. Henley had mentioned that Kael was working with Arach to track down the false identity she was operating under. He scratched down, "false identity??" under the name, peppered with more question marks. 

Jaskier stared mournfully at his scribbled markings. None of it quite lined up.

Tissaia De Vries, travelling under an alias, abducts a girl and vanishes. The girl, seemingly belonging to the clan of Kaer Morhen, is very important and special. Jaskier recalled the way Geralt's eyes had flashed when he'd guessed powerful. He'd been right. The girl was powerful. 

"Write that down," he muttered. He sat back and huffed, running his fingers through his hair again, wincing as one of the rings caught in the short, floppy locks. The short hair was growing on him, he'd noticed. Gave him a youthful exuberance he hadn't seen on himself in a while.

Enough dallying, back to it. 

Jaskier stared at the writings on the paper, as though if he just looked hard enough it might all click into place. 

He sat forward, frowning. He had forgotten something. Henley mentioned that the most recent sighting of Tissaia and the child was in Kerack. Just over the border. There was a man present. The man had also given a presumably fake name, and Daryck was trying to pin an identity down. 

So Tissaia, an unknown child and a man are all seen in various towns, most recently in Kerack, just outside his borders. 

The Witchers get the idea in their heads that Jaskier took her. 

They find out that he's lying and he doesn't have the girl they're searching for, but they stay anyway. 

Why are they still here? What do they know that I don't? 

Jaskier thunked his head on the table and groaned. This was going to kill him, if the Witchers didn't decide to just get it over and done with first. Office items and personal things rattled as he pulled out desk drawers, searching. Finally he located his vintage bottle of Dwarven Spirit and a crystal glass. No one said I had to do this entirely sober. 

"Whoo, gods, that burns," he choked out to no one in particular. 

With the warmth of the Dwarven Spirit settling deep in his gut, he pushed back out of his chair and stalked around his office. He paced along the bookshelves, tracing his fingers over the well-loved and worn covers. He sidestepped trinkets and instruments, occasionally thinking gods, I really need to tidy up in here. He landed at the window, resting his hands gently on the stone sill. 

The sun was just beginning to sink down in the sky, turning the landscape to various shades of gold and amber. Mm, golden. Golden eyes. Golden eyes, burning with desire, not rage...

Jaskier's mouth twisted into a scowl. "What, I can't even enjoy a sunset now? Bollocks." He took in a deep breath, enjoying the crisp, dusky air and sighed deeply. Well, now that the idea was planted in his head, he might as well go bother the hulking god of a man that had been dropped on his doorstep. 

Jaskier grinned. 

Sure, he might not be able to smell emotions like those bloody Witchers could, but he considered himself a good study of the human condition. Well, they weren't entirely human, but it held up. 

Earlier, Geralt had been sitting outside his bedroom door, waiting. Listening? How much did he hear? 

Jaskier chewed his lip as he recalled the look of pure shock on Geralt's face as he'd tumbled backwards into Jaskier's room. Golden eyes blown wide, that little grunt...ugh. 

And then there was the other moment. 

Right before Henley arrived. 

Jaskier had felt like he was falling off the edge of the cliff, staring into those golden eyes, he and Geralt spiralling closer and closer like celestial bodies locked into orbit. Maybe he was imagining the spark, the electricity that had crackled between them.  

Only one way to find out. 

Jaskier poured, and promptly knocked back, another shot of Dwarven Spirit for good luck. 

They had to talk, anyway. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes would help gain some clarity to this tangled web of nonsense. Jaskier paused in his doorway and turned, eyeing the bottle and glass he'd left on his desk. 

Eh, what's a bit of social lubricant among...sworn enemies? Yep, that'll do it. 

He wandered down the castle halls, the click of his boots echoing off stone floors and walls. The sun had sunk lower, the shadows starting to creep in. Soon enough, the servants would be out, lighting candles and lanterns, bathing the rooms in that warm, fiery glow. 

He wandered past the library and the ballroom, both empty. His courtroom was silent, as was the mess hall. He hummed random bits of melodies as he ambled, up spiral staircases, in and out of long empty rooms. He was thoughtful, pensive. 

Eventually Jaskier made his way onto the wall walk lining the defensive outer edge of the castle. He loved walking this stretch, hopping up and down over the crumbling battlements. These walls had not seen war in a long, long time. There was something about standing on the edge of the wall up here, breeze whipping through his clothes, toying with his hair—the ever present threat of a fall, of one foot out of line leading to a sudden and unexpected end. Maybe it was the thrill of it all. It sort of felt like freedom. 

A raucous cacophony of cheers floating over the dusky breeze caught his attention, head swivelling towards the source. Ah. Of course, the training grounds. The Witchers must have gone out for a pre-supper sparring session. 

He stopped and tilted his head, listening. "Put him on his ass!" came Priscilla's voice, far-away and distorted, but unmistakably her. He heard Essi's shrill whistle over the yells and cheers. 

Oh, well, I have got to see this then. 

Jaskier hurriedly hopped over the wall walk, pacing to the other side where he knew he'd have an uninterrupted view of the training grounds. 

And oh, what a view that was. 

Jaskier's eyes widened at the sight beneath him. A crude sparring circle had been drawn in the dirt with two Witchers inside it. Priscilla, Essi and Zoltan were seated on the outside a few paces away for safety, on either side of them were the other Witchers and the mage. Someone had brought Vesemir a chair and he sat, clearly adjudicating the session. 

Jaskier put the bottle and glass up on the wall, then his elbows, and rested his chin in his hands to watch. 

Aiden, long and lithe, fought pretty much as expected. He was fast, deadly fast, and relied heavily on dodges and rolls to keep him out of his opponent's reach. Jaskier watched in awe as he moved faster than the eye could see, dodging and swiping. His opponent, Eskel, seemed more comfortable with brute strength, and—Jaskier's eyebrows creased as Eskel formed a strange sign with his hands. His jaw dropped as a blast of air knocked Aiden flying. 

Witchers can use chaos?! 

Jaskier was shocked. 

Despite the exciting scene unfolding before him, and the allure of two beautiful, sweaty men fighting each other, his eyes were helplessly drawn to the Witcher who sat a little separated from the others, laying back on his elbows among the grass. The white-haired wolf lazily plucked a dandelion from his surroundings and lifted it to his lips, blowing the little seeds into the wind. Rays of dusky, warm sunlight filtered down on him, catching his hair and the dandelion seeds in the light like little flecks of molten gold. Jaskier felt his breath hitch. Distantly, he could hear his friends and the Witchers cheering and yelling about something—he was completely unable to tear his eyes off the beautiful scene laid out before him. 

Like this, Geralt looked lighter. There were no dark scowl lines etched across his face, no rage in his eyes. Just mirth, happiness. He was relaxed, carefree. 

Then, as though he could feel the weight of Jaskier's gaze burning into his skin, his eyes flicked up to the castle walls and his gaze connected with Jaskier's. 

Collided, more like. 

Jaskier gasped. The single moment stretched out infinitely between them, the sounds and sights around him completely dulled, eclipsed. 

Then it broke. 

Geralt said something to the others and suddenly everyone was looking up at him. Jaskier chuckled and gave a little nervous wave. 

What is he playing at? 

And then Jaskier forgot how to breathe.

Geralt stood up, tore off his shirt and picked up his sword in one single, fluid motion. 

In the moment, Jaskier was glad to be so far away from the others. Holy mother of Melitele, he wanted. Something snaked through his gut, warm and heavy, a desire curling through his body that made him clench his teeth and suck in a breath. He needed and he wanted and he craved, like he was dying of thirst and Geralt was a fountain, so much so that his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. 

It was wrong, it was all wrong. They were supposed to be enemies, there was supposed to be fighting, they were lying to each other, there were secrets. Big, kingdom-ending, complicated kind of secrets. 

Jaskier drew a shaky breath, cast one last lingering look over Geralt's glorious chest, then turned and ran. 

He had no idea how he was supposed to survive another meal sitting down with them, but he was going to need a very cold bath as a start. 

Chapter Text

Dinner that night started out fairly normally. The Witchers and advisors trailed into the mess hall slowly and took their unofficially assigned seats. Conversation was lighter than the previous evenings' had been, thanks in part to the walls broken down during the afternoon sparring session. Zoltan and Eskel were trading stories and sharing similarities about the work they did alongside their respective leaders, while Priscilla picked Aiden's brain about his knowledge on arts and culture from Southern lands she'd not yet been to. Essi was listening, awestruck, to the tales Vesemir was spinning her from his many decades on the Continent. He'd seen the rise and fall of entire dynasties, and she was hanging onto every word as he regaled the history with alarming levels of detail. 

The stark difference in the evening's proceedings was that tonight, Geralt chose to sit in the seat closest to Jaskier on the left hand side. 

Brilliant. 

Jaskier forced a weak smile and lifted his glass in greeting. "Good evening." 

Geralt hummed. 

Solid start. 

"So..." started Jaskier, "would you be...amenable," he paused and took a swig of his wine. "Uh...about that talk. About the, well the talk. That you wanted to have." Jaskier wanted to smack himself over the head. Is that really the best you can manage? 

"Would I be amenable?" Geralt replied, a tiny smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Yes." 

Jaskier choked on his drink. "Ah, good, yes, well, maybe after dinner we can retire to my room. To the office! My, er, the sitting room, in my office." 

Geralt chuckled, low and deep. "Sure." 

Jaskier blew out a breath. You're being ridiculous, he chastised himself. 

Geralt leaned over, close enough that Jaskier could feel the scratch of his stubble ghosting over his own smooth skin. He shivered. "You still smell nervous, little king," Geralt rumbled. 

Jaskier laughed, aiming for 'effortlessly charming'. He landed on 'nervous.' Damn. 

This was fine, they could get through this. 

Pleasant chatter filled the air, with the sounds of laughter warming the hall as drinks flowed and conversations grew boisterous. Jaskier felt himself relax a little, letting the camaraderie wash over him. 

However, if he had thought the little afternoon sparring display had eased some of the simmering tensions among the group, he would be sorely, painfully mistaken. The troubles brewing under the surface had just been buried a little deeper for the time being. 

The second course hadn't even been served when chaos erupted. 

It all started when Geralt asked about the scout, because of course it did. 

"So, the scout, Henley," Geralt had started, tone pleasant and light. "He was bringing important news?" 

Jaskier shrugged non-committally. Do we really have to do this now?

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest and frowned slightly, brows drawing together. "It must have been fairly important," he prodded. 

Jaskier regarded him warily. "It's...can we talk about this later? Not here?" 

"Hmm." 

"That doesn't mean anything, Geralt." It came out snippier than intended and Jaskier gulped. 

Eskel leaned over. "Did you know that Witchers have advanced hearing?" Jaskier's eyes widened as Geralt shouldered him out of the way. 

"Not now, Eskel," he barked. 

Jaskier stared at them blankly. "So you know, then." 

"No," Geralt glared at Eskel. "We don't." 

Eskel stared him down defiantly. "We don't, but it sure sounds like it might have something to do with us. Care to share?" 

Jaskier huffed. "I was going to discuss it with Geralt later." 

"We can't talk about it now?" Geralt's tone was tense now, having lost the teasing edge from the start of the night. 

Jaskier glared at him. "I'd rather not," he gritted out. "It's...private." 

Eskel snorted. "Convenient." 

Jaskier stared at the two of them, dumbfounded. Did they really want to do this here? Now? The dinner table was hardly an appropriate place for discussions of such a tense, finicky nature. "What's going on?" he queried, confused. 

Geralt frowned and leaned forward. "We're wasting time. We want C—the girl, back. Tomorrow is the third day." 

Jaskier gasped, affronted. "Well," he bit out, "my apologies for wasting your precious time." The wounded look on Geralt's face stopped him and he softened his tone. "Please trust me, I want to talk. You...I don't understand. You came in, I thought—hmm." He sighed. "What's changed between now and then?" 

Geralt rumbled from low in his chest. "I didn't realise we were still lying to each other." 

Jaskier stared. "I'm not lying," he began, "I just want to discuss this at the right time, in the right place." He flushed under the weight of the two heavy gazes levelled at him.

"We'll see about that," muttered Geralt tersely. 

Eskel nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his ale. "What he said." 

What in Melitele's name is happening right now? 

"Have I given you cause not to trust me?" Jaskier challenged. Ah fuck, that was a dumb thing to say. Fuck. De-escalate, you fool! 

Jaskier could vaguely hear Essi and Priscilla beginning to raise their voices about something with Aidan and Lambert. He ignored it. More pressing matters at hand. 

Eskel raised an eyebrow. "I'm just saying, you've lied enough times and now your word means fuck all." 

Jaskier gasped. "That is incredibly offensive. I'll have you know I'm—usually—a very trustworthy person!" By this point he was out of his chair and on his feet, arms crossed, eyes dark with a challenge. 

Eskel pushed his own chair out and stood to meet him. "You lied, and then you lied about the lying! Where are we supposed to go with that?" Eskel yelled, arms flung wide. 

"You told us you didn't have her," growled Geralt, "then you told us you did. What's next—you want to tell me you don't even know her name?"

Jaskier blinked. "Yes! Because I don't know her name!" he shrieked, shaken. "I tried to tell you that within the first thirty minutes, you giant, beef-headed, thick skulled beast!" 

Wow, this conversation has really gotten away from me. 

"So you were lying—to what end? To waste our time?" Geralt stalked over, eyes flashing dangerously. 

"What else could I have done?!" Jaskier squawked indignantly, "you marched in here, declared war on us and didn't stop to ask any questions! Here's an idea! Next time, DOUBLE CHECK YOUR INTEL!" he waved his arms to punctuate the sentence, the way he always did when he started getting really invested in the argument. And then, because he had no self-control, he followed it up. "Oh ho ho, yes, I see it now. You're embarrassed. Your little trinket was snatched out from under your nose and you have no idea where she is. You're not as organised as you think you are. Now here you are, looking to pin the blame on someone else instead of owning your own shitshow!" 

Yennefer narrowed her violet eyes, crackles of electricity dancing around her fingertips. "I suggest," she started, voice frosted with disdain, "you take that back." 

Jaskier smirked. "Oh, so that did hit a nerve. Afraid to admit that the mistake was on your end? Got a little spy in the ranks? Little breakdown in chain of command?" 

That little voice in the back of Jaskier's head tried to scream at him to stop. You really have zero self-preservation! He stoically ignored it. They wanted an argument then they could have it.

Yennefer narrowed her eyes. "You have no idea what you're talking about," she hissed. 

Geralt was clearly about to interrupt when the shattering of a plate sent every head swivelling towards the other end of the table. Aiden stood between Lambert and Priscilla, ducking as she lifted another plate and stalked towards them.

Aiden held his hands up in surrender. "Now, now, just hang on a moment, that's not what he said, he said—"

"—Of course we knew he was lying, we smelled it straight away," Lambert sneered, poking his head around from behind Aiden's back. 

Priscilla stopped in her tracks, looking around the room. "Wait, was anyone going to tell me they can smell emotions? Hello, what the fuck?! That's not normal!" 

She reached for the next nearest object, a silver serving platter, unceremoniously dumping it's contents on the ground, then smoothly sidestepping Aiden and swinging at Lambert before anyone could react. Aiden stepped back with a smirk, casually leaning against the wall. He winked at Jaskier, who was still standing wide-eyed in shock, watching the situation go barrelling entirely off the rails and over the edge of a cliff.

"Whoa, hey, wait!" Lambert retreated, arms over his head as Priscilla attacked. 

"So you knew—" smack "he wasn't lying," smack "in the first place!" Priscilla huffed and spun around, fixing Geralt with a hard stare and raising the silver platter in his direction. "You," she spat, "explain. You cut his hair. You knew he wasn't lying." 

Jaskier watched with bated breath. Just how badly could this all go? 

Geralt's expression fell. "No, you're right. I—please, let me explain. I acted rashly. It's just...it's my daughter," Jaskier gasped as Geralt's face twisted in agony. "My daughter was taken from us, and we believed he," Geralt gestured half-heartedly in Jaskier's direction, "was responsible. You have to understand what it felt like, to confront the man who stole my daughter, only to have him throw it my face and pretend he was innocent. The arrogance. I couldn't let it stand. My grief and my anger clouded my judgement." 

Priscilla lowered her makeshift weapon. "But you were wrong," she murmured softly after a pregnant pause. Geralt sighed and nodded, pressing his knuckles into his eyes. 

Vesemir rose from his seat. "Alright, everyone settle the fuck down, that's enough," he ordered, voice firm and commanding. He gestured to Geralt. "You've told your side of it. You fucked up. We fucked up. Now, you," He gestured at Jaskier. "Explain. Properly, this time." 

Jaskier hung his head. "I didn't...Geralt, I had no idea it was your daughter. I'm—gods, I'm so sorry. I said some awful things, I...how old is she?" 

"Five," was Geralt's curt reply. 

Jaskier huffed sadly. "When this started, I was so desperate to avoid a war. I thought...I thought maybe the only way out was to find the girl and give her back so you'd leave us alone without any bloodshed. I wasn't prepared to send my soldiers into battle for a war I didn't even understand. It all happened so fast. Then I had the idea to just...do a little hostage negotiation. Drag it out. Intimidate you," —Lambert snorted, earning himself a glare from everyone present— "I wanted you to think that we had her and were using her as a bargaining chip so you'd stay and do whatever we asked. We just needed time." 

Geralt sighed wearily. "You're not a very convincing hostage negotiator."

Jaskier nodded. "You are correct." 

"What if you hadn't found her?" Aiden piped up from the other end of the mess hall. 

Jaskier shrugged. "Then I would have told the truth." 

"They wouldn't have believed you!" 

Jaskier spun slowly to level Zoltan with a withering look. "Who's side are you even on?!" he asked. 

Zoltan raised his hands in surrender. "Sorry, sorry, go on." 

Eskel chimed in. "He's right though." 

Geralt gave Jaskier a pitying look. "It...wasn't really the best idea." 

"I actually think it had the makings of being a very good plan, thank you," sniffed Jaskier. Every single soul in the room rolled their eyes at him. Well, if nothing else, at least they were a united front. Everyone's a critic. He threw his hands in the air and huffed petulantly. 

A heavy silence settled over the mess hall as reality crept back in and emotions faded away, leaving behind only awkward shame and guilt.  They all stood, panting, chests heaving in the aftermath. Shattered dishes and scraps of food littered the floor. No one dared speak. Jaskier surveyed the room and sighed wearily. 

Right. You're the king. Time to behave like it and get this shitshow back under control, instead of wallowing in your feelings. 

He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin and clapped twice. "Right. Well. Fun, games, and confessions aside, we've trashed my dining room." He paused thoughtfully. "I owe the servants double rates for cleaning this mess, and you," he glared at everyone in turn, "will all chip in." 

Various grunts and murmurs of assent sounded. Everyone hovered, unsure of what to do next. 

"Now what do we do?" grumbled Lambert. 

"Bed," huffed Jaskier, "we will discuss this in the morning." 

As his advisors and the Witchers turned to leave, Jaskier caught Geralt's eye. "Not you. My office," he barked, before spinning on his heel and stalking out of the room. 

He deigned to ignore Lambert and Aiden's hopeless giggles that followed.

Chapter Text

Jaskier watched as Geralt settled himself into the soft armchair on the other side of his desk. A suffocating silence settled between them, thick like honey. It forced its way down his throat and into his chest. 

He drew a deep breath and pushed it out forcefully, trying to dislodge some of the debris stuck in his lungs. 

It did not work. 

As he sat, regarding the man in front of him, warm, golden eyes met his own and for the first time since they'd met, he saw. He saw rage simmering on the surface, nothing but a fragile mask for pain buried below. He saw anguish and fear, hopelessness and insecurity. There before him, separated by naught but a piece of wood, he watched with bated breath as Geralt let his walls crumble. He was vulnerable. Delicate, like a breath of wind or a slightly harsh word might be enough to topple him over. 

This wasn't more a monster than man, it was just a man. A man who felt lost. A man who was terrified for the safety of his lost child. A man who needed help. 

Jaskier hummed softly under his breath, searching in Geralt's gaze. Then he sat back and sighed. 

They both spoke at once. 

"Geralt, I'm—" 

"I'm sorry." 

Jaskier raised his eyebrow and gestured for Geralt to continue. 

The Witcher hummed. "You were right. All of this, this whole mess...it's been my fault, from the beginning. Our information was wrong. We acted rashly. I..." he trailed off, unable to meet Jaskier's eyes. "I wronged you." 

Jaskier chewed his lip. "You did." 

"I can't undo what's been done. But I am truly sorry." Geralt's voice was low and rough and Jaskier shivered despite himself.

He reached across the desk and took Geralt's hands in his own, ducking his head slightly to catch the other man's gaze. He ran his thumbs over the ridges of the Witcher's knuckles, tracing patterns and rubbing circles into the weathered skin there. 

Geralt looked up and locked eyes with him. "All is forgiven," Jaskier murmured softly. Geralt tightened his grip around Jaskier's fingers. Little sparks of electricity tingled and jumped across their skin at the point of contact and for a brief moment everything narrowed in until all Jaskier could feel was Geralt's hands in his own, all he could hear was their breaths rising and falling in time, all he could smell was woodsmoke and leather oil, all of it was Geralt and once again he wanted. 

It would have been so easy to cross the span of the desk, to grab him by the collar and haul him into a filthy, crushing kiss, pouring all the rage, the hurt, the confusion, the pining, out into a physical culmination of a lust that made absolutely no sense. 

It was maddening and strange, it occupied his thoughts and coloured his behaviour. There was no explanation yet somehow it just felt right, like how the ocean did as the moon bid it to and that's just the way it should be. He so desperately wanted to give in and forget, to allow themselves to close the distance and stop denying whatever thing sat unspoken between them.

But that wasn't what they were here for. 

Jaskier released Geralt's hands and reclined, snapping the spellbound moment.  

"You know, I never would have told my father this, but the long-haired thing wasn't really my style. At least you gave me a badass story to explain the crop." Jaskier snorted. "Trip to the royal barber isn't quite as...songworthy." 

Geralt didn't laugh. 

"Too soon?" asked Jaskier, eyebrow quirked. 

"Hmmm," came the stoic reply. 

Jaskier laughed, mouth dry, desperate to put some space between himself and the horribly inappropriate fantasies that flashed across his mind every time he breathed the same air as Geralt. It was getting out of hand. 

Jaskier's face creased with a penant look and his mood sobered. "I need to apologise to you too, Geralt. You must not think very highly of me—I'll have you know, I'm not usually prone to this...this...whatever this has been. I'm afraid I've been cruel to you." 

"Cruel?" 

"I can't imagine how much pain you must be in," Jaskier paused and blew out a shaky little breath. "Your daughter was kidnapped. And she's little...I can't imagine. Could you...could you tell me about her?" 

Geralt eyed him warily. "Her name is Cirilla." 

Jaskier nodded. 

"She's not mine, biologically speaking. I once claimed the Law of Surprise at a banquet, as payment for saving a man's life. His beloved bent over in the middle of the ballroom and vomited all over his shoes at that very moment." 

Jaskier's eyes widened. "Oh, gods." 

Geralt chuckled drily at the memory. "I never wanted a child, it doesn't suit our lifestyle. Witchers kill monsters, we don't raise children." His eyes darkened. "Fate had other ideas for me. Cirilla's parents died when she was very small." 

"Then she came under your care?" 

"Hmm. No. She was taken in by her grandmother." 

"Ah. And how long did that last, if you don't mind my asking?" 

"Little less than a year. Her grandmother was...she died." 

Jaskier made a sad noise. "Old age?" 

"She jumped out a window." 

Jaskier's hand flew to his mouth and he gasped. 

He didn't get a chance to speak before Geralt continued. "During the fall of Cintra." 

Jaskier's brows knitted tightly together. Why did this story sound familiar? "Her...grandmother. In Cintra. Her grandmother was..." realisation dawned on his face. "Oh, no. Oh, no, Geralt."

Geralt watched, impassive, as Jaskier ran his hands through his hair teasing out the ends of it.

"Her grandmother was Calanthe." Jaskier pushed his chair out from his desk and paced around the room, shaken. "Your daughter, the granddaughter of Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra?! Fuck, Geralt!" He paused. " You know, they say the princess, she...are the legends true? The rumours? Does she have...the abilities they say she does?!" 

Geralt nodded. "She's unlike anything I've ever come across. Devastatingly powerful." 

Something shifted. 

Jaskier stopped in his tracks and spun to face Geralt, eyes narrowing. "What does the name Tissaia De Vries mean to you?" 

Geralt shrugged. "She taught Yennefer everything she knows. Rectoress of Aretuza. Why?" 

Jaskier could feel the wheels in his head turning as pieces of the puzzle slowly clicked into place. "She knows of Cirilla's...whole thing? The prophecies, the destiny, the powers?" 

"Likely. Why, Jaskier?" 

Jaskier regarded Geralt quizzically for a moment, then huffed. "The very same day I lied to you that we had 'the girl', I sent one of my scouts out to extract some spies of mine to find her. I'll admit, my motivation was entirely selfish. Get the girl, avoid a war. I didn't have the slightest clue who she was or why she mattered. You follow?"

Geralt shrugged non-committally. 

Jaskier's eyes softened and he hurriedly crossed the room, plopping down in his chair with a huff. "Geralt, they...they almost found her." 

Geralt's eyes widened. "Where?" 

"I don't...I don't know yet. But they think she's with Tissaia. And a man. They don't know why. They've been seen all over, in Novigrad, in Vizima, in Kerack, but get this—" he sat back, giving his lungs a moment to catch up with the speed of words falling out of his mouth, "no one can identify the child. It's like she's, she's hidden or—or spelled, or something. So the Rectoress of Aretuza and an unidentifiable child are traipsing all over the country side, they were last spotted right over the other side of my border shortly before you came here, thinking I was the one who had taken her!" 

"But she's not here," Geralt stated. 

Jaskier hummed his agreement. "She's not. At least I don't think she is." Then he fixed Geralt with a thoughtful stare. "How did you come to the conclusion I was the one to blame?" 

Geralt considered for a moment, then a dark look of anger washed over Geralt's face. "Yennefer. Her...her informant. I don't know who." 

They sat in silence under the weight of the implication. 

"Someone wanted you to come here," whispered Jaskier softly. 

"Someone wanted us to start a war." 

"A distraction." 

Geralt rose from his chair, crossing his arms over his chest with a heavy frown. "I need to speak with Yennefer." He turned to leave, then hesitated. "Jaskier...I—hmm. Thank you. For telling me this. For sending your people out to find her." Geralt turned back to face him, sunshine-coloured eyes ablaze with a strange and fascinating mix of hope, confusion and anger. 

Jaskier stood and circled around his desk, stepping into the Witcher's space until they were only a breath apart. "Let me help you, Geralt. We will find her. I swear it." 

And oh, if the look on Geralt's face wasn't just about the most beautiful thing Jaskier had ever seen. A softness etched itself into the lines of his face that spoke of trust, of relief and gratefulness, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Jaskier longed to close the distance between them and pull the Witcher into his embrace.

Geralt nodded, seemingly at a loss for words.

"Goodnight, Jaskier. Thank you." 

Geralt left the office. He'd opened the door and was halfway out, heavy footsteps thudding through Jaskier's blood like his own heartbeat. 

Now. 

"Geralt, wait!" Jaskier launched himself after the hulking Witcher and caught him by the elbow, stopping him dead. Geralt froze but didn't turn to face him, chest suddenly heaving with ragged breaths like it had all become too much. 

Then he spun. Slowly. 

Jaskier's mouth hung open, unformed words sitting on the edge of his lips that he dared not speak aloud. He begged, pleaded, with his eyes, searching Geralt's face for an answer he wasn't sure was there. 

Now? 

Now. 

In less than a heartbeat Geralt was on him, his mouth pressed firmly against his own, claiming. Jaskier moaned as Geralt's hands snaked through his hair, tilting his head back. Geralt licked into his mouth, possessive, fierce, tasting of Toussaintois wine and raw, unbridled passion. Jaskier wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him closer, hating the space between them, needing to feel their bodies pressed together. 

They broke apart, panting, and Geralt pressed his forehead to Jaskier's, eyes closed. He walked them back gently until Jaskier was pressed against the hard wooden desk, perching himself on the edge, opening his legs ever so slightly for Geralt to step between them. 

Those thighs, oh gods, let me be crushed between them. 

Geralt traced his fingers down the line of Jaskier's jaw and gently tilted his face up to press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. Jaskier kissed him back, driving it deeper, nipping and biting, tasting, exploring. Geralt's heady scent washed over him. Delightful. He was lost in it. Geralt broke the kiss to press his lips to the bolt of Jaskier's jaw, just under his ear, before scraping his teeth along that sweet, sensitive spot. 

A feral, wanton moan that Jaskier didn't even recognise as his own was punched out of him. Geralt growled against the crook of neck, nipping at the delicate skin there before soothing it with his tongue. Jaskier groaned again, the sound of it cut off as Geralt claimed his mouth again, muffling his cries of pleasure. 

Melitele strike me down where I stand, so that I may die a happy man. 

Just as soon as it had begun, it ended and Geralt stepped back out of his reach, golden eyes smoldering with desire as he traced over every line of Jaskier's body. Committing it to memory. Jaskier whined petulantly at the loss of contact and reached out, pleading for him to come back. 

Geralt acquiesced and stepped back between Jaskier's legs, dropping his head to rest on Jaskier's shoulder with his nose pressed firmly into the crook of his neck. The Witcher inhaled deeply, sending little shivers down Jaskier's spine. 

"Geralt," he whispered like a prayer. 

Then Geralt straightened and Jaskier was enveloped in impossibly broad arms, pressed against a firm chest. He slipped his own arms around Geralt's waist and crossed them at the wrist, pulling him closer and locking him into place. 

The steady, slow thump of Geralt's heart thudded against his cheek. 

Geralt rested his chin on Jaskier's head and sighed. "Jask," he rumbled. "I...I don't want to go." 

"So stay." 

"I can't. Not tonight." 

Jaskier mumbled his annoyance into Geralt's chest. 

Geralt leaned back and slipped his hand under Jaskier's chin, tilting his head up so their eyes met. "To be continued?" 

"To be continued." 

His heart fluttered as Geralt pressed another butterfly-soft kiss to his lips, before he turned and stalked out into the stillness of the night. 

I am truly, utterly, deeply fucked. 

Chapter Text

Jaskier was starting to wonder if he'd ever get another full night of sleep again. He huffed and puffed, tossed and turned.

The pillow was too damn hard. The mattress was way too soft. His blankets were too hot, but not having one on left him too cold. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his breaths came out ragged.

As Jaskier rolled over and swapped sides for what must have been the twentieth time in under an hour, he steadfastly tried to ignore the way he could hear raised, angry voices echoing off the castle walls. 

He could probably make out the words if he tried. 

He wasn't sure he wanted to. 

Footsteps echoed, a door slammed, a rushing gust of wind and then—silence. 

Jaskier rolled over yet again and ran his fingers through his slightly damp hair. Ugh. 

Maybe I should go talk to Zoltan. Jaskier groaned. That's not fair. Why drag someone else from the sweet embrace of slumber just because I can't get a certain white-haired god out of my mind? 

Eventually, a few more position changes and a glass of water later, sleep dragged him under. Sweet memories of a warm mouth claiming his own and strong arms surrounding him danced through his mind and into his dreams.  

The witching hour passed, turning into the hour of the wolf. 

When dawn came peeking through his window, it brought with it a soft knock at his door. 

Jaskier sighed and rolled over, eyes unfocussed and hazy with sleep. Was it morning already? His head pounded like he'd imbibed too much wine the night before. He hadn't, but figured poor sleep would do just about the same. 

The knocks got more persistent. 

"Come on in, then," he called. The door cracked open to reveal Essi's slender frame in the doorway. 

"Good morning, my King," was her soft greeting. Jaskier waved her off with a half-hearted gesture. 

She padded in and sat on the edge of his bed. "Are you ready to talk about last night?" 

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. 

"Dinner," she clarified. 

Ah. That. 

Jaskier propped himself up on his elbows and shuffled back to a sitting position against his pillows. He pulled the covers tighter in around his hips and gestured for Essi to continue. 

She hummed, then sighed deeply. "It was bad." 

"Understatement." 

"What a mess. What did you and Geralt talk about?" she asked innocently, tone light. 

Jaskier considered her for a moment, weighing. A smile crept across his face that he couldn't stifle. Fuck it. I have to tell someone or I might explode. He cleared his throat. "We, uh...we cleared some things up. Most things. And then he stuck his tongue down my throat." 

Essi's hands flew to her mouth and she squeaked. "He didn't!" 

"He absolutely did." 

"Was it good?" 

Jaskier flushed. "It...uh, yes. Yes it was." 

Essi opened her mouth to reply when Jaskier's bedroom door swung open and Zoltan sauntered in. 

"Oh good! Essi's already here." 

Jaskier flung his arms wide and gave Zoltan an incredulous look. "No, please, do invite yourself in! At least Essi knocked." 

Zoltan laughed and flopped himself down on Jaskier's bed across from Essi, reclining sideways. "I heard voices." 

"What if I was with a lover?" it came out higher than expected and Jaskier winced. 

Zoltan snorted. "Unlikely." 

Jaskier's mouth fell open. "Sorry, why are we all here again? Is it to cross-examine my lack of bed partners? I'd like to go back to sleep, thanks." He grabbed a pillow and slung it at Zoltan before burying himself under the covers in mock outrage while Essi giggled helplessly. 

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry. Let's talk about last night." Zoltan's voice was gentle and firm, 

Jaskier groaned. "Not this again," he muttered from under the safety of his downy comforter. He pushed it off himself with a dramatic huff and sat up. "Can we discuss it over breakfast with the Witchers?" 

"Thought you might want to discuss it privately first," Zoltan shrugged. 

"Where's Pris?" 

The heavy wooden door swung open again and Priscilla marched in, a wild and feral grin on her face. "You called?" 

"Were you waiting outside my door for someone to say your name?!" spluttered Jaskier. 

She tossed her hair over her shoulder haughtily. "No, I just have excellent timing." 

Jaskier rolled his eyes and gestured for her to join them on the bed. When she was seated and comfortable, cuddling up alongside Essi, she nodded and indicated for the conversation to continue. Jaskier relayed, briefly, the summary of his conversation with Geralt and the concerning implications they had come across. He described the look of anger and betrayal on Geralt's face and how he'd stormed out in a huff. 

He pointedly did not mention what had happened afterwards. Essi would spill the details before they made it to breakfast anyway. 

When Jaskier finished, Zoltan whistled low. "That's...huh." 

Priscilla hummed thoughtfully. "Do you really think Yennefer is somehow involved?" 

Jaskier shrugged. "Sort of sounds like it. We all—all of us, Witchers included—need a proper meeting, today. Soon." The others hummed their agreement. "I'm expecting Kaleb and my spies back by midday meal at the latest with a firm update. But let me be clear," he paused and looked at his friends, "no matter what has transpired previously, moving forward we are working with the Witchers. Our goal is to find and return Ci—Geralt's daughter. Clear?" 

"Clear," came the muttered chorus of replies. 

"Good. I'll explain the rest after we break our fast." His advisors nodded and bid their goodbyes, standing to leave. Jaskier watched them trailing out, flopping back against his pillows with a yawn.

Essi opened his bedroom door and yelped, startled. 

"What's up?" Jaskier called. 

Her devilish giggle made him groan. Please don't say it's...

"You have a visitor!" 

Essi shoved Priscilla and Zoltan out the door in a bustle of movement, bidding hasty greetings to the Witcher left standing awkwardly in the doorway. He could hear the frantic whispers receding down the hall as they hurried away, and groaned. 

"Come in, Geralt," he sighed wearily. "Is all business done in my bedchamber, now? Actually ignore that, that was...uh, come in." 

Jaskier yawned again and stretched luxuriously, arching his back until it clicked as the other man shut the door and made his way over to stand awkwardly at the side of his bed. 

Geralt frowned. "I'm...sorry. I didn't realise you had company." 

Jaskier waved him off. "Barely. Please, sit, darling." Jaskier was in awe of the absolutely marvellous blush that dusted over the Witcher's cheeks at his use of the pet name. He found himself wondering exactly what else he could do to get the man to flush, sweat...whimper. He sucked in a quick breath and banished the thought. 

Geralt perched on the edge of his bed down near Jaskier's feet, hands on his knees, back straight as rod. It would have been comical, were it not for the fact that the Witcher looked so hopelessly lost and uncomfortable. 

Jaskier's expression softened. His heart swelled as though it might burst as he let his eyes wander over the Witcher's body where he sat. Oh, you silly man. 

"Was there something you wanted, dear heart?" he whispered softly, peeking at Geralt out from under dark, fluttering eyelashes. Please say me, please say me, oh gods, please say me and you can have me. 

Geralt hummed. "I tried to come up with a reason to be here. Something so pressing that it couldn't wait. A question, an excuse..." his tone was achingly soft and Jaskier felt his heart crack a little. 

Jaskier crawled out from under the bed covers and positioned himself behind Geralt, legs stretched wide to bracket the larger man's thighs with his own. He looped his arms around Geralt's waist, pressing his head in between his Witcher's shoulder blades. "You don't need an excuse to see me," he murmured into his back. 

Geralt relaxed into Jaskier's grip and they sat in comfortable silence, pressed back to chest, as Jaskier traced his fingers up and down Geralt's front. His usual armour was absent, a soft, black linen shirt the only barrier between their skin. 

"Come here, love," he whispered against the Witcher's neck, "let the world wait a moment." He gently guided Geralt back against the head board, laying him down so he could rest on his chest. It was comfortable, it was safe. For the first time in a while, everything felt like it would be alright.

-*- 

Their absence from breakfast did not go unnoticed by Jaskier's advisor's, nor by the other Witchers, and made for some absolutely hysterical conversations. 

Jaskier and Geralt could not have cared less. They spent the morning trading long, lazy kisses, carding fingers through each other's hair and gazing into each other's eyes as though the secrets of the universe might somehow be buried there. 

Chapter Text

"The beauty of a moment is that it is fleeting, by its very nature it slips through our fingers..." Jaskier pressed a deep kiss to Geralt's mouth, flicking his tongue over sharper-than-usual canines.

"...making it that much more precious," Geralt finished, mumbling the words against his lips, before pulling him closer to deepen the kiss. 

It was these fleeting moments that stuck in his mind—lingering gazes that quickened his heartbeat, ghosting touches that left goosebumps in their wake. Like delicate snowflakes, impossibly complex in their beauty, or the moment in which a fragile flower opens its petals under the dawn's first light. 

It was here, in the in-between, suspended in time, that they rested. 

But the snowflake vanishes as soon as it is caught, and the flower wilts before dusk. 

This moment, like all moments, broke. 

It started with a scream. 

Shrill and piercing, tearing through the fabric of their picture perfect morning, turning Jaskier's blood to ice. Geralt was up and out of the bed before Jaskier could react, hand on his medallion, halfway to the door, when he paused and cast a glance back at Jaskier. 

Jaskier's heart was pounding, eyes wide with shock, but he pressed his lips into a thin line and nodded resolutely. "Go. I'll be right behind you." 

Geralt grunted. "Weapons." Then he was gone. 

Jaskier sat for a moment staring at the doorway before his instincts finally kicked into overdrive and he hauled himself out of the bed. Pants. Shirt. Shoes. 

Weapons. 

He slung his sword around his waist by the leather strap and tucked his dagger into his boot for good measure. He warily eyed the delicate set of throwing knives that sat on his dresser, before palming one and strapping it firmly to his wrist. 

Go. 

He was out of the room and pounding down the hallway in less than a heartbeat. 

He heard a crash. The mess hall. He turned in the direction of the chaos and hollered for his guards as he ran. 

He made it there and paused. 

Chaos might have been putting it a little lightly. 

In the centre of the mess hall was a swirling, black void of a portal that was absolutely dripping with a dark energy, the likes of which he'd never seen before. 

He swept the room, assessing. Three hooded figures, draped in black. Mages. He hissed. Just behind the portal, Aiden and Lambert were engaged with one of the invaders, combining Lambert's brute strength with Aiden's quick movements, dodging bolts of lightning and wickedly fast fireballs.

Fuck! Fire mages? 

The noise was deafening, weapons clashing, the roar of the portal and the crackling shriek of forbidden fire magic ringing through the air. 

To his left, Zoltan crossed swords with another cloaked mage, Eskel circling the two of them tracing signs with his fingers and throwing them at the ground. 

Where the fuck are my guards? 

Jaskier's eyes darted to the far end of the room where Essi, Priscilla and Vesemir faced off against the third intruder, the three of them flowing like a river as if they'd fought together before. The mage threw long rows of fire around them, hurling in every direction, leaving scorch makes in the wake. 

Go! 

Jaskier lunged forward, drawing his sword. A stray ball of fire came rushing straight towards him and he dropped instinctively, ducking and rolling before landing on his feet next to Zoltan. Their eyes met briefly and Zoltan nodded.

"Wait for Eskel's signal!" he yelled over the cacophony. 

"What signal?!" screamed Jaskier. 

"NOW!" screamed Eskel, as the mage shrieked with anger and clawed at the invisible barrier suddenly holding them in place. Purple marks glowed in the ground around the mages' feet, and Jaskier almost missed the moment for his staring in wonder. 

Oh, wait, that was the signal fucking shit—

He lunged a second after Zoltan did and they both swung, passing effortlessly through whatever magic held the fire mage in place. With a sickening crunch, Zoltan's sword sunk into the mage's chest, and Jaskier felt no resistance as his own blade cleanly sliced across the mage's neck, severing their head. 

The body shrivelled up and dissolved into dust. 

Jaskier heard a deep, feral roar and he whipped his head around just in time to see Lambert snap the neck of the mage restrained in Aiden's grip. The crack of broken bones echoed through the room even over the sounds of fighting. The body sagged in Aiden's arms, then it too disappeared into dust. 

"Fucking gross!" Aiden shrieked, frantically dusting the debris off his armour. 

Then there was one. 

He turned to run towards where Essi, Pris and Vesemir were battling the last mage when Eskel's hand on his shoulder jolted him back to the present. He felt his stomach drop at the look on his face. Oh gods, wait—

"Geralt," Eskel huffed, "come on. With me. Let's go." 

Jaskier's heart thudded as he followed Eskel out of the mess hall and through the castle, footsteps echoing off stone floors as the sounds of chaos faded behind them. 

"Where is he?" yelled Jaskier. 

"I don't know! They went this way." 

"Who's they?!" 

"Him and the other fire fucker!" Eskel led Jaskier up the spiral staircase towards the wall walk at the top of the castle. With each hurried step, dread sunk it's claws into his heart. 

They burst out onto the upper castle walls and Jaskier gasped at the sight. 

Geralt was locked in battle with a mage, but this one was different. The figure was cloaked in red and disgustingly powerful, the same dark energy that dripped off the portal was seeping out of his very pores, shrouding him in a flickering, malicious haze. Jaskier watched with his heart in his throat as the mage threw spell after spell at Geralt, who blocked and dodged and struck when the opening presented itself. 

A thick, dark purple bolt of lightning arced from the mage's hands, headed straight for Geralt's chest which he blocked with his sword. Geralt grunted, struggling to hold back the assault and something in Jaskier's mind snapped into action.

In a breath, he slid out his throwing knife and hurled it straight for the mage's heart. His aim was true and it would have landed—the mage noticed and dodged, disappearing in a flash and reappearing a few paces away. The distraction was enough, however, and Geralt lunged after the him, forming a sign with his hands and setting a blast of fire after the red-cloaked figure. Eskel ran to join the fray, throwing signs of his own to catch the mage off guard. 

"Aard!" yelled Geralt.

A sign, and a mighty gust of air blasted the mage off-centre.

Jaskier watched in awe, and more than a little terror. Eskel and Geralt moved like a well-oiled machine, always close but never colliding, swapping space and dancing around each other like it was choreographed. It was beautiful and horrifying. Each swing that missed, each spell that nearly caught them sent a fresh chill of fear running down his spine.

From a distance, Jaskier had the advantage of seeing what they were too close to. The mage raised his hands and made to throw another wicked arc of lightning in Eskel's direction—his black eyes flashed and Jaskier felt time slow down. 

He wasn't really aiming for Eskel. 

He was going to hit Geralt. 

"GERALT, MOVE!"

Geralt's head whipped in Jaskier's direction and they locked eyes before Geralt immediately ducked and rolled out of the way.

Jaskier kicked the dagger up out of his boot, caught it mid-air and flung it as hard as he could in the mage's direction.

This time, it hit. 

The mage howled in rage and anguish, clawing at his chest to try and dislodge the dagger. Eskel used the distraction and threw a devastating fire sign that engulfed the mage's face, twisting and marring it as the smell of burned flesh filled the air. 

The mage staggered backwards and opened another black, swirling portal and launched himself into it before anyone could react. It closed with a hiss, gone as though it had never been.

Then there was silence. 

Heavy, oppressive silence. It settled over the top of them and dragged them down, like a sinking ship creating a vortex so powerful you couldn't escape it and swim to the surface. Jaskier did, in fact, feel like he was drowning. 

He collapsed to his knees as the adrenaline left his body, unable to hold himself up any longer. He'd thought he was about to lose Geralt. 

He sat back, panting. The ringing in his ears got louder and louder and his gaze went blurry around the edges as all his senses zeroed in on the shrill tone. 

He didn't notice Geralt suddenly by his side, running soft and gentle hands over his body, checking for wounds. He didn't notice Eskel's worried gaze in front of his face, voice echoing as he called Jaskier's name. He didn't feel Geralt wrap strong, careful arms around him and haul him to his feet. 

They must have trudged back to the mess hall. Maybe Geralt carried him. He couldn't tell. 

When the ringing finally faded and his eyes refocussed, they were back in the mess hall surveying the damage. Slowly, the sounds around him got louder and clearer and his mind jolted back to reality. 

Geralt!

The warm press of a chest against his back and an arm wrapped protectively around his waist grounded him. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back onto Geralt's shoulder and sighed, enjoying for a moment the familiar scent of him. Leather oil and woodsmoke. He's hale, he's safe. 

Geralt tipped his head down and nuzzled into the crook of Jaskier's neck, that spot under his ear that he really liked, and inhaled deeply. A pleased hum rumbled through his chest, rippling over Jaskier. 

Jaskier's eyes snapped open. Not now. Fix this. 

He straightened up but didn't leave Geralt's embrace as he swept his eyes over the room. No major injuries, bar a few cuts, bruises and burns. Good. The mess hall, however? Totally, completely fucked. A small price to pay for the safety of his closest and most treasured companions, but still.

Jaskier sighed dramatically. "Gods, you lot. The staff just finished putting this place back together!"

The tension in the air broke and everyone laughed, letting out breaths and relaxing ever so slightly. 

"Who's the least damaged?" he called. 

"That's me!" answered Priscilla. 

"Fetch the healer, please dear." 

"She's already on her way, Jask." 

Jaskier nodded. "Thank you, Priscilla." He frowned. "Where are the guards?" 

Zoltan coughed. "All present and accounted for. Vesemir is with them, waking them up. A sleeping spell. Must have happened before the attack." 

Jaskier's frown deepened, brows drawing together. "It was well planned." 

Geralt's arm tightened around his waist and he felt vibrations in against the back of his neck. He turned, a question on his lips, when the air began to crackle with magic. 

Fuck no, not again! 

Every sword was drawn and weapon brandished, all eyes on the centre of the room as a portal began swirling and opening up. 

It flashed, and Jaskier felt Geralt relax behind him. Huh? Oh. 

Yennefer stepped through the portal smoothly, not a single hair out of place. The perfect picture of elegance, as always. She looked around the room coolly, one eyebrow raised. "Aw, you started the party without me?" 

Jaskier went to make a snarky reply when another figure stepped out from the portal behind Yennefer. 

Tall, elegant with piercing blue eyes, she glided into the room, an aura of authority surrounding her. 

Jaskier's stomach hit the floor and his mouth went dry. Every sound instantly dropped away until all he could hear was the blood rushing through his veins and the pounding of his heart. 

He shoved himself out of Geralt's arms and stepped forward, eyes dark and a murderous look on his face. 

Echoes flashed across his mind. 

"Word travels..." 

"They say you are a kind and fair ruler..." 

"They said we would be safe here..." 

He snarled and raised his sword, digging the tip of it into the newcomer's neck just under her chin to lift her face. 

"You." He spat. 

It all started clicking into place.

He knew her. 

He knew the girl. 

Chapter Text

INTERLUDE - KALEB'S POV 

Kaleb put both hands on the heavy, wooden mess hall doors and swung them open. He had finally made it back to the castle and was positively bursting at the seams to find King Jaskier and tell him all about what they had uncovered. He stopped in his tracks, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. 

He was not expecting the sight that awaited him. 

The mess hall was destroyed. Not a single piece of furniture remained upright, some thrown around the room haphazardly and the rest smashed into pieces. Scorch marks littered every observable surface, filling the room with the acrid stench of smoke.

In the centre of the chaos stood his king, eyes blazing with fury, tip of his sword pressed into a woman's neck. The woman glared Jaskier down without trace of fear in her icy blue eyes. Beside her stood the most beautiful woman Kaleb had ever laid eyes on—long black hair framed her face and made her violet eyes stand out all the more brightly. She was clearly a mage, sparks of electricity crackling at her fingertips as she lifted her hands slowly, attempting to placate Jaskier, murmuring words that Kaleb was too far away to make out. 

At his intrusion, every head in the room had swivelled to glare at him. Oh...shit. He took a few steps backwards, his body moving of it's own accord.

Scattered around the room were a group of terrifyingly large Witchers, decked out in black armour with an absurd amount of weapons brandished between them. Different shades of amber and golden eyes burned into him and in the moment he felt less like himself and more like prey. His heartbeat quickened and he gulped. Time to go. 

"Um..." he started weakly. "My king. Jaskier. I'll...I'll wait in your office." Jaskier's expression softened when he met Kaleb's eyes and Kaleb puffed out a breath of relief. 

Then he turned and bolted from the room. 

Whatever the hell is going on in there is WAY above my pay grade. 

-*-

Jaskier watched the retreating form of his scout carefully, making sure the boy made it out unbothered, before turning back to the woman in front of him with narrowed eyes. 

She looked down her nose at him, seeming more irritated than frightened. “If you’ll let me explain,” she started. Jaskier cut her off. 

“You’re lucky I’m letting you live,” he hissed. “You lied to me. Tell me, how are you finding life in my charming little kingdom? Have you settled in well? Am I as kind and fair as described?” His voice dropped dangerously low. “How is your daughter?” 

Jaskier remembered the last time he had met this woman. How her and her "husband" had come before him, looking dishevelled and weary, begging for respite and a safe place to live. He remembered thinking how her face looked kind. He remembered being delighted by the small child clutching at her skirts, peeking out from behind her with shy, green eyes. 

His face twisted into a dark scowl as he remembered that same child in the corner of the classroom, glowering at everyone who came near her. Jaskier realised now that the anger was actually just her fear, and his heart cracked for the girl as he thought about all she suffered through in her short life so far. He thought about the way tears had welled up in her eyes, and how she had deemed him safe enough to trust and launched herself into his arms, sobbing. 

Gods, he cursed himself bitterly. I should have known. I could have protected her. 

He grit his teeth and twisted his wrist, digging the tip of his blade into the thin skin of the woman's neck just so, causing a single bead of blood to push it’s way past the surface and slide off his blade. 

“Jaskier, enough. Step back,” ordered Yennefer. 

Jaskier turned his glare on her. “And who are you to be giving me orders in my own castle?” 

“Someone who’s interested in stopping you from making the stupidest mistake of your life. Step back.” Her violet eyes flashed with a warning and Jaskier huffed dismissively, refusing to back down or lower his sword. 

From behind, he felt Geralt’s increasingly familiar touch, a gentle hand pressed to the small of his back, and only then did he falter slightly. 

“Jask,” Geralt rumbled, “we need to let her speak.” Geralt slid his gaze over to the woman next to Yennefer. “If you’re not satisfied with her explanation, I’ll help you kill her afterwards.” He had a smirk on his face but his tone betrayed the seriousness behind the threat. 

Jaskier sighed and dropped his sword. He sheathed it and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow and gesturing for her to start. 

She frowned disapprovingly. “Can we move this somewhere a little more...civilised?” 

Jaskier sought out Geralt’s gaze, sighing deeply when his Witcher nodded and jerked his head to the doorway, indicating that yes, the obliterated mess hall was a bad location to do this and they should move. With another dramatic, more pointed sigh, Jaskier led the lot of them out of the mess hall and through the castle halls to his courtroom. He didn’t think his office was quite big enough for five Witchers, two mages, three humans and himself. Especially not if things went downhill. He didn’t fancy a fight in the room where he kept his musical instruments and beloved books. Besides, Kaleb was in there.

Oh! Kaleb. Shit. 

He beckoned for Zoltan and murmured a quiet order to go and fetch the boy. Jaskier had a feeling that based on the way he burst into the room earlier, he had some information pertinent to the events unfolding. 

Everyone filed into the courtroom, the very same room where Jaskier was crowned King, and he eyed his throne up on the dais warily. He could sit in it...but, at the end of the day it was just a chair. A comfy, plush chair that was probably big enough for two—file that thought away for later—and would have the added benefit of maybe intimidating the elegant and apparently unflappable woman standing here in his courtroom like she owned the place. 

On second thoughts, it was just a chair and this was hardly a time for posturing. Not when so much was at stake. 

He stalked across the room, taking a seat on the dais steps. Geralt sat at his side, the other Witchers and advisors taking their seats on the ground either side of them. 

Yennefer and the woman she had brought with her stood before them. The woman held herself proudly with an air of authority that left him wondering how he ever bought the lie that she was a humble merchant's wife. Her whole aura screamed important and elegant and powerful and noble. She looked exactly like he would have expected the Rectoress of Aretuza to look. 

Jaskier set his mouth into a firm line. "Tissaia De Vries?" 

She nodded curtly.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," he grit out, words laced with venom, "again." 

Tissaia flicked her eyes over Jaskier's form, before apparently deciding offering an explanation to him was unimportant—rude—and directed her attention to Geralt. "Your daughter is in grave danger." 

"Because you took her," Geralt all but snarled. 

Jaskier, not entirely of his own volition, placed his hand gently on Geralt's thigh and traced his fingers softly over the muscles there. I'm here, dear heart. 

Tissaia nodded grimly. "I did." 

"Where is she now?" asked Jaskier coldly. 

Tissaia's mouth turned down into a scowl and something dark and thunderous flashed across her eyes. "She's on her way to Nilfgaard." 

Jaskier's heart sank. That was really, really bad. Beside him, Geralt's jaw clicked and his whole body went rigid underneath Jaskier's hand. 

"You gave my daughter...to Nilfgaard?" Geralt roared and was off the dais and towering over Tissaia like a bolt of lightning. Anyone else would have crumbled under the full ferocity of his rage, but Tissaia merely tipped her chin up in defiance. 

"I did no such thing," she hissed. "It was—" 

"Vilgefortz." Kaleb's small voice echoed through the courtroom and all heads turned to see the boy had returned, stepping gingerly into the room with Zoltan. 

Geralt looked between Kaleb and Tissaia, brows drawn tight with anger, eyes flashing with so much emotion they almost glowed. "Explain," he barked. 

Kaleb piped up. His voice shook a little, but Jaskier felt only pride as the young scout squared his chest and stepped forward to address the group. "The princess has been sighted in the company of a man who has been identified as Vilgefortz. We have evidence he was here, in the kingdom." 

Geralt pinned Tissaia with a questioning look and she nodded. Correct. 

"But you took her." Geralt growled. "Why is she with him now? Why did you leave her?" 

Tissaia exhaled grimly. "Vilgefortz used me. He convinced me that the best thing for Cirilla was to be raised under the tutelage and safety of Aretuza, of course, I agreed, and plans were made to secure her." 

"That was not your decision to make!" 

"There's a war coming, Geralt!" Tissaia said forcefully, losing some of her composure, "this isn't a game of house! The fate of the very Continent is at stake, Cirilla is—" 

"Mine." Geralt stepped forward and crowded into her space. 

Jaskier's breath hitched at the raw and feral look in Geralt's eyes as he spat the word at Tissaia like a threat. 

Tissaia raised an eyebrow and stared the Witcher down coolly. "Be that as it may, the reality is this. Vilgefortz used me to get to her. He convinced me to bring her here, into neutral territory, where we'd wait and hide out until it was safe to return to Aretuza. It was a lie. When I uncovered his true plans to take her to Nilfgaard, I..." for the first time since she entered the room, Tissaia's facade slipped slightly and for a split second she looked unsure of herself. 

Her voice was soft when she spoke again. "I alone am no match for Vilgefortz' power. When I found out his true intentions, I convinced Yennefer's informant that Julian was the one responsible for taking her so that you would come here, and..." 

"And?" Geralt's voice was quiet and measured, somehow even more frightening than his unbridled anger. This was different, it was dangerous. 

"You'd find her." Tissaia's voice held a melancholy note. 

"Waging war on an innocent man in the process. So that you could escape unscathed and hide your involvement." 

Tissaia clenched her jaw and lifted her eyes to meet his but did not deny it. 

Jaskier exhaled forcefully. Fuck. He stood up to join them. "The last time I saw Cirilla was two days before the Witchers arrived. When did Vilgefortz leave for Nilfgaard?" 

Kaleb chimed in again, voice stronger this time. "The house they temporarily settled in was abandoned two days ago, according to the neighbours. The same time the Witchers got here." 

Geralt swore, low and filthy. 

Tissaia placed a hand on Geralt's shoulder which he shrugged off roughly. "It is of a vital importance that she does not make it to Nilfgaard," she said calmly. 

The look Geralt gave her could have withered a flower on the spot. 

"No shit," he growled. "We ride for Nilfgaard at dawn." 

He turned to his Witchers and locked eyes with them one by one. "Are you with me?" 

"Of course, lad." 

Eskel placed his palm over his heart. "Always, brother."

Aiden just nodded resolutely. 

"Fuckin' hell yeah we are!" whooped Lambert, earning himself a punch in the shoulder from Aiden. "Ow, you fuck," he muttered. 

Geralt turned to face Yennefer and Tissaia. "Yennefer, are you with me?" Yennefer nodded silently. 

Priscilla stepped forward, Essi's hand tucked tightly in her own. "We will go with you. All of us." 

Zoltan nodded. "Aye." 

"I...I want to come too!" Kaleb stepped forward, head held aloft. Geralt looked to Jaskier in deference with a questioning look. The adults volunteering themselves to ride into unknown dangers and potential death was one thing. Putting the boy's life at risk was another. Jaskier chewed his lip. It's not really my decision to make, either. 

Jaskier approached Kaleb and placed his hands on his shoulders, ducking his head slightly to look the boy in the eyes. "Kaleb. You have performed brilliantly on this mission. You have outdone yourself and played a vital role. I am unspeakably proud of you." 

The scout flushed under the praise. Jaskier continued. "I would not dream of allowing you to walk into this unprepared. We're going up against an enemy that none of us bar Tissaia and maybe Yennefer fully understand. It will be very dangerous. I cannot promise your safety. Are you sure you want to do this?" 

Kaleb considered Jaskier's words carefully for a moment, before nodding resolutely. Jaskier clapped him on the shoulder and ruffled his hair. "Good man." 

Tissaia stepped forward. "Geralt, I know you don't trust me," she stated plainly, "but you can trust that the Continent will be torn apart if Cirilla makes it to Nilfgaard. You need every bit of help you can get to prevent that from happening, and I am willing to go with you if you will have me." 

Over Tissaia's shoulder, Yennefer was staring Geralt down pointedly with an exaggerated nod of her head. He narrowed his eyes, considering, before answering her. "If you so much as step one foot out of line, I will bury my sword in your chest and think nothing of it, bar the satisfaction of revenge for you taking my child from me." 

If his threat had any ill effect on Tissaia, once again she did not show it, her expression remaining cool and steadfast as ever. 

Geralt hummed. "It's settled then. Everyone get out. Pack up and rest up. Courtyard at first light."  

Muffled chatter filled the air as all present filtered out of the courtroom in groups of two and three. 

Jaskier had turned towards the door and was starting to leave when Geralt dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder and spun him around. 

Ohhh, Melitele. 

Geralt leaned in close, brushing his lips along the shell of Jaskier's ear and growled, "not you."

Jaskier shivered, the ghost of a moan falling from his lips. Geralt pulled back and searched his eyes, silently asking if this was really okay. 

It is. Jaskier nodded and pleaded with his eyes, begging Geralt to understand how much he needed him. He flicked his tongue out over his lips to wet them and dropped his gaze to Geralt's mouth. 

Geralt noticed and his golden eyes darkened with lust. He slid his hand down Jaskier's side, before wrapping it around his waist and dragging him in closer.  

Geralt pressed their foreheads together until they were breathing the same air and Jaskier whined softly. "Geralt." 

When Jaskier whimpered his name, Geralt moaned. "I know, little king, I know," he muttered. "Come here. I need you, I need you, just—please." 

The space between them was suddenly too much to bear. Jaskier broke first, leaning forward to close the distance and finally, finally—for the first time in what felt like an eternity but was really only about twelve hellish hours—laid his mouth on Geralt's. The kiss started soft and gentle, the immediate relief evident in the way they both sagged against each other, holding each other up. It was healing and soothing, safe. 

Relief gave way to desire, then desire gave way to want. Want became need became hunger and a carnal drive that overtook his mind and turned off his rational brain. 

Fingers tangled in hair and tugged, hands roamed, wicked teeth nipped and scraped. Jaskier's mind was hazy with lust. Geralt hooked his fingers inside the neckline of Jaskier's shirt and tugged it to the side to expose his shoulder, before sinking his teeth into the muscles there. 

Jaskier groaned like a wounded animal as Geralt traced his teeth and tongue over his shoulder, mapping out the bones and muscles with all the reverence of a worshipper at Melitele's temple. 

"G-Geralt," he stuttered breathlessly, "I need—" his voice faltered, but as Geralt looked deep into his eyes Jaskier knew he could see plainly what was laid out there for him. I need you, I need you, I need all of you, everything you'll give me, I need your touch and your voice and your mouth and your hands, gods, please wreck me. He felt his throat constrict, overcome with emotion and a heady desire that left him aching. 

Geralt hushed him softly and drew him in against his chest, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

"I know what you need, little king," he rumbled, and Jaskier just about cried. "Let's go." 

Jaskier nodded, unable to speak. Tucked safely under Geralt's arm, held close against the larger man's body with a hand around his waist, he led himself be led back to his chambers.

His heart pounded in his chest with every step and one thought flashed across his mind. 

Yours. 

Yours. 

Yours. 

Take me, have me, keep me, ruin me, I want to be yours. I am yours. 

Chapter Text

They crashed through the door to Jaskier's chambers entangled in each other's arms. Mouths on skin, hands exploring, grabbing and clutching each other closer. Jaskier shrugged off his shirt and flung it to the corner before tugging at Geralt's armour. "Off. Off, now." 

Geralt pressed a soft kiss to his lips and teased him about being impatient, before unbuckling the outer parts of his armour and laying them out carefully on the floor. Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms. Oh wait, maybe he's on to something. I really am impatient. Can you blame me though? When Geralt was down to his soft linen undershirt and pants, Jaskier reached out to unlace them and Geralt batted his hand away. 

Jaskier whined petulantly. "Geralt," he sooked, "you are wearing far too many clothes right now, darling, I'm frankly desperate to lay my eyes on that gorgeous chiselled body of yours. And then lay my hands on it. And then my tongue. Off!" 

Geralt laughed, deep and throaty, and his eyes twinkled with mischief. "Easy, Jask. You'll get what you want. Now, why don't you show me what a good boy you can be and go stand over there," he gestured to the wall next to Jaskier's bed, "and watch." 

Jaskier huffed but did as he was told. He flicked his tongue over his lips and watched, rapt, as Geralt lifted his shirt over his head revealing his muscly chest, littered with scars like constellations. What noble past lives I must have lived to deserve such a perfect, perfect man in this one? Geralt's hands went to the laces of his pants and he undid them slowly, teasingly, before dropping them to floor revealing himself in all of his splendour.

Jaskier's mind went blank. He wanted, gods, he wanted, he considered himself a poet, a songwriter, but in the moment could not find the words deserving of the beauty stood before him, the glory and the radiance of Geralt's body. His mouth went dry and he leant against the wall, pressing his back into it to stop himself from collapsing. 

Geralt smirked. "Like what you see?" 

"Oh fuck, yes—I need, gods—" 

"Will you kneel for me then, little king?" he rumbled. 

Yes yes yes fuck yes thank you Melitele.

Jaskier groaned. "I thought you'd never ask. Although I must say, I did find it very breathtakingly sexy when you were back in that courtroom barking orders. Just wow—" 

He stopped with a whimper when Geralt was suddenly very close to him, towering over him with those flashing golden eyes. He swallowed. 

"Kneel." Came the curt order. 

Oh fuck yes. Jaskier shut his mouth and dropped to his knees in a heartbeat. He pressed soft kisses and kitten licks to the inside of Geralt's thighs, tracing a path up to where Geralt's glorious cock stood straining, red and weeping at the tip. 

He took it into his mouth, enjoying how it sat heavy and warm on his tongue. He dropped his jaw and took Geralt down further, brushing his tongue over the ridges and veins. Geralt wound a hand through his hair and pulled slightly, choking out a ragged moan. 

"Gods, Jask, your mouth," he gasped. Jaskier took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed Geralt down to the hilt, burying his nose in the soft hairs at the base of his cock. Geralt's knees buckled and he growled, pulling harder this time. Jaskier slid his cock out of his mouth slightly, swirling his tongue lightly over the tip before flicking it into the slit, tasting the salty precome waiting there. Fuck, he tastes incredible. Jaskier moaned around the tip of Geralt's cock before pulling off with a pop and looking up at Geralt with a pleading expression. 

"Please," he whispered, throat starting to feel raw, "fuck my mouth, please Geralt, use me," he begged. 

Geralt traced a finger down Jaskier's cheek, then a thumb over his cheekbones. Something in his eyes made Jaskier shiver with anticipation—it was reverence and hunger and adoration and need. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever laid eyes on," Geralt murmured. Then he laced his fingers through Jaskier's hair and guided him, mouth open, back to his cock. When Jaskier had worked his mouth around him again, Geralt thrusted into his mouth and Jaskier whimpered. Melitele have mercy on me, I'll never get enough of the taste of him. Geralt fucked into Jaskier's throat, whispering his name through wounded moans. 

Jaskier was preparing to swallow him down to the end again when Geralt slipped himself out of Jaskier's mouth. He pouted and glared up at his golden-eyed god. "Why—" 

Geralt hauled him up for a filthy, desperate kiss. "My turn. When I saw you sitting on those steps today, so regal and proper, all I could think about was getting in between your legs and worshipping you like you deserve," he growled. Jaskier yelped as Geralt effortlessly picked him up and slung him over his shoulder. 

"Geralt, gods!" he squawked indignantly. Geralt just laughed and smacked his ass lightly, earning another yelp. 

He tossed Jaskier gently down on the bed and pinned him with an intense, heated gaze. Jaskier flushed under the attention. "Like what you see?" he whispered, desire curling in his belly. Geralt growled, the sound making Jaskier suck in a breath through his teeth. He's going to devour me. 

"Beautiful," was Geralt's reverant reply. He knelt next to the bed in between Jaskier's legs and ran his hands gently over his smooth skin. He traced Jaskier's thighs, the vee of his hips, across his stomach and Jaskier would have swooned at the gentle touch were it not for the achingly hard member between his legs. 

"Please, Geralt," he pleaded, legs shaking with anticipation. 

Geralt shushed him softly, "Look at you, you beautiful thing. So needy. So good, begging for me. Let me take care of you." Then he ducked his head and wrapped his mouth around Jaskier's cock and sucked. 

Jaskier gasped and arched his hips off the bed. "Fucking—hng—fuck, Geralt!" He settled back onto the bed, whimpering and moaning as Geralt, true to his word, worshipped at the altar of Jaskier's cock. Jaskier yelped as Geralt did something very clever with his tongue and a sudden tightness in his balls made him scramble away, panting for breath. "Geralt, darling," he huffed, "if you keep that up I won't be able to..." he groaned. "I'll come. And I don't want this to be over." 

Geralt grinned wickedly and grabbed Jaskier by the hips, yanking him back down to the edge of the bed. He placed his hands on the underside of Jaskier's thighs and pushed them up towards his stomach. "Hold for me please, lark." 

Jaskier slipped his hands under his knees and pulled them up to his chest. "Lark?" 

Geralt hummed. "You sound like a little bird when you find your pleasure. And when you sing, hmm. Divine." He bent down and licked a stripe from Jaskier's rim, over his perineum before laving his tongue over his balls. 

"Ah! Oh, gods," Jaskier sighed. 

"Just like that," Geralt noted with a smirk. "Little songbird. Little lark." 

"Don't call me little when my cock is in your face, love." 

Geralt laughed and smacked Jaskier's ass teasingly. "Nothing little about that gorgeous thing, no." He bowed his head and buried his face between Jaskier's cheeks and lavished the tight little hole there with attention. He added a finger, circling the entrance carefully, applying just the right amount of pressure to make Jaskier shake with need. 

"Are you ready, sweet thing?" Geralt rumbled. Jaskier nodded fervently. 

"Yes, Geralt, please, need you in me please—oh," words evaded him and devolved into mindless, pleasured babbles as Geralt sunk a finger into him up to his knuckle. 

"Breathe, Jaskier," reminded Geralt, before sliding his finger in a little deeper. 

Jaskier complied, exhaling with a moan. He met Geralt's eyes and reached out for him, muttering a soft little, "come here." Geralt crawled up over his body, finger still inside him doing unspeakably wonderful things to him, and pressed languid, loving kisses to his mouth. Lips locked together, Geralt slipped another finger inside him carefully and stretched, swallowing Jaskier's hissed moan. 

"Gods, Jask—" Geralt choked, "you're going to feel so good wrapped around my cock." He dropped his head to Jaskier's chest, pressing kisses to his sternum as he worked Jaskier open enough to add a third finger. Jaskier gasped at the intrusion then cried out as Geralt scraped his teeth along his collarbone and brushed over his prostate at the same time. 

"Geralt!" 

"Look at you, fuck," Geralt's voice was tight. "You're so fucking beautiful, Jaskier. Breathe, lark. I've got you." 

Jaskier sobbed as Geralt moved his fingers in and out gently, twisting and stretching. "More, Geralt, I need more, please fuck me." 

Geralt removed his fingers one by one and Jaskier struggled not to whine at the loss. "You think you're ready for me, little king?" 

"Yes," gasped Jaskier. 

"Oil?" 

"Dresser, top drawer. Hurry up, Geralt," he whined. 

Geralt chuckled and sauntered over to the dresser, making a big show out of rifling through a few different drawers, dragging it out. 

"If you don't get over here and fuck me right now, I'll die," huffed Jaskier. 

"Hmm. Can't have that. Lucky I found this, then." Geralt held up a little glass jar with a clear oil in it and grinned wickedly. He came back to the bed and climbed up over Jaskier, settling over his hips so Jaskier could feel the weight of his erection resting on his stomach. He poured some of the oil into his palm, slicking up his cock before wiping some on Jaskier's too. 

He positioned himself at Jaskier's entrance and leaned over, placing a hand next to Jaskier's head. "You want this, lark?" 

Jaskier groaned. "More than anything I've ever wanted, my kingdom for your cock inside me Geralt, please, ruin me." 

Geralt's eyes went wild and dark and he pushed the head of his cock inside, making Jaskier see stars. A ragged, wanton moan punched its way out of his chest and he flung his arms around Geralt's shoulders, clawing and grasping. Geralt slid in slowly, agonisingly slowly, allowing Jaskier to adjust to the stretch. 

"Fuck, Geralt," he spat between gritted teeth, "you're fucking huge." 

Geralt pushed himself in more and more, until he finally bottomed out and Jaskier screamed. "Move," he managed to gasp. 

Geralt was all too happy to oblige. He drew back and pushed in slowly again, setting a measured, even pace as Jaskier raked his nails between his shoulder blades. "You're taking me so well, Jask," he murmured softly. "Beautiful, needy thing." He put his other hand down next to Jaskier's head and rocked his hips, relishing the feel of being buried inside the gorgeous, whimpering king beneath him. 

When Jaskier relaxed, Geralt picked up the pace, thrusting faster and faster as Jaskier's moans and cries filled the air. He raised one hand up to grip the headboard and pounded into him, hips slapping against his cheeks as the speed became frenzied. Geralt cursed and groaned, the bed shook as he drove into Jaskier, burying himself to the hilt and pulling out again. 

"Wanna mark you up, lark," he growled, "make you mine." 

Jaskier nodded, sobbing with pleasure. "Yes, gods, please—hng—" 

It was enough. Geralt dropped his head to Jaskier's neck and sunk his teeth into the delicate skin there, sucking and nipping as he thrusted. Jaskier let out a wounded groan that ran down Geralt's spine and the need to claim him entirely hit him with a rush that made his head spin. 

Jaskier babbled nonsensically underneath him, moans punctuated with yes and please and more, he sobbed Geralt's name like it was a prayer and it was. 

"Geralt, I'm gonna, oh gods," Jaskier choked as his whole body was wracked and shaken at the mercy of Geralt's pounding. 

Geralt dropped his head again and pressed his mouth to Jaskier's collarbone, worrying another mark over the bones there. "Let go, lark, I've got you," he muttered against his skin, flicking out his tongue to lick off a bead of salty sweat. "You're so good, Jask, you taste so good, come for me, show me you're mine." 

Jaskier stuttered and cried out as his spend spilled over his stomach, hot and sticky, trapped between them, getting rubbed into their skin with the unrelenting thrusts Geralt drove into him. When Jaskier opened his gorgeous ocean-blue eyes, wet with tears of pleasure, and fixed them on Geralt, he was powerless to resist his own climax and he came with a roar, coating Jaskier's insides. 

They lay there, Geralt still inside Jaskier, forehead pressed to his heaving chest for a moment. When he could catch his breath, he slowly slid himself out of Jaskier and rolled off him, gathering his lark in his arms and pulling him in close. Their breaths slowed down, heartbeats settled, sweat mingled with sweat and skin pressed against skin as they bathed in the afterglow. 

Jaskier could feel his eyes fluttering closed when he felt Geralt haul himself out of bed. He rolled over and huffed. "Come back." 

Geralt chuckled. "You don't want to sleep like that." 

"I don't care," pouted Jaskier. 

"You will in the morning." 

Geralt returned with a damp rag and carefully wiped them both off. He trailed his fingers softly over the marks he'd left on Jaskier's neck. "Hmm. Beautiful." 

"Yes, you are," sighed Jaskier happily. 

Geralt climbed back into the bed next to him and laid down at his side. He leaned over and brushed the sweat-damp hair off Jaskier's forehead, gently running his fingers down his cheekbones. Jaskier closed his eyes as Geralt traced patterns over the shell of his ear before slipping his hand behind Jaskier's head and dragging him in for a tender kiss. Geralt teased Jaskier's lips open with his tongue before sweeping it over his own, luxuriating in the sounds of Jaskier's muffled groans against his mouth. 

Jaskier dropped his head to Geralt's shoulder wearily. "If you want to go again, I'll need at least fifteen minutes and a drink." 

Geralt chuckled, the vibrations humming pleasantly against Jaskier's cheek. "I just like the way you taste." 

"Yes, dear heart, you made that very clear." 

Geralt's chuckle turned into a full laugh and ah, what a beautiful, perfect sound, Jaskier thought to himself. 

Jaskier shuffled in under Geralt's arm, laying down on his chest. He tugged the comforter over the top of them both and sighed contentedly. 

A soft kiss pressed against his forehead, gentle fingers running through his hair and the steady thump of Geralt's heart lulled him to sleep. He was almost under, when something Geralt had said made him sit up and narrow his eyes at the Witcher. 

"Just when exactly did you hear me sing?" 

Geralt looked a bit sheepish. "Oh, uh...the day that I basically fell ass first into your room?" 

"You were sitting out there listening!" Jaskier crowed. "I knew it!" 

Geralt rolled his eyes and pulled him in for a kiss. "Couldn't resist. Most beautiful thing I'd ever heard." 

"I wrote that song for you, you know." 

"I know, Jask. It's when I realised I was in love with you." 

Jaskier studied his face carefully. "You're...you're in love with me?" 

"...obviously, Jaskier." 

Jaskier smiled and kissed him softly. "Good. Me too." 

"Good." Geralt laid him back down on his chest and Jaskier settled into the comfortable darkness. 

"Hey, Geralt?" 

"Yes, Jaskier?" 

"You really have ruined me. I don't think I'll ever want anyone else as long as I live." 

Geralt's warm hum was the last thing he heard as he slipped into blissful sleep.

Chapter Text

The morning brought with it a tense air of anticipation. Geralt and Jaskier barely spoke past a brief 'good morning' and a kiss. Jaskier knew the Witcher's mind was heavy and focussed entirely on the task ahead of them. 

They dressed and convened with the others in the still-slightly-destroyed mess hall. Jaskier's crew had done a marvellous job so far, however, and it looked at least a little bit appropriate for hosting a meal. He made a mental note to give his servants a hefty bonus for having to do so much extra work not just once but twice in about forty-eight hours. As his advisors, the Witchers and the two mages entered the room slowly, he sighed. The same air of tension permeated amongst the whole group—greetings were terse and brief, eyebrows drawn, faces grim. 

When everyone was present and settled in their seats, Jaskier at the head of the table with Geralt to his right, the silence suddenly got louder. It was suffocating, stifling in its heaviness. Jaskier cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him. 

"Let's eat. We'll need our energy for the day ahead." The silence shifted a little, then settled into quiet chatter and movement. Better than nothing, Jaskier mused. 

Zoltan was busy staring at his breakfast like it had personally offended his mother, Essi and Priscilla held hands and poked at the food in front of them without really eating. Eskel and Vesemir were talking in hushed tones about something clearly very serious, if the look on their faces was anything to go by. 

Yennefer and Tissaia sat at the far end of the dining table, expressions tight and guarded. They didn't speak at all, nor did they make eye contact with anyone. 

Aiden and Lambert seemed wrapped up in their own little world, alternating between quietly bickering under their breaths and trading long, dopey looks of love when they thought no one was looking. 

Jaskier nudged Geralt's leg under that table and lifted his glass to cover his teasing murmur. "Are they always like this?" 

Geralt hummed. "They're usually worse. Before we arrived I threatened them on pain of kitchen duty for a week to keep their hands off each other at the dining table." 

Jaskier quietly snort-laughed, catching the attention of a few seated around him. He hid it with a fake cough, raising his glass a little higher. "Well, I think it's sweet." 

"You would," said Geralt nonchalantly, "you haven't had to suffer a winter with them." 

Jaskier turned to face Geralt, a soft smile in his eyes. He reached out and took Geralt's hand in his own. "Well, maybe one day, hmm?" 

Geralt squeezed his hand and traced a thumb over his knuckles with a hum and a nod. 

"Let's go get your daughter first," murmured Jaskier fondly. He turned away from Geralt and pushed his chair back loudly. "Right, you lot. Sun will be up soon, we have less than an hour to get out of here." He looked around the table and frowned. "Where's Kaleb?" A chorus of shrugs, hums and blank faces met him. 

"Zoltan?" 

"Aye?" 

"Would you mind terribly tracking him down?" 

Zoltan sighed and rose from the table, grumbling darkly to suggest that yes, he did mind. Jaskier heard something about wasn't even finished my godsdamned coffee and he grimaced. He'd probably pay for that later. 

Zoltan hadn't even made it out all the way out the door when he spun on his heel around and strode back in. "Found him!" 

Behind him trailed in Kaleb, looking flustered and rushed. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. Kaleb had a hawk perched on his right arm, one that he would recognise anywhere. Piorun, a grumpy-mannered, dark-feathered menace, with orange eyes bright enough to rival a Witcher's. Daryck's bird. Piorun was easily the fastest bird of any in his service and his presence here was...foreboding, to say the least. For Daryck to have sent his bird with a message, something was really, really urgent. Jaskier gulped. 

"Daryck sent word?" 

Kaleb nodded. "Vilgefortz and the girl—" 

"Cirilla." Jaskier interjected. 

Kaleb nodded. "My apologies. Vilgefortz and Cirilla have been sighted at Sodden, moving towards Nazair. Daryck's sources say they're headed for Port of Zouthaven. There's already a ship waiting there for them. Jaskier, the ship, it's...it's a Nilfgaardian war ship." 

Geralt growled. "If they make it to that ship, we'll never catch up to them." 

Eskel hummed thoughtfully. "If they're trying to get to Zouthaven, why are they in Sodden?" 

"They wouldn't have risked travelling through Cintra. Too much risk of Ciri being recognised," Jaskier replied. "They'll be travelling through the Amell mountain pass." 

The table sounded with mutters and hums of acknowledgement. 

"That's added at least two days to their journey," stated Priscilla. "But they're two days ahead of us. At least. We won't be able to catch up with them that way." 

"But we could go through Cintra, along the coast, right?" Aiden mused. 

Jaskier nodded. "That's...a really good point. We could make it to Zouthaven in two days by that route. A day and a half, if we set a punishing pace and pick up new horses in Cintra, to leave ours resting there until we return." He hummed thoughtfully. "Essi—you've been to Sodden. How long do you estimate their journey through the mountains to Nazair would take?" 

She considered. "With a kid in tow? About a day and a half." 

Silence fell over the room as everyone processed. 

Jaskier broke it with a clap, making everyone jump. "Let's go!" 

The room filled with buzzing chaos then, as all parties presented started moving. Geralt barked orders to his team of Witchers, directing and gesturing as they hurriedly left the room and spread out over the castle. Tissaia and Yennefer left in the direction of the laboratory—probably gathering potions and other witchy things, thought Jaskier. Going to be useful having two incredibly powerful, scary mages along for the ride. Jaskier watched them leave the room then sent Kaleb to the stables to prepare their horses. Which just left his advisors, who were patiently awaiting his direction. He pulled them aside and considered for a moment. 

They all would ride with him without hesitation. But someone needed to take care of the kingdom in his stead. Left unguarded, with the threat of war looming, should anything happen to him...he shuddered. 

"I appreciate all of you being ready to come, really. But we can't leave the kingdom without a leader. Not right now. I need...I need someone to stay behind and take care of things here for me." 

They nodded warily, eyeing each other. In the past, when Jaskier had to leave for extended periods of time, they had worked together as a trio to keep things running smoothly. Things would be different this time. Jaskier chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Anyone going to volunteer?" 

Priscilla stepped forward. "I will. Rest easy and keep your focus sharp, knowing that I've got a handle on things here." 

Relief flooded Jaskier's face and he threw his arms around Priscilla, murmuring thanks in her ear. He stepped back and regarded her, before looking at Essi. He squinted. "Ess, you would be incredibly useful on this mission, this is not a reflection of your skill, please mind. But I think your skills will be more useful here. Do you want to stay with Pris and help her rule in my absence?" Essi flicked her eyes to Priscilla, then back to Jaskier. She nodded. 

"I will be absolutely be more useful serving your people here," she agreed. "I can fight, sure, but we all know my skill is as a diplomat." She stepped forward and gave Jaskier a tight, squeezing hug and sighed against his chest. "Fight well, return soon, my king." 

Jaskier wrapped his arms against her and pulled her in tighter. "Melitele grant you patience and clarity, dear heart." 

He released her and looked over the two women in front of him, two of his closest and most treasured friends. He smiled softly, weakly almost, and nodded. The kingdom would be safe in their capable hands. 

"Jaskier, let's move." Zoltan barked. He stepped forward and bowed slightly to Priscilla and Essi who retuned the gesture. "We'll see you soon, my friends." 

Then Zoltan shoved Jaskier to get going and they were tearing out of the mess hall, down to the stables. 

-*-

It took less than an hour for the party to get on the road. They had moved like a well-oiled machine, efficiently gathering supplies, packing bags and bedrolls, tacking horses and armouring up. 

Geralt and Jaskier, on Roach and Pegasus, rode at the front of the group setting a truly brutal pace. From watching a few interactions between the Witcher and his horse over the past few days, Jaskier could tell that Geralt, like himself, truly loved his horse and cared for her deeply. It warmed his heart. He felt comfortable matching Geralt's pace then, as he could trust Geralt not too push their animals too hard and risk injury. 

They thundered down the coast, stopping briefly for food and water, and made it to the outskirts of Cintra by nightfall. 

That night, as they set up camp under the stars, Jaskier lay on his back, head resting on Geralt's stomach as his Witcher pointed out constellations to him. He listened in awe and wonder as Geralt shared with him the stories, myths and legends behind each one. He felt each chuckle and rumble from Geralt's chest underneath him, and let it lull him to sleep. 

They were still laid there in the field, curled asleep around each other, when the first lights of dawn fell on them. 

Come morning, the group broke down camp and set out into Cintra, masks of firm determination on all of their faces. They paid handsomely to stable their horses to be cared for, and to borrow new mounts to carry them to Zouthaven. 

They set out again, pressure and excitement and fear and purpose driving them forwards to their destination. They were so close. They had to beat Vilgefortz to the port. 

They just had to.

They rode, without stopping, until the gates of Zouthaven rose to meet them on the edges of dusk. 

-*- 

Just outside Zouthaven, they dismounted and gathered to discuss—or argue about—the plan. A small fire was built and the horses hitched to trees. They sat and stood around the fire to parse out the plan. 

"I'm just saying," Lambert argued, "we have no idea where they'll be so the best spot to wait is right by the ship. They show up and—BAM!—gut 'em. Not Cirilla. Just, yeah." Aiden's hand rested on his shoulder, holding him back gently. 

"Wait by the warship?" snorted Zoltan. "And what of when all the Nilfgaardian scum on board tells us to fuck off, then what?" 

Lambert huffed. "Then we kill them." 

"We are not equipped to take on an entire Nilgaardian warship, Lambert," sighed Yennefer wearily. 

Lambert grunted. "Better than sitting around on our asses!" 

"Vilgefortz and Cirilla are probably already here," pointed out Eskel softly, "waiting for the cover of darkness to board unnoticed. If we're spotted and word gets to them, they'll vanish." 

Jaskier sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "So we can't wait by the ship and we can't scope out the city. Any brilliant, hail Mary, eleventh hour ideas?" 

He was met with blank stares and frustrated sighs. "Right, good then," he muttered. 

Geralt hummed, then spoke. "We can't risk being seen around the city and we do not want to attack Vilgefortz with a Nilfgaardian convoy at his back. We need to draw him out of the city." 

"And how exactly would we manage that?" Jaskier asked. 

"With bait." Tissaia's voice was clear and firm as she stepped forward into the firelight. She coolly surveyed the group around her, eyes flashing. "A distraction, a trap. I alone know Vilgefortz...closely. I understand him in a way none of you could. He is foolish in his arrogance. If we bait him into a confrontation, he won't be able to resist." 

The fire crackled and spat as the circle around it sat in considering silence. 

"And the bait would be...?" Jaskier prodded. 

Tissaia turned her steady gaze to him. "Me. I can hold him off and bring him out here, where the rest of you will be waiting." 

"Tissaia, he's too dangerous to fight on your own." Yennefer stepped forward and placed her hand on her mentor's shoulder. "What if he overpowers you before you make it out here?" 

Tissaia covered Yennefer's hand with her own. "Worry not, my ugly one—" across the fire, Jaskier connected eyes with Geralt and mouthed ugly one? Geralt shook his head in response. Tissaia continued. "I can handle him," she soothed gently. 

Geralt grunted. "And what about Ciri?" 

"We need you out here," pointed out Eskel, "we won't stand a chance without you." 

Kaleb, silent until now, stepped forward. "I can protect her." 

All eyes around the circle fell on him and for the first time in days, he stood stoic instead of flinching. "When Tissaia distracts Vilgefortz, I will get to her and get her somewhere safe until it's done." 

Jaskier regarded the boy–the man–in front of him. The finest scout in his service, who had proven himself over and over again. He was fast and discreet, strong and determined. Jaskier knew he would lay his life down for the cause without a doubt—a worrying thought, actually. Jaskier sighed. 

"I hate to say it, no offence Kaleb, nothing against you, but I think you're right." He turned to face his companions. "We need the rest of us out here, and I would feel better if Kaleb was away from the action." Kaleb huffed and rolled his eyes.

"I can fight, Jaskier." 

Jaskier smiled at him warmly. "I know. You can, very well. But you've not lived enough summers to have seen a battle like what's about to take place here. I'd rather your fighting skills be reserved to take care of Cirilla." He walked around the fire and placed both his hands on Kaleb's shoulders. He narrowed his eyes and scrutinised Kaleb's face. "Know this, Kaleb. Cirilla is all that matters in this plan. Her safety is paramount. Whatever happens, whatever you do, you protect her and her alone. If...if we should fall, or you don't hear anything, you take her and you run, run to safety. Do not look back, do not wait for us. You take her and get the hell out, do you understand?" 

Kaleb nodded firmly. 

"Good man." Jaskier clapped his shoulders and turned to face the group. "Any questions, concerns? No? Alright good." 

Tissaia addressed them once again. "Vilgefortz is cunning and he is cruel. He will use any and all methods at his disposal. Keep your eyes open and your feet on the ground." 

Geralt nodded at her words. "Let's find a place to stand before nightfall. Then, Tissaia will go into the city." 

They scouted for just under a half hour before finding the perfect spot for an ambush.

It was a clearing in the forest just outside the city gates, fenced in by a large, mostly unclimbable rocky outcrop. They set up in hiding spots around the clearing, intending to back Vilgefortz into a corner and attack from all sides, including above. Zoltan and Eskel settled in around the base of the outcrop, hidden behind large, jagged rocks. Yennefer waited near the entrance of the clearing to help bottleneck Vilgefortz in as soon as he step foot across the boundary. Vesemir, Aiden and Lambert took up strategic spots in the dense forestry around the clearing. Which left Geralt, leaning nonchalantly against the rock face, lulling Vilgefortz into a false sense of security so the others could catch him off guard. 

And then there was Jaskier. He scrabbled up the side of the outcrop, cursing as his foothold slipped. 

"You okay, Jask?" called Geralt from below. 

"Fine, fine, yes," he wheezed. He clung to the side of the rock, chest heaving, mentally swearing death and destruction on whichever idiot thought he should be the one to wait up top. Oh wait, this was your idea. Idiot. He grit his teeth and swiftly kicked into the rock, dislodging a loose piece and securing a better foothold. He clambered up and over the top, flopping onto his back when he was clear. Fuck. "I really need to exercise more," he called down to his friends waiting below. Right. On your feet. 

With everyone in position, Tissaia swept into the city as darkness fell, leaving the rest of them to wait. Kaleb scurried after her, moving through the shadows like a ghost. Jaskier watched, impressed, as Tissaia merely strolled through the city gates, head held aloft with a nod at the guards like she owned the place. Figures. He was even more impressed when Kaleb took a running start and vaulted, climbing up and over the walls silently. Now where the fuck did he learn that?

With all the pieces in place, there really was nothing to do now except wait. 

And wait. 

And wait some more. 

I should have brought my lute. No, wait, that would have been stupid. 

Jaskier could hear mutters of conversation down below as they got bored with waiting. Quiet laughter filtered up around him and Geralt's harsh "shut up!". He giggled to himself. Not much of an ambush if the target strolls in to the sounds of laughter and chatter. 

Then they waited some more. 

Around the second hour of laying on his back on hard rocky ground and staring at the sky, dread started to curl in Jaskier's gut, oily and slick.

What if we've got it wrong? 

What if they're not even here? 

What if they are here, and Vilgefortz has already struck down Tissaia and boarded the ship? Fuck fuck fuck, we're too late, we made a mistake. They're not here, they were never here. Someone needs to go see if the ship is still here, check on Tissaia—

A deafening crack and a brilliant flash of light had him sitting bolt upright. He stared in shock as part of the city wall vibrated, bits of rock falling away from the top. His eyes widened as another blinding flash of light and crack sounded, shaking the wall so hard it swayed a little. He scrambled to the edge of the outcrop. 

"Uh, guys?" he called down, "I don't know if you can see it from down there but I think they're about to be here." 

Jaskier gasped as Tissaia's form came crashing through the city gates, flung by a blast of magic. 

"Oh shit, yep alright, they're here, hold positions!" he cried, shrinking back against the rock, covered. It would do no good to be seen. He needed the element of surprise. 

He watched with bated breath as Tissaia hauled herself painfully to her feet and stumbled towards the clearing. 

"Hold..." he muttered under his breath. 

Vilgefortz' voice rang out, sleazy and self-assured. "You can't run forever, Tissaia," her name was spat, full of malice, and Jaskier shivered. 

Tissaia staggered to the clearing, Vilgefortz sauntering slowly after her. He twirled a wicked looking staff, teasing, cocky and confident, as he gained on her. Jaskier crept forward to watch as Tissaia collapsed into the open space where Geralt was standing. Vilgefortz approached the edge of the clearing and stopped. 

"Witcher," he snarled. "I should have known she'd go running to you for help." He took a fighting stance and swung his staff behind him at an angle. 

Geralt stepped forward off the rock, calmly unsheathing his silver sword. "Steel for humans," he mused, stepping towards Vilgefortz, "silver is for monsters." 

Then he swung. A thunderous clash echoed around the clearing as Vilgefortz blocked the swing with his staff. Geralt lunged and swung ferociously again and the two fell into a vicious dance. Vilgefortz jabbed and Geralt blocked, a blast of fire was deflected with a well-timed Aard. 

At the edge of the clearing, Jaskier saw Yennefer quietly and unnoticed laying down magical barriers to keep the fight confined on their territory. Perfect. As discussed earlier, she would need to stay out of the fight, using all her chaos to temporarily block portals from being made, lest Vilgefortz escape at the last minute. It would take all of her strength and focus, and risked draining the life out of her should the fight go on too long. Jaskier hoped that Tissaia wasn't too roughed up to be able to help her if needed. The worst case scenario would be Vilgefortz escaping. Or, you know, killing Geralt. That would be the worst. 

Below him, Geralt and Vilgefortz were locked in, sword pushing against staff, when Geralt suddenly broke away, jumping back from Vilgefortz, before jumping up onto the rocks and vaulting over his head. Vilgefortz whipped around, tracking his movements when Geralt yelled, "NOW!" 

Zoltan was the first to react, climbing up over the rock they were hiding behind and swinging his axe down hard. Vilgefortz dodged, but Eskel was right behind him with a blast of Igni. Vilgefortz threw up a magical barrier, backing away to the edge of the clearing where Aiden and Lambert lay in wait. Jaskier laughed despite himself as Lambert squatted, hands locked together and Aiden ran at him, stepping onto Lambert's hands and launching himself into the fray. He landed with a graceful roll, skidding to a halt on one knee with two small blades drawn. 

He really does move like a cat, Jaskier thought mirthfully. 

They all closed in. Vilgefortz fought like a wounded animal, brutally strong with both his magic and his staff. A sickening crunch sounded as it made contact with Eskel's leg and the Witcher cried out in agony. Vesemir came running in and hauled Eskel out of the way, tossing him to the side as gently as he could given the circumstances, before brandishing his own sword and joining the circle. The Witchers and Zoltan fought perfectly in sync, moving around each other, dodging blasts of fire and dark magic. 

Aiden screamed as Vilgefortz caught his side with a stray blast of fire, dropping to his knees. Jaskier saw the switch flip in Lambert's mind as the red-haired Witcher went absolutely feral. He roared, a sound pure grief and rage, and rushed Vilgefortz, swinging faster than the eye could see, pushing him steadily back against the rock as he struck blow after blow. Vilgefortz blocked and dodged furiously, before a quick swipe with the staff knocked Lambert flying. Geralt and Zoltan both ran in at once, keeping Vilgefortz firmly against the outcrop as he defended himself in three directions. 

Vesemir unsheathed a dagger and flung it at Vilgefortz, who stopped it with his chaos and directed it at Zoltan. He watched as his second in command staggered backwards and collapsed with a groan, hands clutched around his leg.

The dagger had buried itself to the hilt and Jaskier shoved his knuckles into his mouth to stop himself from crying out for his friend. It's just a flesh wound, it's just a flesh wound. He'll be okay, don't give yourself away, just hold, hold...

The fight raged on, brutal and vicious as swords were swung violently and blasts of magic went flying at the Witchers.

Geralt and Vesemir both signed Igni at the same time, forcing ferocious bolts of flame in on their target. Jaskier could see beads of sweat forming on Vilgefortz' brow as he pushed back against them. He tried to portal away and grunted as nothing happened, head whipping violently from side to side. He tried again, straining, with no success. Got him. Vilgefortz faltered, leaning back against the rock as his chest heaved. Jaskier saw an opening. 

Now, he's weak, he's distracted, just do it now, you've only got one shot, just—GO! 

Jaskier's mind went blank as he unsheathed his dagger.

He leapt. 

He fell, transcended in time, focussed in on one point. 

He grunted as he felt the blade sink deep into Vilgefortz' neck and he dragged, the force of his fall tearing muscle and bone like a knife through butter. Vilgefortz' body crumpled underneath him and cushioned his blow, although not enough to stop the wind being knocked out of him. 

The clearing fell blissfully silent. 

Ragged breaths and grunts of pain filled the air. 

Jaskier rolled of Vilgefortz' corpse with a grunt. "That," he huffed, "was disgusting." Geralt wordlessly hauled him to his feet and they all stood, staring at one another, unsure of what to say. Jaskier surveyed them all, one by one. His friends. His trusted companions. His love. All alive and mostly whole. He grinned. 

"Let's get patched up. There's a princess waiting to be saved!"

Chapter Text

BRIEF INTERLUDE - KALEB'S POV 

Kaleb thought, by this point, he'd had just about enough of mages. He made a vow to always be on guard not to mess around with one, nor cross one, nor do business with one—it seemed everywhere they went, death, destruction and entropy followed. He had been ruminating on this as he waited for Vilgefortz to arrive with the princess. It had been about an hour since he had cleared the city walls and settled into a comfortable enough hiding spot, behind a stack of crates and barrels just alongside the dock where the Nilfgaardian warship sat silently on the water. His spot was damp and smelled slightly of fish, but it was tolerable. Most importantly, it provided good cover and an excellent line of sight to watch the comings and goings along the dock as the evening fell. 

He'd watched and waited, scratching little pictures into the dirt at his feet in between moments of scanning over the crowds and general bustle of the dockside. 

Darkness crept in slowly, lanterns were lit and the busyness of the crowd slowed right down. Kaleb kept his eye on the Nilfgaardian warship sitting in the port—it had been surprisingly quiet the whole time, with hardly any movement on deck. Probably trying to keep a low profile. 

He was admiring the ornate black and gold detailing on the warship when heavy, echoing footsteps caught his attention. He watched, heart pounding, as a tall, bearded man with slick black hair and dark eyes strolled casually out of the shadows towards the warship. In his arms was a slumped, bundled up figure. He narrowed his eyes. Is this them?  

Kaleb jumped as Tissaia's voice rang out across the night. "Vilgefortz! Not another step." She strode out into the dim, orange glow of the lanterns, the light casting an otherworldly luminance to her flashing eyes. He sucked in a breath between his teeth. She looked ready to destroy.  

Kaleb kept his eyes trained on the small bundle in Vilgefortz' arms as the tall, shadowy man turned slowly to face her. Vilgefortz looked Tissaia up and down, smirking, before clicking his teeth with a short whistle. Two Nilfgaardian soldiers came running down the gang plank and Vilgefortz passed off the bundle to their outstretched arms with a low murmur. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. She can't get onboard that ship. 

Tissaia swept a leg back gracefully and held her arms aloft, muttering under her breath as chaos gathered around her hands. In a flash, Vilgefortz materialised his staff out of thin air and vanished, reappearing behind Tissaia. 

The air crackled and hummed with chaos as the mages faced off.

Kaleb kept his eyes trained on the guards heading back towards the ship. Cirilla was his mission. Tissaia could handle herself and Melitele knows, he wouldn't be much use up against the scary mage and that deadly staff he was swinging. 

The guards were almost back at the gangplank. 

Fuck! 

Distraction. Now. He firmly kicked out the lowest barrel in front of him, sending it rolling with a crash as the barrels on top of it went flying. 

"Hey!" 

The crash caught the attention of the guards who stopped dead in their tracks, as well as Vilgefortz, who briefly broke his concentration from his fight with Tissaia to glare in his direction. Kaleb winced as Tissaia used the opening to send a devastating bolt of chaos in Vilgefortz' direction, which he deflected by a hair's breadth. Kaleb ducked as the bolt went flying over his head, landing with a deafening crack. Debris and bits of wood came raining down on his head. Fuck! 

Tissaia used the moment's distraction to start moving the fight backwards, dragging Vilgefortz slowly out of the city, bit by bit. It's up to her now, Kaleb thought grimly. She looks like she's got it handled. He hurriedly brushed stray bits of wall and roof out of his hair and looked up to see the snarling face of one of the soliders almost right on top of him. He rolled, ducking the incoming blow. 

He unsheathed the dagger that sat firmly at his right hip and spun, plunging it into the gap in the soldier's armour near his neck. The solider gurgled then froze, dropping to his knees with hands around his neck, before crashing heavily to the ground. One down. 

A shrill wail from behind him had him spinning on his heel. 

A shock of pale hair flashed as the bundle in the other soldier's arms wriggled and thrashed like a wild thing while the solider grunted in frustration. He dropped the bundle to the ground and a little girl came scrabbling out, backing up on her elbows before clambering to her feet. 

Cirilla! 

Kaleb started running toward her, as did the Nilfgaardian soldier, when the little girl planted her feet, balled up her fists and screamed. 

The force of it sent him flying back against the wall and he covered his ears with a groan as the sound rattled through his skull. He felt his nose start to bleed as the pressure in his head got heavier and heavier, his stomach clenched and his heart pounded as the sheer force of the girl's power held him in place. He raised his head slowly, excruciatingly slowly, and gasped as he saw the soldier's body, impaled on one of the railings that lined the dock. He hauled himself off the wall and crawled towards the girl, arm reaching out weakly.

Shouts onboard the Nilfgaardian ship sounded the alarm, and Kaleb could hear the clatter of armour and weapons as soldiers trampled up and down the deck. You're running out of time.

"Cirilla," he called, voice rasping with the effort, "it's okay..." 

She closed her mouth and whipped around, fixing him with the brightest green eyes he'd ever seen. Her glare was heavy and immediately reminded him of the way the Witchers had stared him down when he had crashed into the mess hall. There was no doubt who she belonged to. He rose to his feet, unburdened by the force of her power now that she was silent, and raised his hands as though calming down a spooked animal. 

"Cirilla," he started softly, taking a step. "That's your name isn't it?" She eyed him warily, angrily, and he held his hands aloft. "I'm not here to hurt you. Your friend, the Witcher sent me. With the white hair. And the golden eyes. He cares about you very much, darling, he sent me to keep you safe." 

She said nothing, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took another step. 

He tried again. "My name is Kaleb. I'll take you somewhere safe while we wait for Geralt, is that okay? But we need to go right now." 

Cirillia frowned, but nodded slightly. Kaleb took another few steps, closing the distance between them before offering his hand out to her. She reached out and took it, then giggled as he grabbed it and swung her up onto his back. "Good girl. Now, hold on tight, princess, we're gonna go for a quick run." 

Then he ran. He ran and ran until he could no longer hear the shouts from the warship behind him. He kept an eye on the flashes and cracks of the unfolding battle between Vilgefortz and Tissaia, steering well clear of being anywhere near them. He ran through the city, the tiny princess clutching at his neck, ducking down alleyways and barrelling up stairs until he was absolutely certain no one was following him. He ran until he found a sheltered, abandoned looking little stable, tucked away in the far reaches of the city next to a rundown tavern, with no animals in sight and the door rusted shut. 

A swift kick dealt with the bolt on the door, shattering under the pressure of the blow. He slipped inside with Cirilla and settled the both of them down in amongst the straw, huffing with exertion now that he had finally stopped.

The rickety old stable walls did little to shelter them from the cold night wind, so he drew her close to himself, stroking her hair until her green eyes drifted shut. 

"Your Witcher will come and find us soon, little one," he whispered. "We came all this way to find you. I know he won't give up now." 

-*- 

Between five Witchers and two mages, it didn't take very long to find Kaleb and Cirilla. 

In the aftermath of the battle, Tissaia and Yennefer had overseen the majority of the healing and fixing, using what little chaos reserves they had to stem the worst of the bleeding wounds and check everyone over for internal injuries. It was well past midnight and heading for the witching hour; hasty torches were thrown together, made of sticks and torn cloth, set alight with a burst of Igni to cast some light to work by. 

Jaskier, largely unscathed, had flitted around the group, deftly stitching the smaller gashes up and fussing over his companions. If anyone noticed him hovering a little longer over Geralt, brushing long white strands of hair out of his eyes and running long, elegant fingers all over the Witcher's body, they saw fit to hold their tongues. 

Once everyone was mostly put back together—save for some lingering aches, pains and wounds that would require a little more time to heal—they set out into the city to track down their princess. 

They found her in less than half an hour. 

Outside an abandoned stable next to a tavern that appeared to be held together by a handful of nails and the sheer force of will, the group paused. 

"Two heartbeats," confirmed Eskel. 

Aiden nodded. "No fear, no danger. She smells content." 

Geralt took a step towards the door then hesitated, turning back to reach for Jaskier's hand. Jaskier took it wordlessly, chest filling with warmth that spread down his arms to where their palms connected. 

The door to the stable was gently pushed aside and Jaskier melted at the sight in front of him. There, curled up against the wall was Kaleb, arm around a little figure buried into his side. Her hair was ash-blonde, almost light enough to match Geralt's, and she snored softly. He laughed under his breath. She really is his daughter. 

Kaleb's face cracked into a wide grin at the intrusion. He gently nudged the sleeping girl, who sat up slowly and rubbed her eyes. In a flash, she was up off Kaleb and threw herself into Geralt's arms, squealing with happiness. Jaskier's heart ached fondly as Geralt tightened his arms around Cirilla and pressed her in close, muttering comfort and assurance into her hair. He inhaled deeply—checking she's safe, Jaskier noted. The girl's entire body seemed to sag with relief as the tension of her ordeal seeped away and she felt safe, finally safe in her father's arms. Jaskier sniffled and blinked away the tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to collapse against the wall under the weight of all the emotion. 

She's safe, we did it, we got her back, she's safe. 

Instead of collapsing with relief like he wanted to, Jaskier crossed the floor and offered a hand out to Kaleb, hauling the young lad to his feet. Kaleb brushed straw and dirt off his clothes, before Jaskier pulled him into a tight hug. 

"I'm glad you're okay," he muttered. "You did good." 

Kaleb leaned away with a grin. "Actually, Cirilla is the one to thank for the escape. Wait until you hear the story I've got for you." 

Jaskier and Kaleb broke their embrace to turn and face Geralt, who was regarding Cirilla with a concerned look, one hand on his medallion. He called for Yennefer who came sweeping into the room, then knelt down and pulled Cirilla into her own embrace. Geralt had a hushed conversation with her over the little girl's head. 

"What do you think?" he muttered. 

Yennefer considered, then nodded. "A heavy sedation spell," she whispered back. "I don't know how she managed to shake it off." 

"It broke when he died." Geralt answered.

Yennefer shook her head and opened her mouth to reply when Kaleb coughed. "She woke up when Tissaia confronted Vilgefortz, actually. She just...woke up and started flailing around like a wild animal. Then she screamed and oh, gods, it was terrifying, did you know she could do that? What even was that?!" Kaleb was gesturing with his hands and stopped short under the weight of Geralt and Yennefer's concerned gazes. "Ah. Sorry. Of course, you would know that. Carry on." 

Geralt hummed, brows drawn, then nodded at Kaleb. 

Yennefer released Cirilla and checked her over carefully, violet eyes sweeping head to toe. "Can you tell us what happened?" she asked softly. 

The princess, who had just suffered through a shocking ordeal that would have rattled even a wisened and well-lived adult, shrugged nonchalantly. "The bad man did something to my head that made me sleepy. It felt yucky and heavy. Then I woke up! And I screamed really loud because another bad man wanted to put me on the boat. I did not want to go on the boat." 

Geralt and Yennefer shared a look over her head as Yennefer pulled her back into a hug. "You're safe now," she whispered to the girl. 

Geralt stood first, offering a hand up to Yennefer, then swept Cirilla into his arms and over his hip. 

And fuck if the sight of it didn't make Jaskier go weak in the knees. Something about the way Geralt, strong and ferocious warrior who could tear a man's head from his shoulders with his bare hands, cradled his daughter so gently against himself with all love and care in the world made his heart ache. She clung to his side, face a picture of innocence and happiness and Jaskier felt like his heart might explode. It was all too precious. He was too busy swooning to notice Geralt approaching him, until the man was stood right in front of him with those warm, golden eyes focussed entirely on him. 

"Jaskier," Geralt hummed. "I'd like you to meet my daughter, Ciri." 

Jaskier grinned. "Delighted to meet you, princess." He offered a little flourish and bow which made the girl in Geralt's arms giggle. "You know, Geralt," he said, "we have already met. Under false pretences, of course, but how could I forget such an adorable face?" He smiled warmly again at the little girl. He'd never seen her look so calm and happy. It was lovely. 

Then Geralt used his free hand to wrap around the nape of Jaskier's neck and pull him in close, pressing their foreheads together. "Thank you, Jask," the Witcher breathed. "I couldn't have done this without you by my side." 

Jaskier wrapped his arm around Geralt's waist, encircling the three of them in a comfortable and loving embrace. He felt something shift in his heart and click into place. It felt right. He felt whole. 

The moment broke, and Geralt leaned back with a contented smile on his face.

Jaskier sighed happily. "Come on, let's not keep the others waiting."

They all shuffled out of the stable, where Ciri was cooed at and cuddled by all the Witchers present, all of whom took turns petting her hair and kissing her face. Jaskier laughed merrily at the show, in awe of how one tiny little girl could turn a pack of ferocious hunters into sweet puppy dogs. 

She is darling though, he thought to himself with a smile.

Ciri started to yawn and rub her eyes, then the reality quickly settled in among the group. It was nigh on the witching hour. Their mages were spent, unable to conjure a portal for sheer exhaustion. They needed to restock and resupply before making the arduous journey back to Cidaris, back to Jaskier's castle. 

The princess drifted off to sleep in Geralt's arms as the group argued in hushed tones about the way to proceed forward. They needed to leave Zouthaven at once, the soldiers off the warship were no doubt flooding the streets as they spoke. Eskel pointed out that they could ride for an hour, find a spot to bed down and rest for whatever remained of the night. Yennefer argued that an hour wasn't enough, they needed to ride until at least the midday meal to ensure their safety. Kaleb very helpfully reminded everyone that come morning, Cirilla would be starving, which shut the rest of the group up for a moment. 

Vesemir hummed. "Yennefer. How long do you and Tissaia need before you can conjure a portal?"

Yennefer frowned and glanced at Tissaia. "I'm...I'm not sure." 

"Can we ride to the next town up the coast and stop for breakfast?" asked Eskel. The group shrugged and hummed that yes, that was possible. 

It ended up being the best plan given the circumstances. They wearily trudged back to where they had left their horses in the forest and set off on the path towards the next town. 

They rode until dawn. 

Cirilla slept safe bundled against Geralt's chest. 

Jaskier rode beside them, sneaking fond glances and sharing impossibly warm looks with Geralt. 

Aiden and Lambert bickered, made up, chatted constantly and cuddled up against each other on the horse.

Eskel and Zoltan rode next to each other, trading stories (mostly about Geralt and Jaskier, of course) and roaring with laughter. 

Yennefer and Tissaia muttered in hushed tones, grim looks on their faces. 

Kaleb rode slightly behind them, alternating between staring at the two ladies with unabashed awe, and suddenly becoming very interested in the trees, the sky, his horse–anything—when they turned around to pin him with pointed stares and raised eyebrows. 

Vesemir brought up the rear, eyes sweeping from side to side, surveying, checking for danger as they rode. 

After a brief stop in the little town at dawn, they fed and watered the horses, bought food for everyone and set off again without much dalliance.

They continued, much in the same manner, all the way to the edge of the kingdom of Cintra. They stopped just outside the border and dismounted to discuss their next move. 

There had been some concerns from the group about travelling through Cintra at all, it's main city in a state of disrepair and chaos after the fall. With the increased presence of Nilfgaard in the area, it seemed dangerous and unwise to return the way they had come with Cirilla in tow. They weren't willing to risk even the slightest confrontation with her around. 

Which left two options. The first being to travel inland around Cintra, adding at least three days to their journey, and the second being camp out for a few days until Yennefer and Tissaia could summon a portal for them. 

Neither option was particularly alluring. 

"I'm just saying, look at her!" Jaskier gestured to the tired blonde girl yawning in Geralt's arms, "she needs a proper night's sleep in a bed!" Geralt grunted his agreement. 

"And do you happen to see any fancy inns in the area?" growled Lambert. 

Eskel hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe it's best to cut our losses and just go inland. We don't know for sure that Nilfgaard hasn't sent a party after us." 

"We'll smell and hear them coming from miles away," pointed out Aiden. 

Jaskier sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Geralt, any thoughts?" 

"We're not equipped to camp here for longer than a night," Geralt mused, "and travelling inland isn't going to work either. Cintra isn't safe. Sodden isn't safe. We risk too much adding so much travel time." 

Jaskier stared at him for a moment before throwing his hands in the air. "Great! So we can't stay here, we can't go through Cintra, we can't go around Cintra, we can't portal—am I missing anything?" 

Ciri yawned and grumbled in Geralt's arms and the burly Witcher sighed, sinking his nose into her hair. "We need to go back for our horses and return these ones." 

Fucking brilliant. In the excitement and chaos, and relief of getting Ciri back, Jaskier and the rest of the group, really, had completely forgotten they were due back in Cintra. Jaskier felt a pang of guilt. His mount, Pegasus, was one of his most treasured companions and he couldn't for a moment imagine leaving him behind. Fuck! 

"Just leave 'em," grunted Lambert, arms folded. "We'll get new ones." 

"I'm not leaving Roach behind," growled Geralt, "just because you don't care about 'ass'—" 

His tone made Jaskier snap to attention. "Lambert, is your horse named 'ass' ?" he asked incredulously. "That is a terrible name for a horse." 

Lambert snorted. "Better than 'dipshit' which was the first choice!" 

"I thought it was called 'fuckwad'," mused Aiden drily.

Jaskier opened his mouth to reply when Geralt hushed them both with a raised hand. "We're not leaving them." 

Jaskier hung his head in his hands and groaned. "We'll have to leave them there for just a bit longer. If we can make it back to Cidaris I'll send a group of scouts to retrieve them. They'll be more likely to get in and out of Cintra than we will." 

Geralt hummed, satisfied. 

"Now we just have to figure out how to get the hell out of here," huffed Lambert. "Seems like we're stuck back at square one." 

Zoltan, who had been thoughtfully quiet and largely zoned out for most of the discussion, slapped his hands onto his legs and stood up with a laugh. "Of course!" he crowed. "I've got it!" A hush settled over the group as they waited for him to elaborate. "There's a port in Attre, few miles North of here!" 

He was met with blank stares. 

Zoltan rolled his eyes. "A port. With ships." 

More silence and stares. 

"Oh, Melitele have mercy, you stupid—we can charter a boat in Attre and sail up the fucken coast to Cidaris!"

The group let out a collective "ohhh!" paired with excited nods and relieved faces. 

Zoltan rolled his eyes again and cursed under his breath. "You lot need a fucking nap," he muttered, "dumb as a donkey's arse right now." 

The plan was set and the group quickly saddled up and rode out for Attre. About an hour and a half later, they arrived in the town and parted with a hefty sum of coin for passage to Cidaris, a meal and real beds for the night—not just a hammock in the crew's quarters. They boarded the carrack, ate their fill of a mostly bland but still satisfying meal, and headed to their respective rooms to bed down for the night. 

It wasn't a fancy ship by any stretch of the imagination but it was sturdy, large and armed. It would do the job. 

Jaskier walked Ciri and Geralt to the room they were staying in. He knelt on the ground to bid Ciri goodnight and was nearly knocked off balance when she flung her arms around him like she had all that time ago in the classroom, when she was just a scared and confused little girl among the children of his kingdom. He wrapped his arms around her and tugged her in closer, heart aching. "I'm so sorry, darling," he whispered. "I wish I could have saved you all that fear. I wish I could have protected you." He released her and stood up, hot tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He brushed them away with the back of his hand, fearing that if one fell and he started crying, he simply might not stop. 

He smiled warmly at Geralt and sniffed. "I'm really happy she's back where she belongs," he said earnestly, placing a hand over Geralt's heart. 

Geralt hummed and covered the hand with his own. He locked eyes with Jaskier, looking so impossibly soft and fond. 

Jaskier melted a little. "I..." he said softly. He looked down at Ciri, arms wrapped around Geralt's legs and smiled wistfully. Just let them get to bed. He's got enough to handle right now and declarations of love can wait until morning. He knows. He went to remove his hand from Geralt's chest and give his Witcher a peck on the cheek when Geralt reached out and tipped Jaskier's chin up with a gentle touch. 

"I love you, Jaskier," he rumbled. 

Jaskier's eyes widened. "I love you too." 

"Will you stay with us tonight? Please?" 

Jaskier looked down at Cirilla and nodded, heart swelling with warmth so rapidly he feared it might burst. "I'd like that," he whispered. 

-*- 

They slept soundly and peacefully that night, the three of them. Jaskier was pressed up against the wall, Cirilla safely tucked in between the two men and Geralt on the outer edge of the bed with his back to the door. Protecting and sheltering his family. 

It was more than a little squished and not entirely comfortable, but to them it just felt perfect. The gentle rocking of the boat lulled them soundly into a dreamless and restful sleep as the boat clipped its way North, towards home. 

Chapter Text

The warm sunrise over the calm seas brought a strange, bittersweet feeling with it. It hummed in the air as they rose from their beds and met in the mess hall to break their fast, a kind of tension sitting among the group of them, a relief tinged with sadness that kept conversations muted and smiles weak.

So much had happened, so much had changed, in such a short period of time. 

Jaskier stood at the helm of the ship, watching the familiar spread of his kingdom come slowly into view as they inched closer and closer towards their destination. He knew the Witchers would not be able to stay long after they returned to the castle. Cirilla had been simply desperate to return home to their keep, Kaer Morhen, and Geralt had been away far too long now.

In order to expedite their return and keep them from staying longer than they felt comfortable, Jaskier had sent a bird with a message for his scouts in the wee hours of the morning, with instructions to ride for Cintra immediately to retrieve their horses. It was the right thing to do, unselfish of him, but had felt so painfully difficult in the moment. It would have been so easy to drag it out. Keep his Witcher a little longer. 

But selfishness never really did suit him. 

By the time they landed in Cidaris, the scouts would be at least halfway to Cintra, returning, with Melitele’s blessing, by nightfall. If all went to plan, the Witchers could be ready leaving by next sunrise. 

Taking half of his heart with them. 

He took in a lungful of fresh, crisp ocean air and sighed thoughtfully. The mantle of kingship that rested on his shoulders had never felt quite this heavy. It felt like choosing between his kingdom and himself. Part of him—a traitorous, quiet part that he very rarely entertained—wanted to say godsdamn it all, forget the kingdom, forget the crown and leave with the Witchers. 

The other part of him, the part his father had worked so hard to beat into the perfect, dutiful son, the future ruler, the brilliant example of nobility and leadership in the flesh…that part was bound by duty to stay. To go back to life as it was before, as though nothing had changed. He knew what his father would have had to say on the matter. 

Death to the self, the kingdom comes first. 

Your own desires are of no consequence. 

And maybe they were of no consequence. How selfish could he really be? Sitting here, dreaming about a life with a certain golden-eyed Witcher and his little blonde ward, dreaming about family, and love, and where he might fit into it all. But the truth was, he didn’t really fit into all that. His place was on his throne, guiding the people he loved and cared so deeply about. That kind of love was more than enough. 

He was pulled from his melancholy by a strong arm wrapping gently around his waist. Geralt pulled him in close to his chest and Jaskier tipped his head back to rest on his shoulder. They breathed together, softly, slowly, enjoying the closeness. While they still could. 

Geralt tilted his head to press his temple against Jaskier’s cheek. “Mesmerised by the waves?” he murmured. Jaskier hummed, and Geralt chuckled. “If the ocean commands your gaze, it’s because it recognises itself in the colour of your eyes and can’t bear to let you look away.”  

Jaskier gasped and pulled away from him, turning to face him with a gentle slap on his shoulder. “Excuse me! I’m supposed to be the poetic one here, not you. Stay in your lane.”

Geralt chuckled, warm and deep, and Jaskier closed his eyes to savour the sound of it. He tipped his forehead forward to rest on Geralt’s chest and inhaled the scent of him, humming pleasantly. 

“So quiet today, little king,” mused Geralt. 

Jaskier muttered a noncommittal noise of agreement into Geralt’s broad chest. He raised his head to look into brilliant golden eyes he could fall into forever. “Hmm. Just…pensive.”

“You sound like me.”

“I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.” Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s waist and closed the distance between them, sinking a little deeper into the embrace. 

A squealing, blonde-haired ball of energy came barrelling their way and they broke apart, making space for little Ciri to leap into her father’s arms. Jaskier laughed, properly this time, and drew them both closer to himself again. 

“Jaskier?” the little girl asked breathlessly.

“Yes, dear heart?” he replied, staring down into glittering green eyes. 

Then she said the silent part out loud. 

“Are you coming home with us?” 

Words evaded his grasp as he felt his ribcage crack open, bone by bone. He wanted so dearly to say yes, he would go with them, he would follow them to ends of the earth for this thing that was so new and so fresh yet somehow still fit perfectly into the spaces in his heart that had sat empty for so long. He wanted to throw caution and responsibility to the wind and leap into the unknown, give over to that long-hushed side of him that thirsted for adventure, for chaos, for danger, for love. He hummed, opening his mouth to try and force out a reply when he was rudely interrupted. 

“Prepare to dock!” 

Around them, the ship exploded into a flurry of movement as the crew got the ship ready to make port. He met Geralt’s eyes among the din and shot him an apologetic look. 

He wasn’t expecting to see such heavy depths of sadness resting there in the Witcher's gaze. 

They were swept up in the busyness of preparing to land, parting and melting into the chaos. Bags were hastily packed, armour thrown on, weapons secured safely in place then they all took their place on deck to watch as the carrack sailed into the Cidarean harbour. 

Morning had always looked beautiful on Jaskier’s little kingdom. The sun creeping over the mountains bathed everything in a golden glow that made it sparkle like a treasure chest. His city, built hundreds of years ago, was largely cut from brilliant white limestone that shimmered under the slightest ray of light, lovingly laid brick by brick by only the most skilled of tradesmen. The effect was always breathtaking, especially after spending time away. It made him feel small, in the best kind of manner. Like it had been here centuries before him and would remain, long after he had returned to dust, and his name no longer fell from his people’s lips. It was comforting. 

The ship docked, they disembarked, and the group of weary travellers trudged silently up the city streets towards the castle. 

-*-

Jaskier felt a tension he didn't know he was holding melt out of his shoulders as the familar sight of Priscilla and Essi met their party at the castle gates. 

It wasn't that he didn't trust them, he would put his life in their hands without a second thought and believe them completely capable. 

It was just that every time he was away, a tiny tendril of anxiety sat in the back of his mind and whispered, 'what if?'

What if the kingdom was attacked while I was away and they didn't have time to defend themselves? 

What if a horrible plague tore through the lands, wiping out all it touched? 

What if a monster was on the loose and all the Witchers were too busy with this mission to help in time? 

The smiles of welcome on his friends' faces instantly put anxious thoughts to rest and set his heart at ease as they approached. Fond, tight hugs and greetings were exchanged as they welcomed himself and the rest of his odd little travelling crew home. 

Essi gasped when she saw Cirilla, instantly delighted by the tiny, grumpy little girl hiding behind Geralt. She approached gently and bent down on one knee. "And who is this darling sweetheart here?" 

Geralt put his hand comfortingly on Cirilla's head. The girl looked up at him, eyes wide with hesitation and he nodded. Ciri took a breath and stepped out from behind him ever so slightly. 

"I'm the lioness cub princess lion of..." she trailed off, looking back up at Geralt for help. 

"Cintra," he prodded. 

Ciri nodded. "Of Cintra." 

Essi nodded gravely and dropped a low curtsy. "An honour to welcome you to our castle then, princess." Ciri giggled happily and took another step away from Geralt, a shy smile spreading across her face. Essi offered her hand and Ciri took it, letting herself be led into the courtyard. 

"Uncle Lambert said I can be a Witcher one day!" Ciri chattered to her as the rest of the group followed them in. 

Geralt glared at Lambert, who shrugged and did his best impression of an innocent face. It absolutely did not work, and Lambert earned himself a solid punch in the arm. 

The group trailed into the courtyard and Jaskier sidled up to Priscilla. "How long since the scouts left?" he asked quietly. 

She hummed. "Almost three hours." 

"They'll be in Cintra by dusk, you think?" 

Priscilla nodded. "And back here by morning, just in time for the Witchers departure." She worried at her lip thoughtfully. "You sound burdened, my king." 

Jaskier huffed. "Matters of the heart and matters of the kingdom, I suppose."

She hummed. "Well, as far as the kingdom goes, very little to report, Jaskier. A few minor matters that were easily and swiftly resolved. I've started making arrangements for a...modest ball tonight, in honour of your return. At your word, we'll have the word spread and the city invited to celebrate." 

They paused then, in the courtyard, watching the Witchers, Zoltan and the mages filtering into the castle. Jaskier wistfully stared at Geralt's broad back as he walked up the steps. "I'm not sure I'm much in the mood for a party, Priscilla," he murmured. 

"It's not just for you, Jaskier. It's to celebrate. All of you. Your safe return, Cirilla's safe return, we avoided a war, the Witchers are leaving tomorrow—" she stopped, acutely aware of the pained expression shadowing Jaskier's face. "Ah. I see." She placed a hand on his shoulder and softened her tone. "You don't want them to leave." 

He sighed. "It's not quite that...their place is somewhere else, I know that. It's not that I want them to stay, I'm just...I'm just not sure I can bear to watch him go." 

Priscilla said nothing, just wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him in for a hug. "You fell in love with him?" 

Jaskier nodded, throat suddenly tight, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. He rested comfortably against her, wrestling his torn heart back in check. Priscilla let him sit with it for a moment, before leaning back to look at him. 

"So," she asked, a teasing lilt to her tone. "Do you want to sit and wallow about it all night, or do you want to drink and dance and cavort with your Witcher until the sunrise in one glorious, final night together?" 

Jaskier snorted and shoved her playfully. "Alright, alright, have your damn ball. The whole city already knows about it, don't they?" 

"Of course. Did you expect less of me?" 

"Not even for a moment, dear heart. Come, let's go join our friends." 

-*-

That afternoon, as preparations began in earnest, Jaskier went for a walk to see how things were faring. 

Priscilla had absolutely outdone herself. 

'A modest ball,' had been a gross understatement on her part. 

The ballroom, mess hall and sitting rooms of the castle had already been decorated—probably before the ship had even docked, Jaskier mused—with elegant floral arrangements made up largely of buttercups, daisies and Queen Anne's Lace, interspersed with wildflowers of soft blues and purples. Yards of coloured silk hung draped from the ceilings and banners had been rolled out to decorate the walls and laid out on the floors. 

The effect of it all was stunning, breathtaking and downright gorgeous. 

The Witchers were in the guest quarters, doing a mix of preparing to leave in the morning—he was decidedly trying not to think about that bit—and getting cleaned up and rested for the ball. 

Yennefer and Tissaia had made themselves scarce upon arrival to the castle which was...concerning. He wasn't sure if they were holed up in the same quarters as the Witchers or had retreated to the lab, or the library maybe. He made a mental note to track them down before the festivities began. 

Zoltan and Essi had jumped right back into their respective roles as advisors, both spoken and unspoken, and easily fell in step with Priscilla to assist in the preparations. Jaskier found the three of them in the mess hall, arranging tables and settting up more decorations. When the food started rolling out of the kitchen to be set out, Jaskier turned to face Priscilla accusatorily. 

"You have been planning this since the moment we left!" he cried indignantly. "There is no way you pulled this off in anything less than three days." 

Priscilla shrugged and hummed. "I knew you'd come back with the girl." 

"And if we didn't?!" 

She smiled fondly. "I just knew you would." 

He went to reply when a soft tap on his shoulder caught his attention. He turned to see Yennefer and frowned. "Is everything alright?" 

She nodded. "We need to discuss something. In your office." She turned and strode out of the room with all the grace and elegance of a queen. 

"Can I be summoned to my own office?" Jaskier asked Priscilla. 

Priscilla shrugged. "I'd go, if I was you." 

Jaskier huffed and followed as he was told. 

Waiting for him in his office was Tissaia, Geralt and Vesemir. He swallowed. Well, this doesn't bode well. He was waved inside and offered a seat—at his own desk—where he settled in and looked around the room. 

"So...why am I here exactly?" 

Tissaia levelled him with an intense stare. "It is not lost on me the damage I have caused, to the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, to you and your kingdom." She spoke coolly. "I acted rashly. I let myself be manipulated into almost starting a war that would have torn this Continent apart." 

Jaskier nodded, gesturing for her to continue. 

"I cannot undo what I did. But I have agreed to go before the Brotherhood of Sorcerors on trial, and be dealt with as they see fit." 

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. "I mean, that does sound very scary, but what do they have to do with any of this? Geralt is the one who was wronged, it seems like maybe he should have a say in this?" He looked at Geralt inquisitively. Right? 

Geralt shook his head. "The Brotherhood will deal with it swiftly, and justly. Tissaia has wronged me greatly, but she also willingly put her life on the line to right her wrongs. I bear her no malice, nor feel any fondness. Yennefer agrees that this is the best course of action and I'm content to let it be what it is." 

Geralt stepped around Jaskier's deck and dropped to one knee beside him. 

Whoa now, hey—

Geralt took his hand. "In the same way that Tissaia was manipulated and caused me a great harm, I also allowed myself to be manipulated, and caused you a great harm. Please, Jaskier, I will do anything to make it right. Just name it." 

Ah. No, yes, that makes more sense. Not...not the other thing. 

Jaskier covered Geralt's hand with his own and smiled fondly. "I already told you, love, everything is forgiven. I don't look at you and see a brutish, pig-headed warlord—at least not all the time, mind—I just see a father who would move the heavens and the ground beneath our feet for his daughter. There is no debt to pay, there is no more to forgive." They shared a soft, fond look, forgetting momentarily the presence of any others in the room, luxuriating in the comfort and closeness they felt. 

Yennefer coughed. "If we're done here, Tissaia and I need to leave. Now. The Brotherhood is convening for her trial as we speak." 

Jaskier nodded, searching the room for agreement. He pushed back his chair and circled the room, offering his hand out to Yennefer before pulling her into a hug, much to her surprise and chagrin. She softened slightly in his embrace and wrapped her arms around him gently. 

"I've grown a bit fond of you, you terrifying crazy witch," muttered Jaskier. "Come back to..." his heart clenched as he almost said 'us'. There was no us. Not with the Witchers leaving come the morning. He swallowed thickly. "Come back to your Witchers in one piece." He coughed to clear his throat and stepped back. 

He nodded at Tissaia. "If Geralt sees fit to forgive you, I will too. It has not slipped my attention that you could choose to disappear, and none of us, probably not even Yennefer herself, could find you. You have my respect if nothing else, for willingly accepting responsibility in this." Tissaia gracefully bowed her head in acknowledgement. 

Yennefer opened a portal—right there in the middle of his office, rude!—and the two mages stepped through. It closed and left behind crackles of energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

After they had left Geralt nodded to Vesemir and cocked his head at the door. Vesemir excused himself and left with a pat to Geralt's shoulder. 

"Oh, uh...bye, Vesemir! Will we see you at the–"

The door clicked shut behind the old Wolf as he stalked out and Jaskier suddenly found himself crowded up against it, hands held behind his back, chest pressing into the wood. Geralt pressed his hips into the cleft of Jaskier's ass and Jaskier moaned in delighted surprise at the promising hardness he felt there. 

"Fuck! Geralt," he panted, "what about that whole very intense emotional goodbye got you all worked up?" 

Geralt rolled his hips, pushing the length of his clothed erection up against his ass again. He bent his head to nuzzle into Jaskier's neck, inhaling deeply with a groan. "Not that. It's you. Your scent. Your eyes. Your voice, gods," he choked out. "I just need you, Jask." 

Jaskier pushed his hips back away from the door to slot right up against Geralt's cock which was now straining at the fabric of his clothing, trying to tear free. "Fuck, Geralt. You make it so hard to say no." 

Geralt released his hands and took a full step back. "You're saying no?" 

Jaskier spun and closed the distance between them, arms snaking around Geralt's neck. "No, no, please, dear heart, that's not what I meant, I just, the ball..." he huffed. "Fucking gods, what you do to me—we're fully clothed and look at the state I'm in!" 

Geralt hummed, unconvinced. "We could skip the ball." 

"We're the guests of honour, dear heart, people will notice if we're not there." 

"Let them notice." Geralt punctuated that with a swipe of his tongue over Jaskier's jawbone, making him go weak at the knees. 

Jaskier groaned. "I was planning on getting to this after the party. You know, a little dancing, a few drinks, some merriment and then being hauled off over your shoulder to be ravished all night long." He hopped up on the edge of his desk with a devilish grin and a cocked eyebrow, spreading his thighs to show Geralt the effect his attentions had caused. 

"Hmm. You're right. I like your plan," Geralt crossed the office with a low growl, pushing between Jaskier's thighs and threading his hands through Jaskier's hair. He did that little thing that Jaskier loved, the one where he wound hair around his fingers and tugged, tipping his head back and tilting his face upwards for a filthy, possessive kiss. It made his head spin every time. Geralt palmed at Jaskier's erection while they kissed, delighting in the whimpers and moans it dragged out of the other man. 

Geralt broke the kiss and Jaskier chased it with a little whine. He leant forward, desperate for more, and was met with a gentle hand on his chest. 

Jaskier pouted at the wicked grin on Geralt's face. "I thought you needed me." 

Geralt chuckled and took Jaskier's hand, pressing it to his own straining erection, letting him feel the heat there. "I do, little king. More than you know. But, as you so helpfully pointed out, we have a ball to prepare for." 

Jaskier crossed his arms and huffed. "Well now we both have a little...er, big, problem to take care of. You could at least bend me over the desk and do us both a favour." 

Geralt's teasing expression dropped and his eyes flared with lust and hunger. 

Oh, gods, I never do know when to shut my mouth, do I? 

-*- 

An hour later they stumbled out of the office, red-faced, flushed and grinning. They staggered back to their chambers, trading kisses and stealing touches. They were completely, blissfully oblivious to the way the staff refused to make eye contact for the rest of the evening and stared, scandalised, at the ground whenever the pair of them walked past.