#also yes there are only two locations at kaer morhen they’re the kitchen and the library. no i do not take criticism

[julek]

a humble offering to @west-moor and @kueble, for bringing this post to life. they’re very dumb, your honor. | read on ao3

It starts at dinner one night. 

They settled in a few days ago, bringing the ice cold from the mountains and the snow with them, after trudging up the Killer for two weeks. They sit at the wooden table and before them stands Vesemir’s famous roast, the one Geralt had told Jaskier all about. 

Geralt helps himself to some potatoes, and gestures to Jaskier’s plate. “You want some?”

Before Jaskier can nod, Lambert cuts him off. “Darling,” he says with a pointed tone.

Geralt turns to him, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “What?”

“You seemed to have forgotten you were speaking to your bard, there,” Lambert quips, and sits back with a knowing smirk. “Just wanted to help you out.”

Geralt blinks. “Uh.”

Jaskier notices the way he’s frozen in place, and gently touches his forearm, ignoring Lambert’s non-sequitur. “I’d love some, Geralt. Thank you.” 

“Uh,” Geralt repeats, and doesn’t take his eyes off Lambert as he fills Jaskier’s plate. “Sure.”

+

Jaskier pads into the kitchen the next morning, eyes still fuzzy with sleep and an old, worn woolen sweater hanging off his shoulder. Geralt looks up from his bowl of kasha and smiles. 

“Morning,” Jaskier mumbles, and sits down at the table. 

“Good morning.”

The shout comes from the pantry, followed by the unmistakable sound of pans and cups clattering. “Morning, honey!” 

Jaskier narrows his eyes, and looks at Geralt for help. He shakes his head. “Um. Hi?” 

Out of the pantry walks Lambert, hands full of baking ingredients, a flour scar crossing his cheek. “How’d ya sleep, sweetheart?”

Jaskier decidedly does not blush a bright shade of red. He doesn’t. “Well, that’s just— thank you, Lambert, for asking. I slept well, even though this keep’s freezing cold and my bed was entirely too big for one fragile bard such as myself.”

Lambert frowns. “What do you mean, too big? You’re not sharing with Geralt?”

Geralt chokes on his kasha, momentarily. Jaskier snorts and shakes his head. “No, I’m staying in the east wing.”

“Ah,” Lambert says, a wolfish grin on his face as he ties the apron behind his back. “That’s… interesting.”

He shoots Geralt a look that’s there a second and gone the next, and Jaskier would’ve missed it, if not for the developed skill of observing Witchers and their fleeting emotions. Still, it’s a look he can’t decipher, a mix of amusement and mischief. Best not to find out, he decides. 

“So, Lambert,” he starts, a touch louder than he should. “What’s that you’re making?”

+

Geralt had warned him, Jaskier thinks in retrospect, that Lambert was a bit weird. An acquired taste. And he is, Jaskier won’t deny it, but he’s also incredibly unpredictable — his gruff demeanor and rough disposition always, without fail, betray the sweet words that leave his mouth. 

He’d been brushing the horses down when Lambert ruffled his hair and called him dear. Geralt nearly dropped his sword one morning, when Jaskier walked out onto the courtyards and Lambert called out hello, sunshine. On their way to the library to get absolutely smashed, a gentle touch to his elbow and little bird. 

They’re all incredibly sweet, incredibly unexpected delicacies, and Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of them. Sure, Lambert isn’t horrible to look at in the slightest, what with the entire lean-body, scarred-face look he has going on, with the playful teasing and easy smiles he gets out of him. He’s objectively handsome, and funny, and kind, when he has to be, and Jaskier has let him know, many times. He hasn’t been exactly subtle in feeling his muscles through his linen shirts and sending looks his way whenever he’s said something salacious and tempting — signs so clear even the brother of one of the Continent’s most oblivious Witcher could read them. Which is why it’s so infuriatingly confusing, the fact that name-calling is all Lambert’s got for him. 

And it’s not lost to him at all, the way Geralt frowns and fiddles with his medallion whenever Lambert lets a honey-sweet pet name slip. He doesn’t miss the way Geralt stubbornly looks straight ahead, focused on absolutely nothing at all, nor the way his mouth twitches, almost, almost resembling a pout. 

It’s amusing, to say the least.

+

“Well, I’m off to bed, my wonderful friends,” Jaskier announces one night, after playing a few annoying renditions of Toss a Coin, until he got Eskel to break and beg him to stop. 

The wolves say their goodbyes, and just as Jaskier’s about to leave the Great Hall, Lambert calls after him. 

“Night, love,” he says, offhandedly, and continues his conversation with Eskel, as if nothing had happened. 

Jaskier scans the room, and his eyes fall on Geralt, who’s trying very hard to remain seated, even when his knuckles are white and his leg is bouncing wildly enough to propel him into the night sky. His amber gaze follows Lambert’s movements and if Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say Geralt was about to throttle his brother. 

“Hmm.” He murmurs. “Goodnight, Lambert. Goodnight, Geralt.”

Jaskier smiles sweetly and leaves the room at a leisurely pace. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on his back.

+

One particularly chilly afternoon, Jaskier’s leaving the library when he hears voices that carry through the hall. 

“Well? Gonna explain yourself?”

Oh, the middle-aged woman that lives inside Jaskier’s heart and loves to gossip jumps up and down in joy at the prospect of what seems to be a very interesting conversation. He slips out of the room and presses his back to the wall, even when he knows the Witchers could sense his presence. It’s more fun if there’s a risk to get caught, he reasons. 

Lambert’s voice is low, and Jaskier can hear his smug smile as he says, “Well, you weren’t doing anything about it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Geralt’s voice echoes. 

“It means, you thick-headed idiot,” Lambert drags the words out, like he’s speaking to a child. If Jaskier’s quiet, he can hear the way Geralt’s blood boils in his veins. “That you’ve been walking in circles for too long. Jaskier’s here.” At the mention of his name, the bard perks up. 

“I know that, Lambert. I invited him. What’s that got to do with this— this sweet talking thing you’ve got going on? It’s weird. Creeps me out.”

“What? I can be decent when needs must!” Comes Lambert’s offended retort. “What I’m saying, pretty boy, is that he’s a good thing, the kind that Witchers never get to have. Not that you own him or anything— it’s just. He’s good, and he’s obviously waited for you to make a move, sometime in this past decade. He’s here, for fuck’s sake— in an old ruin in the middle of fucking nowhere, holed up with four Witchers and a goat, nothing else. Ain’t exactly a walk in the park.”

Jaskier stands very still, his heart beating out of his chest. 

“Hmm. I still— I don’t deserve him.”

Lambert laughs. “Well, too bad, then. You can’t come to me with that self-deprecating shit, I’m not Eskel. But, fuck, if you don’t deserve him, who the fuck does? Certainly not me, but— I need you to listen very closely— he won’t wait forever. He might even settle for me, if you don’t make a move soon.”

“Ugh.” 

“Yeah.”

Geralt’s footsteps echo down the hall, moving closer to Lambert, Jaskier thinks. 

“You’ll stop with the pet names, then?” 

Lambert laughs, again. “Absolutely not. It’s too fun seeing you get all hot and bothered.” He steps out of the room, thankfully, in the opposite direction, and calls out, “Don’t fuck it up!”

Jaskier lets out a breath and slides to the floor, gathering the new information in his brain. Geralt wants him. He wants him, and worst of all, thinks he’s undeserving — damn him and his humility. He lets out a laugh in disbelief. 

Geralt wants him. 

+

The next morning, when Jaskier walks into the kitchen, he’s greeted by a blushing Geralt. 

“Hi,” Jaskier says, an amused smile curling his lips, and sits down at the table. “How are you this morning, dear?”

Geralt pushes a bowl in his direction, a bit too strongly. “Good.” He coughs. “Uh, I’m good… Sugar face.” 

“Huh?” Jaskier stops mid-bite. He quickly regains his composure. “Um— that’s good, I’m glad, yeah.” 

Geralt grimaces, and an awkward silence follows. Jaskier digs into his breakfast with more enthusiasm than necessary, until Lambert walks in, firewood under both arms. 

“Lambert! Thank the Gods— I mean, uh, it’s so good to see you. It’s a bit chilly this morning, isn’t it? I’m sure you agree, what with coming straight from the great outdoors and such— I’m going to the library, if anyone needs me, uh, just,” he rambles as he washes his bowl, “just call. You know. My name. Jaskier the bard, ha— that’s me! Anyway, see you.” 

He makes haste to leave the kitchen, and as he walks down the hall, he hears Lambert clicking his tongue. 

“Fuck, Wolf, it’s not even mid-morning.”

+

Jaskier stays in the library until the sweet aroma of Vesemir’s stew reaches the room and his stomach rumbles pleasantly at the thought. Given the way he’d fled the kitchen, he wouldn’t be surprised if no one called him to lunch — they probably thought he was having some sort of stroke, with his word-vomiting and hurried escape. He’s just opened a new book when he hears a knock. 

“Come in,” he says, voice steady.

The door opens, and sure enough, Geralt’s standing at the doorway, a sheepish smile on his face and a terribly endearing flush creeping up his neck. 

“Hey, love,” Jaskier says, because it’s difficult to call him otherwise. “You okay?”

“Hmm.” Geralt walks over to his chair, and stands there awkwardly until Jaskier gestures to a bench next to him. “We’ll have lunch soon.”

Jaskier smiles. “I was just thinking about that. It’s stew, isn’t it? Oh, Vesemir spoils me so.”

“Thought you’d be hungry,” Geralt says, looking at his hands. “You left breakfast early.”

Jaskier pales, then lets out a nervous laugh. “Oh! Yes, well, I had suddenly remembered a book I just had to examine more closely, and—”

“Jaskier.”

Geralt’s looking at him now, and Jaskier closes his mouth, choosing to look back into his amber eyes and wait for whatever comes. Nothing does, for a while — they just stare at each other, waiting for the other to speak up. Finally, Geralt does. 

“I invited you up here, to spend the winter with me,” he rasps, “because I couldn’t bear the thought of not being close to you, Jaskier, I— I can’t stand it.”

Jaskier’s heart breaks a little. “Geralt.”

“I should’ve asked you to come up here years ago. I wasn’t brave enough. Thought you’d hate the idea.” He grimaces. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeats. “When you asked me to come here with you— you have no idea what it meant to me, knowing you still wanted my company. I couldn’t have been happier.”

Geralt sniffs and gives him a weak smile, his white hair falling on his face.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, and gestures vaguely at the space between them. “The whole…”

“Calling me disgustingly sweet and somewhat alarming pet names?”

Geralt nods.

“I know, dear heart.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hands in his own. “I know, and I don’t expect you to.”

“I’d still like to call you something, though,” Geralt says, the tiniest hint of a pout on his lips. “Can’t let Lambert best me.” 

Jaskier snorts. “So it’s all about honor, then?” 

Geralt shakes his head. “It’s about you.” 

And oh, he sounds so sincere, so open and fragile, Jaskier can’t find it in himself to tease him any further. 

“You know what I loved the most about traveling to Kaer Morhen with you?”

A tiny frown knits Geralt’s brow. “What?”

“‘T was when we stopped in those hamlets, the ones that aren’t even on maps,” he murmurs. “Where you gather your supplies, where people know you and call you by your name. You know why?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Because,” Jaskier whispers, bringing their foreheads together, “whenever they asked you about me, about who I was, your answer was always the same.” 

He’s my bard, Geralt had said to the horse trader when they bought a mule. My bard, he’d answered, when the chatty shopkeeper had inquired about the colorful fellow trailing after him. My bard, he’d said with a shrug and a fond smile, as Jaskier and the tailor entwined themselves in an argument about fabrics and the season’s colors.

My bard. 

“You always called me yours.” 

Jaskier closes his eyes when he feels Geralt’s lips on his own, a soft, gentle thing. They move slowly, simply exploring — when they part, there are kisses being pressed to his cheeks, his brow, the corner of his mouth and his jaw.

Geralt smiles at him, and Jaskier smiles back, aware that they probably look like two lovesick fools staring at each other, but far too gone to care. 

“I don’t need flowery names or honey-soaked terms of endearment,” Jaskier assures him. “Being called yours is more than enough.” 

Geralt presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Hmm. Can’t go around claiming you as mine, though. ‘S a bit archaic.”

“Mm. You’re right. Love of my life, my moon and my stars should be enough, then. Rolls off the tongue, even.”

Geralt growls. “Jask.”

“Dearly beloved— no, that’s too formal— I’ve always been fond of Angel, though I doubt I’ve earned that title.” 

Geralt kisses him again, and Jaskier half-suspects it’s less about the tender gesture and more about shutting him up. 

“I’ll think of more, you know. You can’t distract me with kisses forever.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Okay.” He pecks his cheek. “Bard.”

“Yours,” Jaskier says smugly. 

Before Geralt can open his mouth, the library door swings open. 

“Fucking finally, Geralt! We’re all so very happy for this revelation, way to go, and all that.” He clasps his hands together. “Now, you both need to get your asses to lunch, otherwise Vesemir will kick you out. Jaskier, baby, please be grossly in love with Geralt later.”

Geralt groans. “Fuck off, Lambert.”

He leaves with a cackle. Jaskier smooths out his doublet, gets up and holds his hand out to Geralt. He grins.

“You coming, sugar face?”

[officerjennie]

23 with all the Witcher characters you'll write

Anon.

-squishes your face-

Anon I love you. I wish you nothing but the absolute best life anyone could ever imagine, because you have given me such a gift.

Characters included here: Jaskier, Aiden, Lambert, Geralt, Eskel, Vesemir (let’s be real, he’s just there for the snacks. Catch him filling his pockets with nuts and pastries to horde in his office). Prompt: orgy

(edit most of the way through writing this: HOW THE FUCK DID I WRITE SOMETHING FOR THE PROMPT ORGY AND INCLUDE NO SEX, I JUST-)

--

Despite popular believe, Jaskier had the best ideas.

The entirety of his previous afternoon had been spent with preparations for the event. It had only taken a little bit of bribing to convince Vesemir that this wasn’t going to end horrifically or with some destruction or another, and really only another bottle of (very expensive) wine as the cherry on top to be given permission to use the mess hall in Kaer Morhen as the location. Though honestly, there wasn’t anywhere else that would have suited the party - so Jaskier was very glad no more bribing was in order there.

If he was honest, convincing everyone to take part in it was the easy part. One really didn’t know the definition of ‘sexually repressed’ until one met a horny witcher who was trying to deny himself the lusts of the skin and Jaskier could count on his first three fingers some witchers that suited that bill to the T.

The fact that he knew exactly five made that rather sad, but he digressed.

With some rather flirtatious invitations, Jaskier had secured participation, but that was only phase one of his plans. After that was making it an actual party, an event, because there was no way in all of the fresh hells that he would let this be even close to mediocre. 

So, the table settings began.

At the end of the evening he found himself spinning in glee, hands clapped in front of his face, fingers touching his lips as he admired his handiwork. All done by himself - the boys could all thank him later for his hard work, since he’d wanted it to all be a surprise for the lot of them, and he had honestly outdone himself.

He hoped no one asked how he got the flowers during this time of year. Some secrets were better left untouched.

It was close to dark, the outside colors bringing in brilliant oranges and purples, when Jaskier set off to round everyone up. Geralt was the first person he found - a given, really. He’d spent enough time traveling around with him that he knew exactly where he’d be, the exact position he’d be in on his bed as he sharpened his sword (because his daggers would have been the first he sharpened, and it was too late in the evening for him to be starting on the task), no doubt trying to pretend like he wasn’t looking forward to anything or affected by the thought of such an event.

His rather tight pants gave him away, though. With a very firm kiss to his delicious lips and a swipe of his eager tongue, Jaskier let Geralt know it was ready. He tugged him up off the bed and patted his arse and sent him on his way, determined to find everyone else before he went down himself and got far too distracted.

The grumbling he heard from his witcher just made him smile more.

It took a little longer to locate Eskel, but Jaskier had figured it easier to find him than the others. Surprisingly he hadn’t been out visiting Lil’ Bleater, the little lady having already been put up snug in her bed, bleating out so cutely when she saw Jaskier that he had to spent a few minutes giving her some love before he went on his way. As he did, he couldn’t help but think about how witchers just...really did love to imprint on animals. Geralt with his precious Roach, Eskel with his classy lady. He wondered what sort of animal Vesemir might relate to, or Lambert?

Wait, no, he didn’t want to know that second one. He blinked in horror and set that thought firmly to a forgotten corner of his mind to grow dust.

Instead of finding Eskel with his adorable little lady, Jaskier ended up running into him in the kitchen. It had been the smell of some wondrous pastries that had clued him in, drawing him in like the hungry sweets demon he was, his fingers already itching to snatch some up and run away with his booty.

Not that he really needed to steal one. It was just more fun that way.

Sure enough, his nose had not lied to him. Eskel was pulling out some of his own handmade and famously delicious apple pastries out of the oven just as Jaskier peeked his head in, and his mouth watered just at the sight. Also, dare he say it, but Eskel was very cute with flour dusted on his spikey, scary shirt.

“Are those for little ol’ me?”

Eskel didn’t startle at his voice but Jaskier didn’t expect him to, used to the terrifyingly good hearing that came with all of the other witcher mutations. “You did say snacks, right? Figured these might do.”

“Oh! Oh, Eskel,” Jaskier felt his eyes tearing up, skipping into the kitchen and just stopping himself from flinging his arms around his now officially second favorite witcher. He skidded to a stop right in front of him, wringing his hands with emotion to keep from burning himself or Eskel (or accidentally impaling himself on said scary spikey shirt). “You really didn’t have to, I had the snacks all set up and planned out, but I’m ever so touched you did! Oh, these will make the perfect addition.”

“They have to cool first, Jask.” Eskel had a very knowing twinkle in his eye as he stepped around the bard, going to place the flat pan on a rack he had set up on the table. “I’ll bring them down when they’re ready, then you can have one.”

Jaskier pouted, eyeing the pastries and wondering if it was worth burning both his fingers and his tongue on them. Which, yes, it was, but he’d rather not disappoint the pastry chef. So he deflated with a deep sigh, content in knowing that he’d get some later - and that Eskel very much did not forget about his plans.

Vesemir was next on his list, and it only took one single stop by his office to remind him. All Jaskier had to do was knock on his door and wait patiently for Vesemir to say he could come in, then he poked his head in to see if he’d be joining them.

“I’ll be there.”

That’s all the answer Jaskier got, and he considered it good enough. With him checked off the list, there was only two left, and they would thankfully be easy to locate this evening. They weren’t usually - well, Lambert by himself was. But any time Aiden was joining them for the winter Lambert was made scarce, always off doing something with his dear friend, and that something was usually mischief.

Aiden was a wonderful and a horrid influence on Lambert, and everyone adored him for it. Most of the time. 

Luckily, Jaskier already knew where they were. He’d heard their training all the way in the keep and made his way to the training grounds, stopping by Geralt’s room to steal one of his coats on his way, not willing to face the cold with his own considering Geralt’s were much warmer (even if much less fashionable - had the man never heard of color?).

As it happened, they’d just recently stopped their training session - luck considering how long they’d go some evenings. Both of them had abandoned their shirts at some point, maybe even right at the start of their training, though Jaskier wasn’t sure how either of them could stand it when the snow in some places came up to his shins.

Stupid sexy witchers. It was entirely unfair. Both the cold resistant part and the sexy part. 

“Hey, little songbird.” Aiden stretched his arm back and rested it against his shoulder, dangling his sword behind him and watching as Jaskier’s eyes followed the movement. “S’time already?”

With his mouth suddenly quite dry, and what with his feet suddenly not knowing how to walk in snow, Jaskier had to stumble out some sort of an answer. Not that he could really hear it, he was paying too much attention to how Aiden flexed his arm just so - damn stupid sexy witchers.

Lambert laughed at him without a single ounce of pity, and if Jaskier’s brain wasn’t currently melting he would have pointed out that the same damn tricks worked on him if Aiden wanted them to. At least Aiden took some pity on him after that, heading back to the keep and shooting him a wicked grin as he brushed past him. 

Even with all the snow, it was suddenly a bit too warm for the coat he’d nabbed.

But that - that was everyone. Jaskier shook himself, a wide grin blooming on his face, the cold air biting at his cheeks and nose. Everyone was headed to the mess hall, the snack tables and punch were all ready. Eskel had been kind enough to make some of his apple pastries which would be a big hit. And! Jaskier had procured enough lubricant that they wouldn’t all be regretting it come the morning.

He rubbed his hands together as he turned around, hurrying back to get to the mess hall himself. This, without a single doubt, was his best idea yet - and hands down a night that he would always remember. 

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 4 - Prickly Princesses and Snapping Sisters

Welcome back folks to chapter 4! I don’t have much to say besides thank you @persony-pepper for betaing this fic from now on. Check out their works if you can, they’re amazing! Enjoy!

Summary: Geralt and Ciri worm themselves into the routine of Lettenhove Hall and Jaskier and Janina strike a bargain. 

Read on AO3

part 1 | part 4 | part 6

Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon did not like Jaskier. He had been- somewhat prepared for that possibility, he reckoned. She was a child, after all, and children were rather peculiar tastes when it came to their fondness for people.

He also reckoned that there should be some allowance, given that their introduction had not been conducted in the same circumstances as he had expected it to be. He would be lying if he said he  hadn't expected to meet her at some point, especially once the war had started. He had dreamt up a thousand different scenarios, each involving some incredibly daring rescue mission and nights of jolly laughter under the stars with lutes and campfires and songs and suchlike.

None of them had taken place in Lettenhove. In none of them had he been  bound  to Lettenhove, with his lute under lock and key. In none of them had there been this insurmountable tension between him and Geralt— no, that was not entirely true, there had been plenty of tension in his daydreams, just of a much more pleasant type.

Well, in his defence, all of that had been before the Dragon Hunt in King Niedamir's mountains — an adventure worthy of an entire epos, the last one to be immortalised in one of his ballads. After that... truth be told, he hadn't expected to see Geralt again at all, never mind meet his child surprise.

That was, however, beside the point. The point was that he had gone to Cirilla and had knelt before her, offering up his allegiance and protections and that the girl had just stared at him. He had tried to explain his plan to her, how he would disguise her for the winter so they could continue to their mysterious destination come spring and she had just nodded gracefully, agreeing to play along. That had been, however, the extent of their whole conversation. Any attempt of him after to get to know her even a little better had been met with a very familiar kind of stoic silence.

He had then decreed that it would be better to just leave her and hope that dinner would be better. It hadn't been. To be precise, dinner had been a fucking disaster. Firstly, Geralt and Cirilla had arrived late - which would have been alright if not for his insufferable older sister who had insisted on pestering him with despicable comments about Geralt and Cirilla until he had enough. There were only so many insults he could tolerate at his table before acting on the urge to throttle Janina and he greatly preferred it not come to that point. "If you don't shut up," he had hissed at her, "you're getting your wish and I dump you off at Goldfurt for good. But don't expect to set foot into Lettenhove again afterwards."

That had been effective in so far that she had stopped talking. It had, however, also greatly contributed to the detestable atmosphere at the table. And probably led to him screwing up any chance he ever had charming the princess.

It wasn't as if he wasn't trying. He really was. He had taken her to the gardens, which had not been to her liking. He had taken her to the stables but she wasn't particularly fond of horses. Maybe even a bit scared of them. He had tried telling her exciting stories about his adventures. She was definitely scared of those.

In general, Cirilla was scared of a lot of things, not that he could blame her for it. It didn't make any of this easier, though.

It was, however, almost startlingly easy how quickly Geralt and his child surprise settled themselves into the routine of Lettenhove Hall. In the mornings, Jaskier would still be woken up by Jakub, who brought him breakfast, dressed him, and told him all that was happening in his castle, things its inhabitants thought he might miss. He dedicated his mornings to his unsuccessful attempts at befriending the princess. Then he sent her off to lunch with Józefa and Marta. His afternoons were filled with the mortifying pile of duties that came with  owning  three villages and a couple hundreds of people, plus the never-ending complaints of his tenants.

The thought still made his stomach churn. 'One of the many reasons why I never wanted this.' He couldn't just own  people as if they were  objects . Only, apparently, he very much did.

After that, there was dinner. The atmosphere did not really improve after that first night, Janina still stubbornly insisting that she would not talk to Jaskier and Jaskier returning that favour. No one was overly eager to speak to Geralt. At least Cirilla and Józefa conversed quietly. Sometimes. The evenings when Janina feigned some kind of minor ailment to dine alone were better. He suspected it was the same when his work chained him to his desk until long after sunset.

After dinner there were usually a few hours spent in the fireplace lounge next to the dining room. They were filled with more silence and Józefa and Janina doing some needlework and sometimes piquing Cirilla's interest. Jaskier was usually reading and Geralt was scowling until the viscount had the mercy to retire for the evening.

He had told Geralt— and Cirilla as well, for that matter— that they were welcome to make use of his extensive library, yet they never took him up on the offer. If out of stubbornness or genuine disinterest, he couldn't say, though he would put neither past them.

Still, a week into their stay and this new procedure felt frighteningly ordinary to Jaskier already. It was very strange altogether, that new kind of, almost forgotten, familiarity while his relationship did not improve with neither of his guests. 'What would I have given for this only two years prior?' he mused, giving up on his futile attempt to read a very long text with very small letters that kept blurring in front of his eyes. 'To get Geralt to take care of his Child Surprise and have them near me for a winter.' He had never spent the winter with Geralt before, preferring the relatively mild climate that came with Oxenfurt's proximity to the sea to the harsh cold that enveloped Kaer Morhen, the legendary keep of the Wolf School whose location had never been betrayed to him.

He sighed and closed his eyes, allowing himself for a moment to indulge in that old fantasy of his again. Him and his lute on a rug in front of a fireplace, singing of Geralt's heroics while the princess played and listened. Maybe even a smile on Geralt's face, maybe even a hand tangled in Jaskier's hair, maybe even-

A sharp knock interrupted his fruitless daydreams and he sighed in relief. There was no use following that particular train of thought now. 'If there ever was at all.' His lute was locked away in a chest in the attic, his grasp on the lyrics of his ballads dimming already, and he and Geralt didn't talk anymore. "Yes?"

He was more than a little surprised when Geralt entered and offered him the tiniest of bows and nothing else.

Jaskier leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms, waiting patiently.

Geralt stared at him for a very long time, something growing in his gaze that he would almost classify as  begging , yet Jaskier continued his stony resolve, merely raising an eyebrow. "Good evening," Geralt gritted out finally.

"Good evening, witcher," he responded. "Is there any particular reason why you come to my private chambers at this late hour?" He estimated that they were rapidly approaching midnight as it was pitch black outside and hunger had painfully settled in his stomach. Yet, the way to the kitchens seemed dreadfully long;, and he really did not want to walk that far, and any dish he thought of seemed downright disgusting, also there would be breakfast in a few hours anyw-

"You weren't at dinner," Geralt interrupted his racing thoughts, "or in the lounge."

He tensed up a little bit. "How astute of you to notice."

Geralt frowned. "Have you eaten at all? My lord."

He blinked in surprise. Jaskier wasn't sure what he had been expecting but certainly not...  that . "Are you worried about me, witcher?" he tried to tease, but his voice came out uncharacteristically harsh.

"No," Geralt answered and looked so confused that it almost made Jaskier laugh. 'Such a Geralt thing to do.'

But only almost. It stung, too. Quite a lot, to be precise. 'Of course not. Geralt isn't one to worry about you.' His face hardened. "Then why are you here?"

"I wanted to talk to you."

"We are talking. Get on with it, I've got more important things to do."

He could basically hear Geralt grinding his teeth. "I wanted to ask your leave,  my lord  , to teach your  cousin how to wield a sword."

"Oh?" That certainly was unexpected. "I'm not sure about that."

"Why not?"

He hummed quietly, thinking carefully about how to phrase his answer. "How's your leg?" he asked then.

The question seemed to startle Geralt. "Better, my lord," he said after a while. "Thank you for the healer."

"Better?" Jaskier confirmed. "Not healed yet?"

He frowned at him, obviously unsure what to make of that. "My leg is good enough to teach a twelve-year-old what the difference between the grip and the tip is, if that's your concern, m., My lord."

"Good," he turned back to the document, "I have no objections in that case."

"Good." Geralt turned to leave.

When he was almost at the door, Jaskier spoke up again: "Is there anything else that needs mending, witcher?" 'Besides a heart of mine?'

"Nothing, my lord." He scoffed. "Nothing but my ego."

With Geralt's back turned towards him he allowed his lip to curl into the twisted imitation of a smile. "I'm afraid I can't help with that."

There was a tiny pause before: "My armour," Geralt said quietly. "And my silver sword."

"Fine. Good night, witcher."

"Good night." He turned and stopped at the door. "I'll bring you something to eat, my lord." This time he was almost careful closing it.

When Jaskier woke the next morning, he was nestled in his bed, bundled up in his favourite blanket with a plate of cold venison and a few slices of bread on his nightstand. 

'Weird,' he thought as he yawned and closed his eyes again. He distinctly misremembered leaving his study and getting into his bed which meant- the realisation startled Jaskier from his slumberous sunrise sentiments and he sat up fast enough to make his head spin, still not having eaten anything since the previous morning. 'Fuck,' he thought and paled, quickly taking stock of his clothes. His doublet was folded neatly across the back of his chair right next to his boots. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers, the latter of which he counted as a small blessing by Melitele herself, albeit their crumpled and - quite frankly - ruined state. He pitied whatever washerwoman would have to press them again now.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed - a bit more slowly now, to avoid further dizziness - still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Geralt had apparently brought him food, carried him to bed, stripped him of his footwear and doublet  and  tucked him in  without him noticing . 'Great,' he thought and reached for the cold roast without being fully conscious of what he was doing, 'so no falling asleep in the study anymore.'

Once he had devoured the whole plate, he got up to dress himself, still in that dreadful all-black look that tradition demanded. He sighed as he buttoned up his doublet. He might not be overly fond of his father, still he owed him the courtesy of dressing in mourning for two months. 'At least it's halfway done,' he consoled himself. And afterwards, he would get to wear the delightful – and colourful - recent additions to his wardrobe, without worrying too much what kind of tragedy might befall them.

That was one of the few advantages to his new old life: he didn't have to worry about regularly ruining his clothes anymore. Still, his expenses had almost tripled somehow. It was one thing for a travelling bard to own two changes of clothing and quite another for a viscount. He wasn't quite able to fill the numerous closets in the dressing room yet, but he was getting there. 'And all of that without being married,' he thought smugly. 'Father would be so disappointed.'

It was no secret that there was no love lost between the late Alfred Pankratz and- well, anyone, basically. Especially not between him and his five children. Especially not between him and his heir. 'Rest in peace, daddy dearest,' he thought grimly as he straightened himself in front of the mirror. 'And know that the world is a better place without you.'

With that Jaskier turned and strolled out of his rooms, nearly colliding with Jakub as he dashed down the stairs. "My lord!" his servant yelped in surprise as he quickly secured the tray and the food on it. "You're, err- awake. And dressed."

"Evidently," he retorted drily. "Oh, are those roast apples? How delightful!" He picked up the bowl and a fork, digging in.

"Yes, my lord. Do you want me to deliver them to your room?"

"No, they come with me," he answered with his mouth full. "Is my witcher awake yet?"

"I believe so, my lord. I have last seen him in the armoury, looking displeased."

"No, no," Jaskier waved with his fork, "that's his default expression. Have the rest brought to my study, will you? I'll take care of the whiny white wolf."

He continued his way down the stairs more carefully, now that he was periodically shoving pieces of baked apple into his mouth. Tripping on stairs and shoving his own fork down his throat was not really a death he looked forward to.

By the point he had reached the ground floor, his bowl was empty, so he left it on the stairs before pushing the doors to the armoury open. It had always been one of his least favourite rooms in the castle, with exception of the study he now called his own. But Geralt seemed to fit right in with the rows of swords and halberds and crossbows. He whipped around and snarled. 'Ah,' Jaskier thought, 'displeased was a euphemism.' His expression grew hard. "Witcher," he greeted him.

"My lord," he answered and frowned. "You're awake early."

"Ah, yes. I was woken up by the shock of finding myself in my own bed, despite having no recollection of how I got there."

"Hm," he made. "Surely the first time. My lord."

'Oh, it's one of  those  days.' He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "It was not. Witcher."

He frowned even harder, a feat Jaskier found quite impressive, albeit a bit worrying in regards to his health. "Should I apologise?"

' Oh.  ' For a moment the question startled him enough for his mask to crack. 'That's new.' He wasn't sure if Geralt had  ever apologised to him. It rewarded him with a softer tone: "You shouldn't. It was... kind, I reckon. Though you should rather wake me next time."

"If I am able to," he grumbled. After a moment he added: "I will. My lord."

"Good." He straightened himself and strolled over to one of the chests lined along the walls. "I believe you are looking for these," he said and handed him two wooden practice swords. They were almost as heavy as real ones, though one of them was significantly smaller.

Jaskier watched as Geralt observed them, staring for quite long at the initials 'J.A.P.' carved into the pommel of the smaller one. On the other, they were already replaced by the crude carving of a flower, that certainly could be interpreted as a buttercup. "They're yours," Geralt asserted.

"Indeed they are. Is there a problem?"

"I didn't-," he began before seemingly changing his mind. His mouth shut. "No, my lord."

"Good. Go on then. I am sure Cousin Fiona will be thrilled to learn the craft from a master."

"Yes, my lord." He turned to go.

When he had already reached the doors, Jaskier called after him once more: "And witcher? As soon as anyone comes to bodily harm through your exploits, the instructions stop. Is that understood?"

"Of course. I expected nothing less, my lord." He stepped out into the sunlight and the door closed behind him.

Jaskier found himself staring at the dark wood for quite a long time. 'You didn't what, Geralt?' he asked himself, before finally tearing himself away and making his way up to his study.

Almost as soon as he shut the door behind him, he could hear the muffled sounds of two wooden swords clashing. It was an odd experience, being the one listening to it and not the one being dealt the blows. 'I could almost get used to it,' he thought as he settled down for work.

He could focus on the various letters cluttering his desk until shortly after lunch; oddly the hour when the rest of his castle sat down to eat was the most productive one as opposed to the least on all his other days. But the rather monotonous clatter of swords was somewhat distracting.

So, when the noise started up again Jaskier had to surrender far sooner than he would like. 'If I can't focus on the words,' he told himself as he cleaned up his desk as best as he could, 'my time is better spent otherwise.'

He surprised himself by being curious if not even a bit excited when he stepped out onto the gallery that overlooked the courtyard. He was almost delighted to see that now he could not only hear the instructions Geralt growled at Cirilla, but also how both of them panted and were breaking sweat. 'Would you look at that,' he thought and resisted the urge to lean on the railing and stare down at them dreamily, 'seems like even a witcher has to work to keep up with the tireless cub.'

He knew that he himself had a surplus of energy than most other human beings. These days he found himself being more bored and dissatisfied with his routine tasks than ever before. Still, from what he had seen, he doubted that even he could keep up with Cirilla. The girl asked a thousand questions an hour, always curious about the purpose behind everything she saw, talking so fast it made his head spin and constantly ran off to some place or other. He pitied whoever poor soul had been her nursemaid before - and at Queen Calanthe's court no less.

He was shaken from his thoughts when Geralt told her to stand down and wiped the sweat from his brow; he used the break to take a deep breath while Jaskier took advantage of the possibility to rake his eyes over a sweaty witcher, whose hair hung in loose strands from his braid without any kind of danger or being forced to learn how to wield a blade himself.

In the seventeen years of their acquaintance Geralt had tried to teach him how to fight more than once, with daggers and knives and even a crossbow; not that he'd had any more luck than his fencing teacher in the previous eight years. Jaskier had learned how to defend himself with a knife eventually, but he would never make a great swordsman - though certainly not for lack of trying.

The door to the gallery opened and it was all he could do not to gape in surprise when Janina stepped outside and walked to his side. "Brother," she greeted him coldly.

"Sister," he answered and took back to staring at the scene unfolding below him. Geralt was teaching Cirilla a simple lunge that would surely be accompanied by a redirecting stroke once she had the footwork down. He was quite familiar with it, one of the only steps he actually remembered.

For a while that was how it went, Geralt correcting Cirilla and, in an unexpected turn of events, Jaskier scowled instead of pouting for once. That, he left to his sister: "It is not proper," Janina said.

"This old tune again." He rolled his eyes. "How many times, sister, the witcher stays for the winter. He will leave as soon as the snow thaws."

" It is not proper  ," she repeated insistently, "that he spends so much time with our  cousin ."

He arched an eyebrow.

"She's a little girl, Julian. And he's drilling her like a soldier's boy. It is not proper for a girl to learn how to fight. She should sew and sing instead."

"Darling sister, if I have learned anything in two decades on the road it is never to underestimate a determined lady. No man with a sword is half as scary as any warrior woman I have met." Quietly he thought: 'Most men with two swords are not half as scary as any women armed with nothing but magic.'

"Well, I do not know who you have met," she quipped, "or who you fancy her to be. She is just a normal girl, Julian, no mage, no witch, no... Calanthe of Cintra or whoever you might be thinking of."

He bit his lip to hide his smile. 'Of only you knew, darling Janka. If only you knew...'

She took his silence as a sign to continue: "You should forbid it."

Jaskier frowned. "I will not," he said with determination. "I know you don't believe it, but this war is not done, yet. And as long as it isn't, everyone would benefit from knowing how to swing a sword."

"Well, maybe you should get down into the court as well, then. We all know that that blade is a useless weight on you."

"Maybe I just might," he answered. "The training will continue so long as no bodily harm comes to her. Feel free, however, to interest her for the womanly arts you hold in such high regard. If you manage to pry her from the witcher's side with sweet words alone, I won't say a thing."

"Maybe I will," his sister snapped. "Just you wait."

He laughed heartily. "Dear sister, you will never woo Fiona before I do. But you are welcome to try."

Her eyes narrowed to slits. "You're on."

"Oh!" His eyes sparkled. "Fun. If I manage to get in her good graces before you, I will hear no word of complaint about witchers anymore."

She crossed her arms. "And if I win?"

"I'll bring a bard for the whole winter."

She scrunched her nose as she contemplated it. "No."

"No?"

"If I win,  you  will sing us songs for the winter."

He scoffed. "That's hardly a punishment," he said as jovially as he could. 'It is,' he thought.

A wicked grin spread on Janina's face. "But only those written by Valdo Marx."

Jaskier paled and gasped, undignified. Whatever horrible punishment he might have expected of her, that certainly went too far. "You wouldn't dare- My own flesh and blood!"

"What? Scared to lose, Julek?"

He frowned. "Of course not." As if he ever was one to back down from a challenge.

Janina nodded and he watched in horror as she spat in her hand and offered it to him.

"Gross," Jaskier declared and gagged.

His older sister rolled her eyes. "You're a boy. As if you haven't done it before. Deal?"

He scrunched his nose. 'Of course, I have done it before, you little pest- oh, bugger this!' He spat in his own hand and shook hers. "Deal."

She smirked and pulled him close. "I'll destroy you," she whispered into his ear.

Jaskier laughed, even though the tone made his blood freeze in his veins. "I'm looking forward to it."

The little bet he had with his sister had certainly changed the situation with Cirilla dramatically. While there had been at least some kind of personal interest for him to get to know the girl better beforehand, Jaskier was now sure that he could not accept defeat. Or rather, he would not be singing Valdo Marx's mediocre ballads throughout the entire winter, thank you very much.

Naturally, he had to reinforce his efforts. He tried sneaking her sweets next - which she didn't like, unfortunately - and showing her the secret places in Lettenhove Hall after - she wasn't interested. He tried dresses and dolls, stories and songs, all to no avail. The more time passed, the more his conversations with Cirilla resembled some with a miniature Geralt, who just grunted and swore a lot, preferably at him.

Slowly but surely, he was losing his patience. There was a lot on the line for him now, after all. His only solace was that Janina wasn't making any progress either. If anything, she made negative progress - the little princess couldn't stand being in her presence and Jaskier soon discovered that he at least was being spared the worst of her newly acquired cuss words.

Still, he was very close to giving in and just bribing  Geralt  instead of Cirilla - maybe that would amount to something. He quickly pushed the thought away. 'I'm not  that  desperate,' he decided, 'yet.'

There were two other people in his home, after all, who were able to hold somewhat normal conversations with the girl. He would not give in before trying both of them first.

Unfortunately for him, Marta was entirely unhelpful. She only told him to "be kind to the girl", as if he hadn't thought of that himself.

That meant, he was one person short of asking Geralt himself. Jaskier winced and contemplated for one moment to just go to the man himself directly. It would most certainly leave him a richer man than bribing his sister. 

On the other hand, he was still resolved to keep his interactions with Geralt to a minimum. 'Until he redeems himself,' he kept telling himself. How the witcher should accomplish that deed was a mystery even to him. 'He's a smart man,' he thought, 'he'll figure something out.'

That, however, led to Jaskier struggling up the stairwell in the North Wing laden with a heavy tray of all kinds of baked goods and promises to boot. 

"Sister dearest," Jaskier threw the doors open and placed his precious gifts on the table in front of her. He himself flopped down on the couch next to Józefa.

She spared him one calculating glance, then turned back to her needlework. "No."

"No?" He pouted. "You haven't even heard what I have to say!"

"I know that face. It means trouble."

He snorted. "We're adults, Józia, how much trouble can it be?"

She raised her eyebrows in answer and Jaskier got up and sighed. "Yeah, right," he amended. "I still need your help."

"Is it about the stupid bet?"

"I want to inform you that it is not stupid at all. But as a matter of fact, yes, it is about the bet."

"Then, no."

"Valdo Marx, Józefa, you can't do that to me!"

There was the tiniest sliver of a smile dancing around her lips. "You should have thought about that sooner." His cruel sister was enjoying this.

"I brought you your favourites," he tried again.

Józefa sighed and put the embroidery down in her lap. "And let me guess, Julek, you'll buy me not one but three new dresses for the spring and take me to Oxenfurt and Tretogor as well or any other significant city or court I'd like to see."

He winced. 'Am I that predictable?' Still, he was not ready to give up just yet: "I'll also buy three barrels of Toussaint red."

She scowled. "Two Toussaint red," she answered, "and one Beauclair white."

Jaskier's face lit up. "Deal!"

"Great Melitele," Józefa laughed heartily and shook her head, "you survived twenty years out there being that gullible?"

"I had a witcher to protect me."

"And now you try to get his trust back by spoiling his Child Surprise?"

Jaskier gaped, not really sure how to respond. "I- she-" He had thought of that eventuality of course, there was no way that he could have kept Cirilla's identity hidden for the entire winter. But he had expected another month at least, not- "She's not- how?"

Józefa laughed again and gently patted his cheek. "You're so cute when you're embarrassed. I suspected it from the start but my guess was confirmed, when 'Fiona' told me her little secret. Don't worry, though, Janina knows nothing about it. I think we have at least two or three weeks to craft some believable lie she will fall for."

He stupidly opened and closed his mouth like a fish, still not sure what to respond. His sister knew Cirilla's true identity. Which meant- "Do you also know why it has to be a secret?"

"No," she answered softly, "but I trust you on that one. I will not pry."

He nodded slowly, trying to process the revelation. "You still won't tell me how you did it?" he asked after a while. "Earn her trust?"

"No, I don't think so."

Jaskier sighed and got up. "For the record, it is the witcher who needs to get my trust back. Not the other way round.” No response. “Good night, then." There was nothing he could do about that. 

"It is very easy, actually," he stopped in his tracks when his sister's voice reached him. "You are just too blind to see it. Good night, Julek."