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fangirleaconmigo · 8 months

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Geralt x Jaskier Geraskier First kiss, friends to lovers

Geraskier Dancing

When Geralt of Rivia was a child, he begged Vesemir to teach him the kind of dances they performed at court. The answer was always no, but he kept trying.

After the trials, when Vesemir seemed so affected by his eyes, Geralt would widen them and look up at his tutor, pleading.

After all, Geralt thought, what if he rescued a fair maiden, and she demanded that he accompany her to a party? Perhaps she would drag him, giggling and flushed, onto the dance floor. He would be her noble savior, and she would be his grateful maiden.

He didn’t tell Vesemir his reasoning of course. He said that it might be important for royal courts, with kings in them. Wouldn’t it be best if he could fit in? Fencing was similar to dance, so surely Vesemir could handle teaching it.

Vesemir sighed and gave him the same speech he always gave.

"Geralt. You are not training to be a knight. Put that out of your mind. You are a professional. A working man.

Further, you are a mutant now. You will not be greeted with gratitude. You will be lucky to be greeted with the cash that you are promised."

Geralt felt stubborn. Furious. But he knew when to drop the subject.

Vesemir would pat his shoulder and offer him a sweet bread. His eyes always held regret.

Geralt understood him now. After years of hard lessons, he understood. When he thought back on his youth, he felt like a dolt.

The women he saved were traumatized. He was meeting them during the most terrified, violent moments of their lives. They screamed, bled, and threw up. And they all ran. With his bloody sword and ashen skin, he looked little different from the monsters he fought.

At least to them.

And yet?

He still learned how to dance, despite having given up the dream.

It started with Jaskier of course, like most misadventures and novel undertakings. The young bard had just shown up in his life one day and sort of just...never left.

His enthusiasm, energy, and optimism infected Geralt's life, as did the handsome twinkle in his eyes.

One night, after several glasses of wine they shared their most ridiculous childhood dreams. Jaskier admitted that he wanted to publicly rub his success in his family's face, to make their rejection sting less. So Geralt admitted that he'd always stupidly wanted to woo a grateful damsel on a dance floor.

He thought they were just talking nonsense, so he was startled when suddenly, Jaskier was on his feet, woozy and holding out a hand.

"C'mon. Lesgo." Jaskier jerked his curly, disheveled head towards an empty spot on the tavern large enough maybe for one large man.

Geralt refused at first. It was silly. Besides, They were both men. Who would lead?

But Jaskier simply grabbed his hand. When they touched, Geralt found that all of his resistance dissipated like a magic spell. He found himself standing and allowing himself to be dragged. And after they moved a few tables, he found himself touching the small of Jaskier's back and swaying with him.

Why didn't it feel odd? It should have felt odd.

It probably felt fine because they were alone.

They always danced alone.

They would be in a bar that was emptying out, the last drunkards stumbling home. Jaskier would be inviting, leaning against him, words slightly slurring.

Geralt selfishly loved him like that, not because Jaskier would lose his inhibitions, but because Geralt would. Plausible deniability.

"No one is here, Geralt. You won't ruin your fearsome rep--rep--pox on it. People won't see you." Jaskier waved dismissively as he dragged him.

The bard's lips grew pinker when he drank, and his cheeks flushed when they danced.

So Geralt let himself be led into the middle of empty bars, dance halls, and sometimes even just under the stars near a campfire.

"Y'need this for" *hiccup* "d'plomacy." Jaskier tugged him this way and that.

Despite the slurring, Jaskier always moved gracefully, like a swan. He'd sing to himself, lost in the music, touching Geralt with surety, guiding him. His body would be warm and little puffs of his wine soaked breath would drift towards Geralt. The witcher would inhale and try to control the surge of something primal in him awakening from a terribly long slumber.

Jaskier always led.

"I thought you were teaching me to dance with ladies," Geralt complained playfully one night. Jaskier was leading him in a lazy circle under some street lanterns on an abandoned street. Trash and litter was everywhere, left over from the spring festival. Their feet crunched on discarded candy wrappers as they moved.

"I am," Jaskier huffed indignantly, eyes hazy. "You must charm these noble ladies. It's not easy, you know. You must practice."

Geralt bit the side of his mouth trying not to smile. He didn't want to ruin the moment. He was so close to Jaskier, the closest he ever got to stand. "But I'm not learning to lead."

"Oh, s'fine. You'll just," Jaskier gestured, twirling his hand in a circle, "turn it all round." Then it was a rolling motion. "Flip it. Change it backwards. You know what I mean. They'll love it."

It was quiet for a moment, Geralt turned his head and crept closer, so he could secretly smile to himself.

"You already complain they simper around me," he murmured near his friend's ear. "You want to make it worse?"

Jaskier snorted loudly. "They're just trying to get to me, Geralt, you know that. Price of fame!!"

Then he spun Geralt, and all the while, Geralt grumbled, purposely moving stubbornly. "I don't twirl, Jaskier."

Jaskier was wobbly and dismissive. "Y'doing great."

Geralt really did learn during those nights. But they never spoke of it in the morning. Those nights were sacred and untouchable lest they shattered in the light of day.

But one day, they finally, truly paid off.

Geralt wanted to run and tell Vesemir. He'd been right. He had needed to learn the skill after all.

Because one spring day he rescued a beautiful young woman, and she was grateful. She was lovely, truly. Her auburn hair cascaded down her back, caressing her delicate waist.

She had been menaced by a werewolf and run screaming into Geralt's arms, invitation to a ball at the ready. It was just like in his youthful dreams.

The werewolf wasn't such a bad guy to be honest. His name was Gil. And he wasn't so much menacing her as he was trying to say hello and simultaneously coughing. But it was an unpleasant sound to be sure. It was a hacking cough.

Geralt had intervened, having been sent there on an errand by Jaskier. The witcher took Gil aside to speak to him. The werewolf was moving on, anyway. He'd just come to see a picnic of beautiful women that Jaskier had told him about, thinking he would say hello.

Geralt wanted to shake Jaskier. Gently of course. To tell his friend that yes, he had needed help with dancing, but certainly did not need help with finding ladies to rescue. They were lying about everywhere there were monsters. Jaskier wasn't around though, he was nervously flitting around at fittings and lute tunings, preparing anxiously for the dance.

It was silly of course.

And to be honest, the young woman hadn't needed much rescuing. Gil's nose was still sore where she had hit him with her bag.

But nonetheless, when she'd seen Geralt she'd sighed and pretended to be quite helpless.

Geralt carried her to safety on Roach, and she had invited him to a dance that night. They were in Lettenhove, and the dance would be packed with nobles. It was the perfect setup.

Geralt got ready with trembling fingers. He laced on his best armor and slicked down his hair. His stomach was weak just to think of it.

When Geralt arrived, the maiden was there in a stunning gown. She arrived breathlessly, ready for her dance. She batted her eyes and curtseyed.

Geralt bowed slightly, and led her onto the dance floor. After a few moments, her raptured attention began to cool. She was well educated and polite, but Geralt caught her regretful glances towards the handsome young nobles in the corner.

He didn't blame her. He was not a small man, and he was stepping on her toes.

The bloom was very quickly off the rose for the young maiden.

"I'm sorry. My mistake." Geralt muttered at every wrong turn.

If you had asked Geralt as a child, whether the disappointment of a maiden would sting, he would have imagined so.

But it didn't. This was not what he had come for. This was not why his stomach had done somersaults as he had laced on his armor. It was because this party was not just packed with nobles, but very particular nobles from a very specific family.

Geralt glanced up to find him.

Jaskier stood off to the side, close by, clutching a glass of wine, and staring daggers at his cousin across the room. His cousin was a handsome man, if you went in for that kind of thing, though not as handsome as Jaskier. But he was holding court with several ladies.

Geralt excused himself with the relieved young lady who tried to look as though she were not fleeing.

Geralt came up behind Jaskier, and touched his back.

Jaskier did not jump or startle. He must have known Geralt's touch and scent by now. He simply turned and smiled.

"You're here!" Jaskier looked behind him. "And Juliet?"

Geralt shrugged. "I never actually learned to lead."

Jaskier's face fell. "I'm sorry, I-" he looked mortified, "-I don't actually know how to teach dance. I only know how to dance. I was just-"

Geralt cut him off by pulling him into his arms with an 'oof'.

Jaskier startled, leaning eagerly into the embrace. But then he remembered himself and looked around cautiously.

"I don't care if they see," Geralt whispered. "I want them to. Let the miserable bastards gossip until their throats are sore."

The widest, brightest grin he had ever seen blossomed on his handsome bard's face. "Well then." Jaskier straightened his shoulders and cleared a catch in his throat. Let me do this properly."

The bard gently detangled himself from Geralt's arms. Then he bowed at the waist and held out a hand. "Geralt of Rivia? May I have this dance?"

Geralt nodded and straightened his jacket. "You may, Viscount Julian of Lettenhove."

Jaskier held his hand with both of his, but he shook his head and whispered. "No. Viscount Julian is theirs. I am Jaskier. I am yours."

Geralt's heart melted. He did not know how to cope with that, so he just nodded.

The music fell silent, and a new song began.

The witcher and the bard were the first couple out on the floor. It may have started as a way to help Jaskier rub his success in his family's eyes. But almost instantly they forgot all about that. They lost themselves in the movement, the laughter, they only saw each other.

But Jaskier's family saw. His mother. His father. His envious cousins. They all saw that he was loved. That he was talented, famous, and loved.

Geralt didn't think a whole lot about Vesemir that night.

He simply danced. And when the last note on the last song died out, he touched Jaskier's chin. His love's eyes lit up with hope. Geralt didn't want to draw out the suspense, so he pulled him in for a kiss. It was tender and they were sweaty, their hearts beating in their chests.

It felt right. And not because they were alone. It was because they loved each other.

When Geralt visited Vesemir during the winter, he brought up his childhood dream. He would tell the old witcher that he understood now.

Love wasn't something you earned through daring acts. It wasn't something you extracted from terrified women as the price for their safety.

Love was a bard who tried his damndest to fulfill your dreams at the expense of his own.

Love was taking him in your arms and fulfilling his.

Well, Geralt tried to say all that. Perhaps it didn't come out the way he meant. Perhaps he stumbled over his words and grunted some.

But when he pulled Jaskier into the room to introduce him to Vesemir, the old witcher understood.

#the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #descarada writes geraskier #i hope you enjoy it my geraskier friends

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headcanonthings · 7 months

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Maybe it’s just in the fics I’m reading but I really feel like we don’t take enough advantage of Jaskier being a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. It’s a line that gets thrown out now and then usually just attached when Jaskier is introducing himself and really trying to impress someone. I just want something that explores that part of him a bit more

I also think that it would combine really well with one of those fics that has Jaskier meeting other witchers without Geralt.

Like maybe he writes popular short stories which Eskel adores and runs into him a couple times in the bigger cities doing book signings

Vesemir has a special interest in Astronomy and has a subscription to the Witcher equivalent of a scientific journal where he reads an interesting article by Jaskier and decides to write him with some follow up questions not really expecting a response but gets one and this quickly turns into a years long correspondence

I haven’t fully thought this through so not sure which of the arts he’d be using to meet up with Lambert, Aiden or even Coen (or other witchers depending on how many you want to meet up with him) but do you get what I’m saying?

I also think it would be funny if he’s using a different pseudonym when he meets each witcher so when they all get together and talk about their new friend they don’t realize they’re all talking about the same guy

#if this fic exists please send it to me #witcher #Jaskier #fanfic #fanfic prompt?#geralt of rivia #eskel #vesemir

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echo-bleu · 2 years

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While I’m staying away from all the speculation, all those posts and memes about Jaskier either being the only one who can see Geralt is different or the only one who can’t and keeps insisting that yes of course, that’s Geralt, are giving me ideas.

Namely: faceblind Jaskier. Bear with me. He can’t recognize any face, including his own in the mirror (when he finds a mirror, it’s not that often). That’s why he flirts with everyone, flirting is just his default mode in case it’s someone he’s met before, because at its core it’s kind of roleplaying. While people may not respond to it well, they mostly don’t bat an eye at cheesy joke-y pickup lines where Jaskier ‘pretends’ to meet them for the first time (”Do you come here often?”). Meanwhile it buys Jaskier time to figure out if he has in fact met them before.

(Demi or ace Jaskier? Who flirts for the reasons above and mostly has sex with people because he figures it’s expected of him?)

It’s also the reason he makes so many enemies. Sure, there are actual cuckooed husbands who hate him, but really it’s mostly former lovers who are horribly offended when Jaskier ‘snubs’ them at a reception because he just didn’t recognize them. Or former lovers horribly offended that he tried to flirt with them again pretending not to know them after they threw him out. There are also plenty of people who were never his lovers at all but are just offended because nobles are Like That.

(There have been some really embarrassing situations. Like the time he tried to flirt with Valdo Marx, his eternal rival, who still laughs about it every time they see each other.)

He latches onto Geralt because Geralt is recognizable. There just aren’t two white-haired wolf-eyed muscular men around. Jaskier never has to worry about seeing him and being unsure if it’s actually his friend and not some random stranger with the same haircut. Geralt also never changes his haircut or his appearance in any way, which is refreshing.

Yennefer is mostly the same, with her violet eyes, although Jaskier does have to get close enough to be sure. They have a few weird encounters where Jaskier starts to flirt with her, gets within a few feet, and immediately backtracks the hell out with a disgusted face. That’s how she figures it out, but it takes her a while. After that she takes great pleasure in teasing him about it, but only in ways that no one else will clock (hence the crows’ feet comment. Jaskier doesn’t even know himself in the mirror. He can’t tell if she’s right. He does obsess over it the whole way up the mountain, but he has other things to think about on the descent).

The witchers of Kaer Morhen, when Jaskier meets them, are so refreshing. They’re all different! Eskel is unmistakeable with his scars, and while they’re within the confines of Kaer Morhen it’s very easy to distinguish Lambert’s red hair from Coen’s shaved head and darker skin from Vesemir’s white beard. Ciri is of course the only kid, so that’s not a problem. For the first time in his life, Jaskier doesn’t feel like he’s playing catch up to a game whose rules he doesn’t know. It’s relaxing.

The witchers, on the other hand, are quite surprised about Jaskier. They’ve been told (many times, over the years) that Jaskier flirts with everyone under the sun. Now Geralt isn’t always the most reliable source, of course, and Eskel never expects anyone to be attracted to him because of his scars (which is a subject for another day), but Jaskier doesn’t even try to flirt, even just friendlily, with either Lambert or Coen. He’s not afraid of them, they would be able to smell that, he seems perfectly comfortable with them, but he doesn’t flirt. At first, they figure that it’s because his newly mended relationship with Geralt is still fragile.

One night they’re all a bit drunk and the witchers are talking about how Jaskier’s songs have helped them on the Path, how many humans are much nicer to them, and in general how hard interacting with humans is. And Jaskier is just nodding along, “Yeah, yeah, interacting with humans is so hard.”

“But you’re always going out of your way to talk to people and flirt!”

“Well yes, I like making friends, but they have so many expectations, and they get angry so easily.”

“That’s only when you flirt with the wrong people,” Geralt growls.

“But how am I supposed to know it’s the wrong people when I can’t recognize them?”

“What do you mean?” Eskel asks.

“Faces are hard! I don’t know how people do it, I mean, obviously your scars are distinctive, and I’d recognize Geralt’s hair anywhere, but most humans all look the same!”

Geralt blinks very slowly as it all slots into place in his head. Jaskier’s very strange flirting methods. The way he keeps making enemies without meaning to. Hell, he’s seen Jaskier say hello again to someone they’d seen just minutes before, or completely ignore one of his bard friends at a festival until she came right up to him. “You don’t recognize people?”

Jaskier, who didn’t survive forty-three(ish) years without figuring out that this wasn’t normal, freezes and suddenly looks like a deer in the headlights. “Uh... no?”

“So if, say, Vesemir was to shave his beard, you might confuse him with Geralt?” Lambert asks.

“I’d... probably be able to tell from up close? Geralt’s taller.”

“Wow.” Lambert seems ready to tease him about it, but Eskel stops him.

“How did you never notice?” he asks Geralt.

Geralt just grunts. Jaskier answers for him. “I’m very good at making people feel like we’ve always known each other, I guess. Mostly I just buy time until I can figure out if I’ve met them before.”

The witchers have a million questions, but they never make Jaskier feel like he’s deficient somehow. Jaskier has always been ashamed of it, but to them, it’s just another quirk, like not being able to eat raw meat.

The next time they’re on the road, or at a festival together, Geralt is brooding just as much as usual, eyes darting this way and that, but before Jaskier can go and greet people (with his usual fake-it-till-you-make-it technique), Geralt stops him.

“Your friend Essi’s wearing a yellow dress with red accents,” he mutters under his breath. “Marx has a green doublet, that shade you hate. Avoid the man in the bright purple doublet and the brown pants, you slept with him last time and he threw you out. That woman at the right of the stage with the braid, she has a husband, you tried before.”

Jaskier gets so emotional that he can’t speak for a solid minute, and he ends up hugging Geralt instead. “Didn’t know you paid attention,” he says eventually.

“Just look at me if you’re not sure who someone is, I’ll tell you who to avoid,” Geralt says gruffly.

It’s not a perfect system, but Jaskier doesn’t offend a single person all day.

#the witcher #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #the witcher fanfiction #faceblindness #i'd like to have a spotter too please #i used to work at a library and when people came in after lunch #i had no idea if they'd been in that morning #i'd say hello and they'd be like uh i was here earlier #echo's fanfiction

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thefandomlifechoseme · 10 months

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consider:

professor!Jaskier, who teaches in the winter, and travels with Geralt in the summer.

it's winter, jaskier's got to oxenfurt in good time, his students are polite and attentive, and they've been going missing. not many, and not often, but alice didn't turn up to that guest lecture she'd insisted she'd be going to, peter hasn't turned up in a week, and catherine never came to that meeting the other day.

his colleagues think it's some monster. he has to talk them out of hiring a witcher, citing the fact that they don't know what it is, witchers don't take contracts on people, and, oh yeah, it's winter. the only witchers currently available for hire are the Cats, and it's incredibly unlikely that their caravans will stop by oxenfurt.

now, jaskier's been travelling with his beloved emotionally-constipated witcher for a fair few decades now. it might be a monster, some necrophage, or a werewolf. but it probably isn't. there's a reason witchers don't work in winter, and it's that monsters hibernate. and besides, the dates that the students went missing don't line up with any particular cycle, lunar or otherwise.

they do however, line up with the dates for a fae festival. now, jaskier isn't saying that the fae did this, but the fae did this.

so, he checks the next relevant date, sends a letter to yennefer, triss and one for when geralt hits the path again, as a precaution, because he's not an idiot, no matter how he likes to play the part.

he brings an iron dagger, enough food and water for 2 weeks, his best lute, his composition notebook, his path notebook, and, begrudgingly, some of valdo's less terrible works and a few of essi's latest ballads, because they have different styles of performing, and he waits outside that mushroom circle he found a few years back.

he hopes that they're only after some music to live their festival up.

(they are, thankfully, and, aside from all the word games, mind games, and actual games, it's fairly easy to get their leader to sign a contract with him stating that they will play at this festival and his festival alone, they may, willingly play at other festivals if they choose, that they're all free to leave after the allotted dates for the festival are up, and that this contract will be good for 1,000 years irrespective of any changes in leadership, with him personally, and that any changes to the contract must be verbally, and explicitly signed by all the people involved in the signing of the contract.

it's actually fairly entertaining.)

(yen and triss have a go at him later, of course, and geralt has him go over all the loopholes in his own contracts for their next five years on the path, supposedly to help him get the most money he can, but they both know it's so he doesn't accidentally leave a loophole in any other contracts he might make with the fae. but it's out love and relief, more than anything.)

#witcher fic #fanfiction #headcanons #headcanon #the witcher jaskier #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #witcher yennefer #triss merigold #witcher triss #jaskier #witcher dandelion

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yeraskier · 2 years

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five times everyone questions jaskier's sanity, and the time jaskier realizes he was (sort of) right all along. [inspired by yesterday's events... you know the one]

also on ao3

Geralt looks… different. Very different. Like his entire fucking face has changed different.

He looked just like himself at supper last night, but now it’s morning, and suddenly, he looks nothing like himself. It doesn’t even make any sense. Jaskier briefly considers that maybe he had a bit too much ale the night before, but he’s drunk more than he did last night and this has never been the result.

Geralt definitely looks different. Very different. Like a whole new face different. He looks a bit taller, too, which is completely unfair.

Jaskier eyes him suspiciously, and he’s probably completely losing it, but even the man’s Adam’s apple looks different when he swallows. Gods.

He doesn’t realize he’s reached out until the tip of his index finger makes contact with Geralt’s cheek. The witcher freezes, spoon stopping midway to his mouth before he slowly turns his head.

Jaskier pokes his cheek again, and then his jaw, and then his nose.

“What happened to your face?” He asks, sliding in closer to inspect. He pokes one of Geralt’s cheekbones, twice. Three times, for good measure.

“Do that again,” Geralt growls in a way that tells the bard he most definitely should not do that again.

Jaskier drops his hand.

—

“Has anyone else noticed that something's wrong with Geralt's face?”

Ciri lifts her head from the book she’s been scribbling in as Yennefer eyes him skeptically through the mirror she’s facing.

“What are you on about now, Jaskier?”

“Geralt. His face. It’s different,” he says, stepping further into the room. “And so is his physique.”

Yennefer arches a perfectly done brow at him.

“Not that I’ve been paying, or have ever paid any attention to his physique or anything,” he amends quickly, “because I don’t…”

Ciri’s snicker covers up a muttered, “right,” which Jaskier pretends to not notice.

Yennefer sighs as she turns to face him, “Geralt is fine. He looks the same as he did yesterday, and the day before, and last week, and the week before. He looks the same as he’s looked for decades. It comes with being a witcher.”

“But—”

“Geralt is fine,” she says with a level of finality that lets Jaskier know he is not winning this argument, “and you’re an imbecile.”

—

Jaskier’s not going crazy, okay? No matter what anyone says (fuck you very much, Lambert!) he is not going crazy.

The man still walks like Geralt, and talks like Geralt, and acts like Geralt, and knows things that only Geralt would know (like the fact that Jaskier has also needed chamomile rubbed on his bum… more than once), so it must be Geralt, except for the fact that looks nothing like Geralt.

“Do you really not see a difference?”

Ciri groans from beside him, clearly irritated at her reading being disturbed. Oh well, she’ll have plenty of other chances to read during their little hiatus. “No, Jaskier, I do not see a difference.”

The bard sighs as he watches Geralt, or whoever the fuck that is, from across the library. It’s all he’s been able to do for the last three days, which, well… isn’t new since watching Geralt has become one of his favorite past times over the last decade or so, but that’s how Jaskier knows he isn’t going crazy. Something is different.

Jaskier has spent hours on hours taking in the man’s defined jaw, and his expressive brows, and his pouty lips. He’s spent so much time trying to depict the specific shade of yellow in Geralt’s eyes, and the curl pattern of his hair, and how long it takes his stubble to grow back after it’s been shaved. He’s spent far too long picking up on every little detail to be told that nothing about the man has changed, because so much has changed.

“How could you not see the difference? Everything about him is different! I mean look at the shape of his face!” Jaskier exclaims, waving his hand wildly in Geralt’s general direction. “And look at his nose! Gods, look at that nose!”

Ciri blinks at him once. Then, again. She doesn’t blink for three beats and then, she blinks again.

“Look!”

She does look this time, and she even squints. Jaskier waits, watching her, mentally begging for that realization to dawn over her.

Her lips do a thing where they press together and push upward, almost like a frown. “I think you’re right,” she tells him.

Jaskier’s eyes widen, posture straightening in alert.

“His skin looks much more vibrant, I think that new soap Yen got him is working.”

His eyes narrow into slits, and Ciri turns to him with a cheeky grin.

“Very nice, Ciri,” he drawls, “very nice.”

Jaskier huffs as he slumps back in his seat, turning his attention back to Geralt.

She’s right, though, his skin does look more vibrant.

—

“Triss, you’ve got to believe me,” Jaskier whines.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Jaskier,” she says, “but I just saw Geralt, and he looked fine, same as he’s looked the last ten times I’ve seen him since I got here.” She continues her journey down the hall, and Jaskier is truly surprised by how fast the woman walks.

“But he isn’t! He isn’t himself, Triss, I swear, and I’m the only one who realizes!”

Triss comes to such an abrupt stop that Jaskier almost crashes into her. When she turns around, her head rolls, along with her eyes. She looks as exasperated as Jaskier feels.

“Suppose Geralt’s face somehow did change, how would that have happened, Jaskier? Explain that to me.”

“Well, I don’t know how exactly, but it must have been the work of a mage. Or maybe one of his potions!”

Triss levels him with a flat look. “A potion? Really? Right, because witchers are running around making potions that can help them shapeshift.”

And when it’s put like that, Jaskier realizes how insane he sounds. “That doesn’t rule out the possibility of a mage!”

“You guys have been in Kaer Morhen for weeks now. Just you, Ciri, Yen, a bunch of witchers, and now, me. And last I checked, Yennefer warded this place so well Melitele herself could strike this area right now and everyone here would remain untouched.” She’s talking with her hands, something she does when she’s at her wit's end, something she does when she’s refraining from turning the person she’s talking to into a toad. “That, alongside the protections that were already set up, means that the possibility that any mage could waltz in here uninvited, or even come close enough to this place, to cast some face-changing curse on Geralt is absolutely zero.”

“Yes, but—”

“You need rest, Jaskier. You’re starting to sound diabolical.”

With that, she turns on her heels and leaves him in the hallway.

—

“So… you and Geralt have known each other for quite some time now, huh?”

Vesemir looks unimpressed.

It’s an expression he’s becoming quite familiar with.

Jaskier flashes his most charming smile, “have you by any chance noticed any changes in his appearance?”

Dead silence. Great.

“Anything at all?” He presses on hopefully.

The witcher’s expression goes from unimpressed to murderous.

Jaskier has never bolted from a room so fast in his entire life.

—

Jaskier knows this isn’t really the smartest plan he’s ever had, it’s probably in the top five of the dumbest, actually.

He doesn’t know what he has to gain from watching Geralt sleep, but it’s better than just sitting back and waiting for answers to come to him. And alright, he’ll be the first to admit that it’s kind of (really!) fucking creepy, but Jaskier has to get to the bottom of this. So, watching Geralt sleep has to hold some kind of answer.

Many years of sleeping alongside the witcher have taught him how to maneuver without waking the man up, he’s grateful for that now in a way that he’s never been before.

Despite what many may believe, Geralt’s quite the peaceful sleeper. He barely moves, he breathes softly, his face remains soft and pliant— he sleeps like… well, an angel. Even with this brand-new face, all of these little things still exist.

There’s always a certain level of alertness, though, something Jaskier realized early on, but that seems to be nearly nonexistent tonight. It must be Kaer Morhen. Geralt’s at peace here. It’s probably one of the few places, if not the only place, where he truly feels safe. The thought makes Jaskier’s heart melt.

For the second time this week, he finds himself reaching out almost involuntarily. The back of his fingers run along the side of Geralt’s face, and the witcher releases a hardly audible sigh. Jaskier smiles, allowing his fingers to wander a bit, lightly tracing the lines of Geralt’s face, both sharp and smooth.

Geralt’s nose twitches, and Jaskier taps a finger to it. Definitely number one on the list of the dumbest things he’s ever done.

The witcher startles awake, sitting up so fast he nearly headbutts Jaskier. He probably would’ve had the man not fallen off the bed, and flat onto his ass onto the cold, hard ground.

“Ow,” Jaskier groans.

“Jaskier?” And oh, fuck, that sleep-worn voice always did things to him, and right now is not the best time for any of those things to be happening.

Geralt’s eyes zero in on him, and Jaskier offers a weak smile and a wave.

“What the fuck are you doing, Jaskier?”

“Trying to figure out what happened to your face,” he responds, and it comes off as more of a question than an answer

Even in the dark, Jaskier can feel Geralt glaring at him. Then, the witcher lights up the candles beside his bed, and Jaskier can see Geralt glaring at him.

“This again?”

“Yes, this again.” Jaskier hisses defensively, dusting his buttocks off as he rises to his feet. “There is something incredibly wrong with your face, and no one else sees it, but I do.”

“Jaskier—”

“No! I’m being serious right now, Geralt. Your face has changed, alright? It’s completely changed, and I don’t know why I’m the only one who has realized but—”

“Wait—”

“I’m starting to feel kind of crazy over here, and I—”

“I think I know what’s going on. Yen—”

“...don’t understand how everyone else can just—”

“Jaskier, you’re not listening.” Geralt’s standing, now, and he’s all up in Jaskier’s space the same way Jaskier was in his mere minutes ago. And he’s shirtless, which is very, very distracting.

But not distracting enough, Jaskier is on a mission here, Godsdamnit.

“No, you’re not listening. Your fucking face—”

“My face is fine. Yennefer—”

“Your face is not fine, Geralt. I mean, it’s not like you look like a gremlin or anything, but—”

“Yen, she—”

“You’re still beautiful—”

“Yennefer is fucking with you, Jaskier.”

“I don’t think any curse could ever make you less beautiful—” Wait.

“Wait.” That was Geralt’s voice, as if he’d read Jaskier’s mind.

“Yennefer’s fucking with me?!” Jaskier exclaims at the same time Geralt says, almost breathlessly, “you think I’m beautiful?”

“Huh?” The bard answers dumbly, “what? Yes, of course, I think you’re beautiful. Woo-hoo, this isn’t news to anyone. Now, what do you mean Yennefer’s fucking with me?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything. He just stares. He stares for so long that Jaskier starts thinking that maybe Geralt’s the one fucking with him.

“Hello?” Jaskier snaps a few times. “Continent to Geralt?”

The witcher seems to blink out of it and huffs a laugh.

“Remember last week when you replaced the soap Yennefer uses for her hair with an ink of sorts?”

Yes, Jaskier does remember. Vividly. It’s one of the best pranks he’s pulled on the sorceress since they started their little game. “And it turned her hair red.”

Geralt hums in confirmation, “well, you know Yennefer. She said she’d do something about it. I didn’t know what, but… seems like it was this. She casted a beholder spell on you.”

“A what?”

“It’s a spell that makes whoever it’s put upon see whatever the caster wants them to see. In this case, it was… my face.”

Jaskier gasps. “That witch.” She’s a genius. Evil, but a fucking genius. “Do you know how long until it wears off?”

“How long did it take Yen to get her hair back to black?”

“Five, maybe six days.”

“That’s probably your answer.”

Jaskier groans. Knowing Yennefer, it’s probably double that. “Gods.”

Geralt hums, thoughtfully. And then, “so…”

Jaskier doesn’t know where this is headed, but he doesn’t like it.

“About you thinking I’m beautiful…”

He gulps. Right. “I said that, did I?”

The witcher takes a step forward, and it was a big step, and there wasn’t that much space in between them, to begin with, so that single step has them toe-to-toe. “You did.”

“Well, everyone thinks you’re beautiful,” Jaskier grins, nudging him as he tries to play it off.

Geralt tips his head to the side with a slight furrow in his brows, “not everyone.”

“Everyone who isn’t an idiot, I mean,” says the bard, “or a jealous prick, or a prejudiced waste of space. You’re beautiful, it’s hard to look at you and not see that. Most people see that, it’s not just me, ask anyone in this keep. I may not have had anyone on my side about your face looking different, but they all agree about your face being beautiful trust m—”

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“You’re doing that thing you do when you get nervous.” Geralt smirks when he says it, the prick.

“What thing?”

“The rambling thing.”

“I’m always rambling,” Jaskier tells him, “and I know this because you’re always telling me to shut up.”

“No, you’re always talking,” Geralt corrects, “and when you talk, it’s controlled. Whereas when you ramble, it’s hardly coherent because you’re going a mile a minute. You only do that when you’re nervous.”

Fuck.

Geralt leans in closer, lips stretching even further, “am I making you nervous, Jaskier?”

Fuck.

“I—”

Gods, they’re so close. They’re so close, and they’re only getting closer because Geralt is still leaning in like he’s going to—

“Stop.”

They’re not close anymore. Geralt is suddenly several feet away from him. He no longer looks smug, he looks confused, and… small.

“I know where that was headed,” Jaskier begins, licking at his lips and realizing how dry they’d gotten from Geralt trying (and succeeding!) to seduce him, “and trust me when I say I am on board, like all the way on board.”

Geralt cocks a brow, as if to say, then why aren’t we already naked?

“But, I want my first kiss with you to be with you.” At the witcher looking confused again, he continues, “I know it’s you, but I want you to look like yourself.”

The witcher sighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever been irritated by Yennefer more than I am at this moment.”

“I feel your irritation, believe me,” says Jaskier, “and I promise once this wears off I’m all yours, but in the meantime… we can still sleep together in a completely clothes-on kind of way.”

Geralt smiles.

And that’s how the two end up spending the rest of the night cuddling while plotting how Jaskier’s going to get Yennefer back.

—

The spell wears off a day later, and by the time Jaskier emerges from Geralt’s room the following day, he forgets what he was getting Yennefer back for in the first place.

He ends up baking her a chocolate cake as a thank you, with the words THANK YOU, THE SEX WAS GREAT on it.

The look of mortification when she sees it is priceless. Unintended, but priceless.

As it turns out, the best revenge is a bit of kindness.

#naturally.... a fic is the only answer to this #im still in mourning okay #the ending couldve went many ways but this is what my tired brain came up with at 1 in the morning and i still liked it while editing it so #there you have it #yennefer because of course it was yennefer #and because i refuse to make a liam hemsworth geralt EVER #even after s4 has aired it will always be henry #sorry lili #i wish i knew how to make my humor/fluffy fics artful but i unfortunately only know how to do that with angst #im sorry #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #my writing #geraskier #yennefer of vengerberg #princess cirilla

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help-help-i-need-an-adult · 2 years

Text

“Geralt, darling…”

“Hmmm”

“I noticed your communication skills have greatly improved over the last few months. You use your words instead of just grunting far more these days. I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you, Jaskier.”

“As such, I was thinking that perhaps it is time for another lesson in verbal communication.”

“Is that so.”

“Yes! It is so! Now, I realize this is a lesson usually given to performers, such as myself, but I think it is one you could greatly benefit from.”

Geralt sighs. Knowing that Jaskier will simply continue to pester him if he doesn’t agree, Geralt says, “If you think I would benefit from the lesson, I’ll to do my best to learn.”

Before, he would have told the bard to fuck off, but ever since the mountain, Geralt had been trying to put in an effort to do better. Doing better meant communicating better. The need for that had only increased when, a year ago, Geralt had finally gotten up the courage to kiss Jaskier and their relationship had been forever changed. In a good way. The kind of good way Geralt didn’t want to lose ever again.

“Excellent! In that case I see no reason not to start that lesson now.”

Geralt did. They were walking the path and Geralt was walking beside Jaskier; guiding Roach by her reigns. Ciri was away, somewhere safe with Yennifer and learning to control her magic, but that didn’t mean there weren’t still threats. He had to remain vigilant in case of an attack or a monster, and trying to focus on what Jaskier was saying would be distracting.

But, on the other hand, they were on a section of road surrounded by fields. For miles, there would be very few places for bandits or any monster too deadly to hide. Geralt would almost certainly see them long before they became a threat. So, he agreed.

“Alright. I’m listening.”

“Ok. So there are 5 organs of communication.” Geralt watched from the corner of his eye as Jaskier counted them off on his fingers.

The head

The heart

The gut

The groin

The arms

“You’re very good with the 1st and the 5th organs. The head refers to things you state. They are a matter of fact. No ifs ands or buts about them. You’ve proven to excel at this in the past several months. And the arms refer to non-verbal communication that is instead conveyed through action. Again. You excel at this.”

To prove his point, and to be an ass, Geralt raises an eyebrow at him and smirks while spreading the arm that is currently not busy guiding Roach.

Jaskier laughs and gently smacks the arm now extended towards him. “Yes. Exactly. However, you are lacking in the other three departments.”

Lowering his arm, Geralt asks, “so how do I go about fixing that? I’m not even sure I completely understand how the first 4 work. I’m communicating with my mouth and voice. Is that what you mean by head? And if that’s the case, I would have thought I was doing just fine with groin.”

Jaskier swats his arm again.

“Yes and no. In that regard, what you’re doing with your groin falls under arms.”

“Hmm.”

“Let me give you examples.”

Jaskier seems to take a moment to think.

“If I was going to tell you ‘I want you to come here’ there are 5 different ways I could go about that.”

“The 5th being arms. I could simply make eye contact with you. Point at you and then the ground. You would understand what that meant, yes?”

“Yes, Geralt exactly. The 1st one being head where I simply say to you ‘I want you to come here.’ And you would understand it to be a simple request.”

“Hmm.”

“But, if I were to make the same statement using my heart,” Jaskier’s eyes got bigger and his posture less ridged. When he continued, his voice was soft and breathy like when they’re lying together at night and just talking, “I want you to come here.”

Oh. Geralt had always been aware of how Jaskier would talk when it was just the two of them. How it would feel different, like now.

He’s tried to do that before, but it had never quite had the same effect. Like it was just… incorrect “I’ve tried that”, he tells Jaskier, “but it just doesn’t work right.”

“You mean when you look at me very intensely and get quieter?”

“Yes.”

“Well… that is part of it. But this isn’t about volume, or what your eyes are doing. It’s about what feeling you’re letting yourself have as you say it.”

Hmmm. That made sense. Even now, when letting his thoughts be known, Geralt struggled with the emotions part.

“So what’s gut?”

“But you haven’t tried heart yet!”

Geralt leveled a look at Jaskier that made it clear he needed to move on for now.

“Oh, all right. The 3rd is statements made in reaction. There isn’t much thought to them, like a gut reaction or when you have to make a decision in the moment.” Jaskier’s voice got louder and more rushed, “I want you to come here!”

Geralt moved closer to Jaskier on instinct. The almost fear in his voice had him going before he could remember this was an example.

“Ah. I think I understand this one. It’s fear.”

“Well,” Jaskier drawled, “it can be. It can also be excitement, or anger, or any other number of emotions. Much like heart can be hurt or longing and not just love. It’s just reactionary. Truth to the heads fact.”

This was getting confusing. How could it be fear but also other things? Geralt decided he’d need time to think about this and it was probably better to keep going. “So what is groin?”

“Ah,” Jaskier’s demeanor changed once again. It was one Geralt was very familiar with, he’d watched Jaskier adapt it with men and women all over the continent for decades. He’s been on the receiving end of it as of late and had grown fond of the change in Jaskier’s stance, the sway of his hips, the light in his eyes. He’d even seen Jaskier adopt it with a particularly good meal when they’d been getting by on what Geralt could hunt for too long.

When Jaskier spoke, it was low and gravely, and sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine. “I want you to come here.”

“Desire. And not just lust.”

Jaskier’s stance and voice changed once again, the change almost jarring, “Yes! Exactly. The wanting something so badly you can feel it.”

“Hmm. That one makes more sense.”

“Yes, you aren’t terrible at groin, but you tend to only use it when you’re horny and I insist you use your words. You could be using it for so many other things. And don’t give me the you want nothing speech again. I know that’s bullshit.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good!”

“I’m going to need some time to think on all of this, but in the meantime,” Geralt wrapped his free arm around Jaskier’s waist and gently pulled him into his side. Then, putting as much groin into his voice as he could, “telling me you want me got me hard. There’s no one around for miles.”

Geralt enjoyed watching a blush creep up Jaskier’s neck and hearing his heart speed up.

“Not going to say ‘no’ to that, dear witcher.”

Thanks @0dde11eth for telling me to write this

#the witcher #jaskier #geraskier #geralt of rivia #geralt #the witcher netflix #geralt x jaskier #witcher #dandelion #julian alfred pankratz #jaskier the bard #geraskier fic #short fic #just performer stuff #literally got a version of this lecture in chorus rehearsal this past week #it fucking works #and I knew it needed to be done with these two #thanks Cy

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cherryjuicegf · 2 years

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"You've been crying."

Jaskier laughs as Geralt sits beside him on the pebbles and raises his eyebrows, not looking at him still. "Now you can tell the salt of tears from that of the sea too?"

A light hum. "Always could."

A red ray escapes the setting sun and hits the waves, making the tears in his eyes melt as they mirror it. He sniffles and wipes at the trails his previous crying had pathed on his cheeks, and puts on a brave smile. Not really a smile. A curve of lips, at least, because Geralt is here now, the warmth of his body resembling a lit hearth, and it's a kind of comfort. Always has been.

Except. Geralt is staring at him.

Geralt is waiting.

And it's nothing, it really is. Jaskier likes to convince himself it is trivial, because how else could he mend a broken heart, if not with lies. The truth just seems too far out of reach.

But maybe now he is tired. And maybe in another time he wouldn't talk about it, he would only smile wider but now Geralt's stare is so gentle, and his eyes so safe like the sun on a spring's day.

"I feel like I've been missing, you know," he says at last and looks at him straight, soft, because Geralt really does know. "On love. And it's been too long."

What Geralt doesn't know, perhaps, is the way his heart clenches inside his chest and curls on itself like a child punished in the corner. So he frowns. "You? Jaskier, you can have anyone you want. I've seen you." Then, a smile, almost fond. "You fall in love with everyone."

Everyone, everyone. Anyone. Anyone there is. Anyone who looks like maybe, maybe, they will stay, or he is just too careless at this point that he tries anyway. A heart that never has too much. He knows they won't stay. And he knows the one who will stays for a different reason. So, so close.

He smiles, bittersweet, and lowers his look. "Yes, indeed. Everyone." Everyone, she sent a letter today. Never to meet again, never to be seen. Jaskier shakes his head. "And me? Who of all them has fallen in love with me, Geralt?" As if to answer his question, a seabird cries along. The sea, too, a cruel mistress. His voice quivers. "I feel like a desperate dog chasing love, while running from it all the same."

With the corner of his eye he sees Geralt parting his lips and a fake hope blooms in his chest, fading at once when he holds back, and stays silent. And he can only bask in the imagined possibility of what he intended to say.

The tears are done with him now. Only numbness remains.

Eventually, Geralt speaks. "If it is any helpful, no one has ever been in love with me either." The lightness in his voice sounds exactly like the pained strings mending Jaskier’s heart.

But oh, what a foolish man. Jaskier can't help but smile and turn at him, and for a bit he remembers that lonely as it is, he can't stop loving. "Well, that's just not true. I'm in love with you."

As though he doesn't know, as though it's not as simple as it was uttered, Geralt flinches. Jaskier chuckles and averts his gaze again, a little happier than before. Love, it is simple. It's what he does.

Just not something that happens to him.

"Well, then," he hears after some moments, "that makes us even."

He laughs before he thinks. "It does?" And then.

His head spins at once, eyes wide as they meet Geralt's, almost afraid. No, not afraid. Unbelieving. It's been so long, you see. But Geralt only rolls his eyes, oh so fondly, and before Jaskier manages to splutter any words sweet lips are on his, and a hand holding his nape. And it's not like other times. Not like everyone else. It's certain and terrifying and deep like a promise, like two stray roots finding each other through the earth and keeping their living hearts bound forever. Like what he has been craving for so long he forgot he may one day have it. Like Geralt.

And then, as though to seal it, this promise, Geralt pulls back and looks at him like he always does and Jaskier wonders, wonders how this that he never caught stands right here, catching itself. Geralt smiles, voice soft as a feather. "I'm in love with you, Jaskier." And that's it. Simple as that.

His eyes are burning again and Jaskier can only nod, and smile back. And it's almost funny, almost tender how love happens to be so close, so close he can taste its kiss without even trying, just for once.

Just for once, how love happens to him.

#pots and pans i think love is something that happens to other people by michael gray sobbing weeping #the witcher #geraskier #jaskier #geralt of rivia #geralt x jaskier #chrysa writes #i'm as surprised as you are friends #fic recs #fluff #anyway how about this. loving the unloved

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redskull199987 · 1 year

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Of Thoughts and Actions

Jaskier x fem!reader word count:0.9k Warnings:spoilers for season 3, apart from that just fluff Summary: You didn't see your friend Jaskier for a long time, since he split up from your group after the events at Kaer Morhen. So, when Geralt suggested that you ask the bard for help, you were more than happy to see your singing friend again… Masterlist

You watched the scene in front of you unfold with a smile on your face. Jaskier´s sweet voice was slowly lulling Ciri to sleep, after you had spent the evening playing cards against each other. Jaskier, of course, had lost all of his money to the young girl. Finally seeing her smiling again, having fun again, after all she's been through lately, made you feel like it was still worth fighting for. For Ciri, and her future. “What are you thinking about?”

Your head shot up, as Jaskier suddenly stood in front of you, his slender frame towering above you. “Just thinking about our journey so far”, You mumbled, as you slowly stood up, starting to gather the plates at cups from the small table you had been playing cards at, until a few minutes ago. “Anything in particular?”, Jaskier smiled, as he helped you clean up, picking up a plate. “Oh, maybe the one time, Geralt and I saved your ass?”, you chuckled, playfully hitting his arm. Jaskier mockingly opened his mouth, acting like he was utterly shocked by your words.

“Fine then”, he mumbled, stepping closer to me,”Remember when I taught you how to dance, that one particular evening where you had too much ale?”

You felt your cheeks redden, as you remembered how much of a fool you had made yourself. even Geralt had laughed at your sloppy dance moves, and Geralt never laughed, ever.

Jaskier had seemed to notice your discomfort and slowly stepped closer. He looked down at you for a second, before carefully grabbing your hands. “You know, I always thought you were the most beautiful Dancer, I had ever seen in my life.”, he smiled, causing you to blush even more. Since when were you so easily flushed? You were a great fighter, that had been through many battles along with your companions. But now you were a blushing mess in front of the smiling bard. When you didn't say anything in return, Jaskier just continued to recount the story:”Not because you were the best at dancing or the most experienced, but because you enjoyed yourself. You were having fun to no end, just being yourself. That's what I´ve always loved about you, Y/N.” You were speechless at this point. You always knew that what you felt for Jaskier was different than what you felt for Yennefer or Geralt. It was more than friendship. But you never believed that he was feeling the same way, in fact you still didn't believe it.

Against all your better judgement, you slowly pulled your hands away from Jaskier and excused yourself, saying that you needed some fresh air. And within seconds, you had left the small hut, stepping out into the night.

Taking in a deep breath, you looked up admiring the stars that glistened in the sky. Upon seeing your breath come out in small huffs, you realised how cold it was. You slowly started walking around a bit to conjure some warmth, but it had no effort. After two laps around the hutt, you were still shivering. You debated going back inside for a second, but you didn't quite know if you were ready to talk to Jaskier again.

The decision was made for you, as you felt how Jaskier´s coat was being wrapped around you. The purple material easily engulfed your form, preventing you from shivering. You turned your head to see said bard standing behind you, one of his hands was resting on the small of your back, as he wrapped the coat further around your form. “Thank you.”, you mumbled, looking back down. “You seemed cold”, he smiled, now stepping in front of you. His hands came up to adjust the collar around you. You felt his touch linger, as his bright eyes shifted towards your face. “Y/N”, he suddenly said. His hand rose to gently caress your cheek. Slowly leaning into his touch, you listened to his shallow breathing to calm yourself down.

“Jaskier.”, you finally said, looking up at him. He only sighed, seemingly not really knowing what to say:”I-I havent been honest with you,Y/N” “About what?”, you uttered quietly. He didn't say anything for a second, just staring at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“I really want to kiss you.”, he suddenly blurted out. You only smiled at him:”then do it.”

It only took Jaskier mere seconds to press his lips to yours. You felt his hands pulling you closer by the waist, as he deepened the kiss, his lips softly working against yours. Only as you parted, you actually realised what had just happened. Yours eyes widened, as you looked at his dreamy face. “I've wanted to do that for ages”, he admitted. A smile crossed your lips at his words:”I´m glad that you finally did.” “Oh I could kiss you again a thousand times, my love”, he chuckled, slightly squeezing your waist. “I wouldn't have a problem with that”, you whispered, before connecting your lips with his once more. Bonus: Ciri´s eyes slowly fluttered open, as the soft sunlight hit her face. Upon sitting up in her bed, she started to look around the room in search for her two friends. She expected them to be in their separate beds, still sleeping but Ciri couldn't help but to smile at what she saw in front of her. Right there, just a few metres away from her, you and Jaskier were huddled up together in the tiny bed. She could barely see your smaller form, as Jaskier was laying on top of you, his head resting on your chest. “I knew it”, she mumbled to herself, before slowly getting up to get ready for the day.

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geraskierfanficprompts · 5 months

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Prompt 15

Jaskier realizes that when Geralt comes back from a hunt, pent up, eyes black, still snarling and panting like a beast, the only thing that helps is cuddling him. He hugs him, and runs his hands through Geralt's hair, and gently washes him with a rag and hushes words into his ear, and it helps bring Geralt back down. Sometimes he wakes up to Geralt coming back from a late-night hunt and immediately grabbing Jaskier's waist and yoINking him into Geralt's bedroll so they can snuggle. It's cute. And Jaskier certainly has no complaints.

Jaskier tries to ask him about it one time, but all it earns him is a "Shut up, Bard." and Geralt acting weird the rest of the day. Maybe he's embarrassed? Jaskier doesn't know why. He has no idea what the potions must feel like to Geralt, perhaps he truly needs the warmth and mass of a person in order to not want to rip his own hair out or scratch off his own skin or something else? So he's just fine with hugging his beefcake of a bestie (of whom he may be completely head over heels in love with) if it means keeping some awful ailment at bay. And he believes this for at least a decade, before he meets Geralt's brothers. Don't get him wrong, they're lovely people! But one day, an exceptionally difficult hunt calls for all three of them to go together and leave Jaskier at camp. Jaskier is a bit concerned over how he'll comfort all three of them at once, but when they come back, he finds that Geralt is suddenly ignoring him, and Lambert and Eskel are acting normal, if not just very exhausted. Jaskier pulls Lambert aside and asks him why they're not itching to hug him, and Lambert is very confused. Jaskier explains that usually Geralt needs to hold him in order to deal with the after-effects of his potions. Lambert explains that's not a normal witcher thing, and that Geralt probably just likes him, but he explains it in his own lovely lambert-y way, meaning it's mostly just laughing hysterically at his big brother catching feelings for some bratty noisemaker in silk (He likes Jaskier! It's just... Not what he saw Geralt going for.) Jaskier tries to talk to Geralt about it, but Geralt stops him from even walking close to him, and walks farther off as extra salt in the wound. It's like he can't even bear to be around Jaskier. It hurts a bit. Jaskier asks Eskel if Geralt took different potions or has a toxin of some sort i him that makes him behave like this instead of the normal, and then explains everything Lambert told him. Eskel agrees that it sounds like him just being comforted by the feeling of his mate safe and sound next to him, and that they've never seen Geralt like that. Jaskier is confused, because surely Geralt doesn't feel the same way, right? sURPRISE SECOND ATTACK! THE MONSTER RETURNS! OH NOOOOO Anyways, It slashes the shit out of Jaskier's arm, or perhaps chest, I don't know, whichever wound strikes your fancy, and the witchers go after it, but as soon as the beast is killed, Geralt rushes to Jaskier, and holds him close. The others try to walk over to help patch Jaskier up only to get growled at by their own brother. So now Lambert and Eskel are playing rock paper scissors on the ground over who REALLY got the final hit on the beast while Geralt sits 12 feet away from them, mending his bard. He growls at them if they look at Jaskier and him too long. A while later, he's off the high of the potions and adrenaline combined, and the witchers sure are going to have a field day lovingly making fun of their brother over this. But first, Jaskier and Geralt need to have a heartfelt talk. ♡!Optional addons!♡

• Big bonus points for a sequel or additional chapter of Lambert starting to act the same way over Aiden (or other ship of your choice, but Lambert and Aiden are my bread and butter lol)

#fanfiction prompts #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #geraskier #witcher fanfiction #the witcher #geralt loves his bard!#writing prompts #requited unrequited love #friends to lovers #Witcher Cuteagens (Cute mutagens)#this is a long one #story prompts #writing ideas #plot bunny

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merlot-and-chardonnay · 1 month

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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 65

Masterlist

Chapter 64

Quick A/N: I know in the book, there was contention between the historians about whether or not Cregan Stark had a half-sister by the name of Sara Snow (if you read Fire and Blood, you know what I'm talking about), but for the sake of this story, I'm going to say Sara does exist in this universe.

-----------King's Landing: Maegor's Holdfast--------

Jaskier had never felt such relief in his life the moment he was led out of the dungeons and freed from his bonds. The Bard rubbed his wrists where the chains previously were, part of him wondering if his sister had managed to escape or not. He hadn't been given any recent updates on your whereabouts, so he was understandably concerned.

Although, if the fact he was released from the dungeons so suddenly without so much as an interrogation, the chances that you had escaped didn't seem all that likely.

Actually, right now, panic may have begun to settle when it occurred to Jaskier of the possibility that he might be led to an execution with no trial.

"Greetings, Viscount," a male voice caught Jaskier's attention, making the man yelp and almost jump back in surprise. Larys Strong leaned against the wall, an undecipherable look on his face. "You really should not be sneaking up on people like that," Jaskier scolds, "you'll give someone a heart attack one of these days. You look familiar, have we met before?"

"Not exactly," Larys admits, "but I believe we share a mutual acquaintance in your sister." Jaskier put two and two together when he remembered his last visit to King's Landing, "You're that one fellow who helped bring Geralt here when he got lost somewhere up North. Lord Strange." "It's Strong, actually," Larys corrects, "Larys Strong, Lord of Harenhal at your service."

"Right," Jaskier says, "Larys Strong. I don't supposed you were the one who pulled strings to release me from my former lodgings." "Much as I would like to take credit for such, I'm afraid that was not my doing," Larys admits, "That was accomplished by the Lady of Larks. It seems she has found a place in court once again. His Grace, the king has appointed her personal troubaritz to his children."

"Oh...ah, deja vu," Jaskier said, realizing the cycle was repeating itself, "if I didn't know any better, I'd say we've both gone back in time." "There is more," Larys continues, "the king has also seen fit to appoint you a position in his court, Viscount...as the court jester."

"What now?" Jaskier says, dumbfounded, "Court jest- are you shitting me?! I am not...I am a lot of things, a lover of people from lowborn and high, a composer of many famous songs and ballads, a member of a spy network for at least two different kingdoms, and an occasional drag performer. But this?!"

"If you allow me to further speak, I believe I can offer some reprieve from your new demeaning position," Larys offers. "What kind of reprieve, dare I ask?" Jaskier frowns a bit. "You mentioned you had experience in spy work," Larys explains, "and what better way to spy on the court inconspicuously then when you play the role of the royal fool?"

-------------meanwhile in the nursery-----------------

"What song would you like me to play for you, sweet prince?" you inquire of Jaehaerys as soon as you stepped into the nursery with Alicent following behind. "Wait one moment please," Jaehaerys says as he runs up the stairs.

You stand there waiting expectedly for the prince to return.

"Lady (y/n)," Alicent speaks up, gaining your attention. "Your Grace," you address back. "It is...good to see you again. I couldn't believe my own eyes seeing you, being back here of all places." You were silent for a bit before you answered the queen, "it is good to see you as well, Alicent, if we can be familiar with each other for the moment."

Alicent nods, giving permission.

"What is this I hear about my daughter turning traitor?" you ask, those words Otto spoke still ringing in your head. "You...don't know?" Alicent frowns a bit, to which you shake your head. "I haven't seen Aemma since she returned to Westeros from the Continent," you admit. "She did tell me you were alive," Alicent admits, "but I must confess, I...had trouble believing it was so. I heard what befell you six years ago. I was sadden when that news reached my ears when it happened...and to hear you survived..." "To be fair, a lot of my friends and loved ones on the Continent had a hard time believing it as well," you say with some humor, "even my own brother couldn't believe his eyes."

Alicent made a small smile at that. She then proceeded to catch you up on the most recent events, from the passing of King Viserys, to the crowning of her son, which if you weren't already aware that Aegon was now king, you would've gone wide eyed from hearing that particular news. "So...Viserys saw fit to name his eldest son heir then?"

"It came as a shock to me as well," Alicent admits, "he spoke those words to me in the night before the Stranger came for him. It was what he wanted."

You fought the urge to give Alicent a rather incredulous look. For as long as you could remember, Rhaenyra was the uncontested heir, even when Viserys had more children, at least two of them being sons, and this was something Aemma had confirmed to you before the two of you parted ways. The fact that Viserys never changed the line of succession even after all this time- after two decades have past- and then for him to suddenly change his mind at the very last minute on his deathbed didn't make any sense to you.

But you keep those thoughts to yourself. You've seen first hand the lengths Otto was willing to go to use you as a hostage against Aemma for apparently saying similar thoughts out loud.

"And Aemma doesn't believe otherwise?" "I tried to reason with her," Alicent assures, "but she wouldn't listen. She still has it in her head that Rhaenyra is meant to sit the Iron Throne." "Where is Rhaenyra?" you ask. "Probably still on Dragonstone I wager," Alicent answers, "Along with...Prince Daemon." Alicent noted the way you went rigid at the mention of that name, "So it is true..." you heard her mutter.

Before you could ask her what that meant, Jaehaerys came down the steps with Jaehaera behind him, "it's the Lady of Larks," the boy whispers to his sister with excitement, "I told you she was here."

"Who is this?" you inquire of the prince, "this is my sister, Jaehaera," Jaehaerys introduces. Jaehaera first approached her grandmother, while still keeping her focus on you. "Go ahead, sweet girl," Alicent encourages. Jaehaera approached you, making a small, shy smile as she reached a hand to you, which you accept.

"So these are His Grace's children," you state, "who is their mother, if I may ask?"

"Lady Lark," a strange voice catches your attention. A young woman with long blonde hair walks in the room, a baby in her arms, "you came back to us." "Helaena," Alicent tells you, which made you look at the woman in shock. "Helaena," you say back, "you really have grown. You were just a child last I saw you." "And now I have a children of my own," Helaena says with some pride in her voice, "you've met the twins. This here is Maelor, the youngest. Look, Maelor, it's the Lady of Larks." Maelor reached a tiny hand out to you, which made you smile.

"Will you sing to us now, Lady Lark?" Jaehaerys asks with glee.

"Alright," you nod. You take a seat nearby. Jaehaerys was quick to climb up onto your lap, clearly eager to hear you sing up close. You go along with it and begin to sing, hoping it wouldn't take long for the children to fall back to sleep. You decide to go with a simple ballad composed from a troubaritz whom you know resides in Novigrad (not exactly a song you overly enjoy given who the song was about, but you had hope it would get the job done).

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As you hoped, the children slowing started nodding off, their eyes growing heavy as they began to fall asleep. Alicent surprisingly felt her own eyes become moist as you serenaded her grandchildren; it brought the dowager queen back to a time when she was still a girl, younger than Helaena, when she would sit beside Rhaenyra when you entertained the two with your songs. It brought her back to a time before she was queen, when she was still young and innocent. When she was still known as the Lady Alicent.

Things were so much simpler back then, and a considerable part of her wished it was that way once again.

What nobody in that room knew was that outside the nursery, Aegon stood by the door, listening to you sing to his children. Through the crack in the door, he could see the way you held his son while you sang, how your voice, sweet and gentle, brought great comfort to Jaehaerys and his siblings. He saw the way Maelor fell back to sleep in his mother's arms, comforted by your song, how Jaehaera leaned into her grandmother from feeling the same comfort. Even Helaena and Alicent looked much relaxed as your song filled the air, as if they could forget everything else that was going on right now.

He wondered if this was how you acquired your sobriquet as the Lady of Larks.

Aegon leaned against the door frame, careful not to put too much weight into it, also feeling like he could lose himself in your soothing siren's call, and he began to wonder if you sang similar songs to him back when you held residence in this place 16 years ago. Aegon felt an odd sense of peace in this moment...something he couldn't even remember the last time he ever felt, if indeed, there even was a last time.

At last, the children were sound asleep. Once the same children were placed back into their beds, you deigned to speak to Alicent once more.

"If you would indulge me my curiosity, your Grace, where is your other son Prince Aemond?" "You met him?" Alicent asks with shock. "Back on the Continent," you confirm, "Aemma introduced me. He seemed...quite a studious young man. And though he tried to hide it, he seemed quite taken with Aemma, almost like he were smitten with her." "More than just smitten," Alicent admits, "Aemond was in love with her. He...he wanted to marry her." "What?" "He wanted to take Aemma to wife," Alicent repeats, "and I had given my blessing as I had once before...but that was before Aemma left for Dragonstone."

"Where is Aemond now?" "He should be in Storm's End by now," Alicent tells you, "treating with Lord Borros Baratheon to assure the man's loyalty and support for Aegon as king. And...Aemond was given explicit orders by my father to offer himself to take one of Borros' daughters to wife, whomever he will choose."

---------Winterfell--------------

"I trust you are enjoying the tour so far, princess," Sara Snow inquires, getting Aemma's attention off the cold momentarily.

Aemma pulled the fur cloak closer to her body, doing her best to retain whatever warmth was left as she was given a tour around the grounds of Winterfell, courtesy of Lord Stark's half-sister, while Jace and Cregan were off hunting in the nearby woods.

After receiving a proper welcome the day before, by the Lord of Winterfell, Jace and Aemma were shown to the guests chambers, which to Aemma's relief, were warmed up with a roaring fire going in the hearth and hot food and tea had already been brought to the tables by the servants. And also to Aemma's gratefulness, a hot bath was being prepared while she partook in her meal.

Definitely a luxurious upgrade compared to her winter lodgings in Kaer Morhen. Despite the cold exterior of the North, it seemed the halls of Winterfell were designed to be the complete opposite: warm and inviting.

The company was a bit of a mixed bag in that regards; some were warm and accepting to have a Targaryen prince and princess grace these halls, while others were a little more standoff-ish, only giving the bare minimum of courtesy. Cregan was surprisingly the most inviting of the welcoming committee, seeming to have found a kindred spirit in Jace of all people. Aemma, however, wasn't sure what Cregan thought of her. The Lord Stark had saw fit to observe the social courtesies and place a chaste kiss on Aemma's wrist after Jace introduced her to the man, as was expected. Apart from that, there wasn't much further interaction between her and the man whom she was to consider as her potential betrothed.

Once inside the halls of Winterfell, Cregan then introduced Jace and Aemma to his half-sister Sara Snow, who seemed to take an instant liking to Aemma. Aemma was a little put off by this initially, but she found herself warming up to Sara, especially when the woman volunteered to offer Aemma a tour of Winterfell itself and around the grounds while the men went off hunting the next day. The two had much to bond over, one of the big ones that they were both base born, though Aemma found herself privileged in that she was declared true-born by the king, an opportunity that has yet to be presented to Sara. "I like it so far," Aemma assures, still shivering a little as she pulled her fur cloak closer, grateful this part of the Northern ensemble was offered to keep warm, "I am, however, not so overly fond of the weather, if I am being honest." That statement had Sara giggling in response, "typical Southerner can't handle a little late summer weather." "I'm actually not a complete stranger to the cold but...this is summer weather?" Aemma frowns a bit, "I dare not even begin to imagine what winter is like in this part of the world."

"Let's just say that once the winter does arrive, which it will, it will cover all you see," Sara tells her, "and all memories of warmth will be long forgotten."

"Is this a warning for if and when your Lord brother does consider Her Grace's offer to take me to wife?" Aemma ponder out loud, which she took note of the way Sara frowned at that statement. "Oh forgive me, I didn't mean to cause offense," Aemma hastily apologizes. "You do not wish to marry my brother?" "To be candid, your brother is as of now, one in a long line of men who have been considered as a potential marriage prospect," Aemma admits with some humor, "At this point, I'm just starting to make bets with myself with how long this betrothal would last. Also, to be even more honest, I'm not so sure Lord Stark even wants to marry me. He hasn't exactly made it known if he even desires such a prospect." Sara was silent for a bit before she spoke up, a somber tone present, "Try not to take it so personally, princess. You have to understand. Cregan he...the loss of his lady wife, the late Arra Norrey, it still weighs heavily on him at times. Despite increasing pressure from his counsel to wed again, he has been reluctant." "He loved his lady wife," Aemma says in realization. "They were childhood friends," Sara tells her, "they grew up together. It was practically a match made in the Seven Heavens, as you Southerners would say." "I see," Aemma nods in understanding. It was similar to how she felt about Aemond. The two had also grown up together, were close friends, and if Destiny had been kinder, the two could also wed...if only certain recent events hadn't happen.

"If it's any consolation, princess, it did come as a surprise to Cregan that the Queen would offer you as a potential match," Sara changes the subject, "you...have garnered a reputation of sorts even as far as Winterfell." "Oh?" "The daughter of the Rogue Prince by a Continental troubaritz, the famed Lady of Larks," Sara explains, "And then the same princess disappeared for the last six years without so much as an explanation, only to reappear so suddenly. Princess Aemma the Wayward, is what I have some of the Northern lords refer to you as."

"I see," Aemma felt her face grow hot for some reason, not realizing her disappearance to the Continent would garner so much interest even all the way up North. "I don't suppose...you would like to indulge me of your little adventures," Sara asks. Aemma made a small smile, "Well, if you must know, I spent those lost years on the Continent, my mother's homelands." "Well you tell me more?" Sara presses, "I've heard some tales of those lands. That they are full of monsters...and witches." "I suppose I could tell you more of their lore," Aemma offers, "provided you can tell me more of the North. I do hear this place is...quite different from much of Westeros. A place filled with ancient magic, and of course I've...I've always wanted to know more about the Wall."

So the two women exchanged stories and bonded further during their walk. Aemma had also deigned to introduce Sara to Cirillia, and also taught the Snow woman how to play Gwent inside the hall, which admittedly took Sara some time to figure it out, but with enough practice, she soon became well versed in the game.

Right around the time the sun was setting, Jace and Cregan had returned from their long day of hunting, and having brought in a bounty of birds and a couple deer, one for each presumably. Both men had smiles on their faces, even Cregan who still held an air of stoicism as he approached Aemma and Sara.

This time, Aemma took note of the way Cregan eyed her medallion. For a brief moment, he seemed fascinated by her memento, and she was wondering why this was so. Had Cregan seen something similar at one point in his life perhaps?

Aemma brushed it off when she and Jace returned to the guest quarters to ready themselves for tonight's supper of fresh venison stew and fire roasted birds. "So, I take it you enjoyed your little hunting excursion then," Aemma comments. "More or less," Jace nods, "Lord Stark allowed me the honor of making the first kill when we spotted the first stag." "How nice," Aemma nods, "sounds like you and Lord Stark have gotten on quite well. Mayhap you should be the one to be betrothed to him instead."

Jace laughed a little at that statement. "No seriously," Aemma deadpans, "I have yet to break Lord Stark's icy exterior. Has he even taken an interest in me? Actually, is he even interested in marrying again?" "Well...I can't say for certain," Jace admits, "but he may have asked a question or two concerning you. I made sure to put in a good word for you where I could." "Gee, thanks," Aemma deadpans again to which Jace had to stifle a laugh.

Jace noted the look on Aemma's face. Thinking back to what his mother told him, he spoke to his stepsister once more. "....mother did express a sense of urgency of securing an alliance with House Stark. We shouldn't lose sight of that." "I'm well aware of that, Jace," Aemma says through slight gritted teeth, which took Jace off guard. "Sorry," she says.

"Aemma...is there something you want to say?" "What makes you ask that?" "Well...you haven't exactly been yourself since coming back to Dragonstone...after speaking to your father when he dismissed everyone back in the council chambers." Aemma looked at Jace, wondering if Baela or Rhaena had said anything to him or Luke, if they deigned to disclose what she told her sisters. Additionally, she wasn't exactly looking forward to marrying anyone apart from the one she loved with all her heart, but she couldn't tell Jace that due in part to the fact the two of them were on one side of the conflict, the one man she loves is on the other side. If she were to say something, if she were to proclaim her love for Aemond, would Jace accuse her of treason?

"It's nothing," she assures her, "I'm aware of our objective, brother. I'm just not sure how to get to Lord Stark as easily as you have." Jace nods in understanding, having some idea of what he could- or more specifically what Aemma could do- to persuade Lord Stark to form a marriage pact with her.

The two part ways so as to get ready for supper tonight.

--------------- Meanwhile, elsewhere in Winterfell, Cregan had deigned to visit his son before readying himself for tonight's supper. He held little Rickon in his arms, the tot currently pulling strands of Cregan's dark hair, and then proceeding to poke at his father's face. Cregan playfully snapped his teeth at the intrusive fingers, causing Rickon to giggle in the process.

Looking at his son, Cregan could still bit and pieces of his late wife in Rickon, from his eyes to his smile. It still felt like only yesterday sometimes that Arra Norrey lost the fight to bring her child into this world. It was a wound that would never fully heal, no matter how much time has passed.

When he had received word from Queen Rhaenyra that her eldest son and stepdaughter were making their way to Winterfell to treat with him, Cregan had been taken aback that Her Grace had offered Princess Aemma for a potential marriage pact should he make it official to uphold the oath his father made 20 years ago. While Cregan had every intention of upholding that same oath, regardless if a betrothal would be brokered or not, some on his counsel had seen it as a sign from the Old gods that he was meant to remarry, as this was around the same time said counsel was 'lightly' suggesting that Cregan considering marrying again so as to further secure his bloodline with more potential heirs. Sure, proposals from Northern ladies had been offered every now and again...but the fact he was given an offer for a Targaryen princess right around this time could not be seen as a sheer coincidence.

He didn't know Aemma all that well, and even among the Northerners, the wayward princess was considered something of an enigma. He knew she was the daughter of Prince Daemon with the Lady of Larks, whom the late Lord Stark had once said was the only good thing about coming to King's Landing, when he was summoned to swear obeisance to acknowledge Rhaenyra as the late king's true heir. Cregan had heard his father speak many good things of the Lady (y/n) and her singing which truly lived up to her moniker. And Princess Aemma had reportedly possessed her mother's singing talent as well.

And, of course, there was the rumors that had spread to the North when Aemma disappeared without a trace, only to suddenly reappear six years later.

Still, Cregan wasn't sure what to make of Aemma. When the princess landed and dismounted her dragon, the first thing he took note of was her sword...and her medallion. The moment he caught sight of the silver necklace, Cregan felt himself flashing back to a moment in his childhood when he saw a similar trinket around the neck of a strange man he discovered in the woods. A wounded man with hair, white as snow, and eyes like those of a wolf, and one who saved Cregan's life despite the strange man's injuries. From what little interaction they had, Aemma seemed like a honorable woman, and Jacaerys had nothing but good things to say of his stepsister despite her six year disappearance. Cregan found a kindred spirit in Jace, as the young prince reminded him much of his late younger brother, and Cregan was surprised he enjoyed himself hunting in the woods with Jace, forming something of a brotherhood between the two.

Cregan's contemplation was brought to a halt when the doors opened and his sister stepped in. "Am I interrupting?" Sara inquires, starting to make faces at Rickon as he made grabby hands towards his aunt. "Not at all," Cregan humors, "if anything, you saved me from this little pup's intrusive hands ripping loose strands from my scalp." Sara laughed and took Rickon from Cregan's arms. "I take you enjoyed the princess's company while I was away with the prince." "More or less," Sara nods, keeping her focus on her nephew before she turned to give Cregan a serious look, "I know you're not ready just yet...but I think if you were to cave into the pressure from your counsel...princess Aemma may not be the worst possible outcome."

Cregan was silent on that so Sara continued, "Well, if anything, I hear the princess has a talented singing voice. She could sing you to sleep every night. And to Rickon too." She boops Rickon on the nose, causing the boy to giggle. Cregan made a small smile at the interaction. His sister appears to approve of the princess...perhaps he should give her a chance as well.

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

The fire roared with life in the great hall as the food was served. Aemma and Jace sat at one side of the table with Cregan and Sara sitting on the other.

Much conversation was had, particularly between Jace and Cregan. Aemma had some conversation with Sara in between savoring the venison stew, made from the bounty of today's hunt. The mead and ale was served generously in between courses, which Aemma was grateful for, as it helped to warm her bones and would also aid in allowing her to sleep tonight.

"Princess Aemma," Cregan speaks up, getting Aemma's attention from her food for a brief moment, "your stepbrother tells me you have a gift for singing."

Aemma saw that certain look on Jace's face before she answered, "I have, on more than one occasion, been told that I have inherited my mother's gift for song, my Lord." "Your mother was the Lady of Larks, was she not?" "She was my mother, yes," Aemma confirms, "you heard of her?" "My father was once summoned to King's Landing many years ago," Cregan explains, "he had the honor of listening to the Lady Lark's mysterious ballads and epics from her homelands across the eastern Continent. He said it was the only thing that made the journey to King's Landing all the worth while." "There are instruments here at your disposal," Cregan gestures to the musicians playing to entertain, "would you care to grace these halls with your voice, princess?"

Aemma noted a lute one musician was playing and thought of a Skellige based song she once learned during her time in Cidaris. So she stands and approaches, intending to oblige the Lord and his courtiers.

Aemma took the lute and tuned it some before she began her song:

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As Aemma continued to sing, she kept her attention to the instrument in her hand, filtering out the stares that were she was surely receiving the moment she hummed the first note.

She didn't notice the way Cregan was looking at her at this moment.

Once Aemma finished, there was a brief moment of silence before the hall erupted with thunderous applause for her performance.

Aemma resumed her seat at the table and finished what was left of her food and drink.

Conversation continued even after the meal was concluded, and Aemma found herself start to nod off a little, feeling tired from the long day she's had added with the amount of mead she's consumed with her meal tonight. "Princess," Cregan gains her attention, "are you well? You look as if you are about to pass out." "I'm fine, my lord," Aemma assures, "I may have overindulged with the ale tonight." Jace and Cregan both had humorous smiles on their faces from that explanation.

"Allow me to escort you back to the guest chambers then," Cregan offers. "I can do that," Jace says, "I don't wish to trouble you, my lord." "No trouble at all, my prince," Cregan assures, "you are my guests after all." "Much appreciated," Aemma says, allowing Cregan to lead her back to her rooms.

"You sang beautifully tonight, princess," Cregan complements as he led Aemma down the corridor, "I've never heard anything like it before." "Oh, it's nothing exceptional," Aemma says with modesty, "you should've heard my mother sing...my father once said hers was a voice so beautiful that the larks would stand silent to listen." "After what I heard tonight, I have some trouble believing your talent is nothing," Cregan lightly scoffs, to which Aemma smiled at the complement.

"You flatter me, my lord." "Not at all," Cregan assures, "...perhaps you would honor us further and grace these halls with your honeyed voice once again, and perhaps many more times after." Aemma looks up to Cregan, wondering if this was his way of implying he would consider the offer to take her to wife.

Aemma stopped in her tracks, which took Cregan by surprise. "Lord Stark," Aemma addresses, "I know...we have only met just each other. We are only strangers. Any marriage pact my stepmother the queen has offered would be nothing more than a political alliance should anything come of it." "Princess-" "I know about you and your late lady wife," Aemma blurts out, "uh, your sister told me. That the two of you grew up together, that you loved her, and...how much her death affected you so. I'll understand if this is not what you want, if you are not ready. I...I know something of what that feeling is like. There is someone I grew up with as well, that I love very much, and it would've been the greatest luck if we could've engaged in a similar union."

"...Are you referring to prince Jacaerys?" Cregan asks, tilting his head a little at Aemma's vague statement. "No, it's not Jace it's...someone else," Aemma tells him, "I would request that you don't ask me to elucidate any further." Cregan silently nods in understanding, "you are right, princess," he admits, "I am not yet ready to wed again. I loved Arra very much, we were nearly inseparable as children. She made a man of me. Her loss is a wound that will never fully heal."

There was another moment of silence before Cregan spoke again, "I had already intended to uphold the oath my father made to King Viserys 20 years ago, marriage pact, or none. Starks do not forget their oaths after all, no matter how much time has passed. But as Warden of the North, I still have other duties to oversee...Winter is Coming."

Hearing the words of House Stark uttered by the Lord of Winterfell, Aemma knew how serious those aspects of his life were at this point in time. "I understand," she says, looking to see she was now at the door to her chambers, "thank you for the escort, Lord Cregan. Goodnight."

"Princess, a moment," Cregan speaks, getting Aemma's attention, "I meant to ask earlier...that necklace of yours. Wherever did you get it?" Aemma was taken aback by Cregan's seemingly sudden curiosity for her medallion. She touched a finger to it before she answered, "it was a memento I acquired during my travels on the Continent. Why do you ask?"

"It...it looks familiar to a trinket I saw once when I was a boy," Cregan explains, "instead of a dragon, there was an engraving of a wolf." Now that peaked Aemma's interest, "where did you see such a trinket?" "Around the neck of a strange man I once saw in the woods," Cregan tells her, "at first I thought perhaps it was a daydream, but he was real."

"What made you think it was a daydream?" "I've never seen a man like him before," Cregan admits, "he...I wasn't entirely sure if he was human...or if he was a wolf wrapped in a human's skin. His eyes were an unnatural gold color...and his hair was white as snow."

Upon hearing those words, it took a great deal of restraint on Aemma's part to conceal the shock she felt. Right on cue, she saw a moment into Cregan's past, back to when he was boy running in the woods. Cregan saw strange tracks, which he followed, and saw the strange man in question. To Aemma's shock and confirmation...that strange man was the White Wolf himself.

"Princess Aemma?" Cregan's voice brings Aemma back to the present, "Are you alright, princess, it looked as if you were going into some kind of trance."

"I'm...I appear to be more exhausted than I thought," Aemma offers for an excuse, "Again, I appreciate the escort, Lord Stark. And I am also grateful for the hospitality you have shown to me and Jacaerys. I must bid you good night now."

Aemma hastily enters her chambers and closes the door before Cregan could have a chance to ask anymore questions.

Chapter 66

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artistsfuneral · 1 year

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part 15 - sorry it took a while

When he turns, Geralt is standing right behind him, golden eyes wide with something like shock as he rings for words. "Ciri. Her name is Ciri."

Jaskier gasps, a frsh wave of tears falling from his eyes, "What- ?" Once again it's all too much for him. The constant mix of hurt, pain and confusing hope makes his head feel weird and fuzzy. He just wants his husband back. His Geralt, his sweet lovely Geralt, who always says he cannot bear to see Jaskier in distress, who panics when he cries, who hugs him, holds him, tells him he's safe and that everything will be alright. He misses him so, so much. Never- never having that again, never having his Geralt again, makes him-

He tears his wrist out of this Geralt's grip and wipes away the salty tears that just won't stop streaming down his cheeks. "What?" He repeats again, more stammering than actually pronouncing the word.

Geralt isn't doing much better. "I uh-," he looks just as helplessly shocked as Jaskier feels, "I don't know, why I- Her name is Ciri, isn't it?" Jaskier nods, hiding his face behind his hands for a moment. He has no idea what on earth is going on. This has never happened before. At this point in time, Ciri shouldn't even be a thought and yet somehow Geralt knows her name. "She likes to dance," the witcher speaks slowly as if trying to piece something together in his mind. "She made Lambert slow dance with her. I- I don't know-," he lets out a long shaky breath. "Why do I know that?"

Jaskier shakes his head. "I don't know," he whispers, voice hoarse from his emotional outburst. "You never remembered anything before."

Geralt frowns. "How many times have you done this?"

"I don't know."

"Have you done anything differently this time? Said something, or done something? Playing around with Chaos is a terribly stupid idea!"

"I'm not stupid, okay?! Just because I have no idea why you can suddenly remember Ciri's name doesn't mean I jumped heads over heels into this mess!"

Geralt sighs again, looking at least somewhat remorseful as he apologizes quietly. "It just feels like you must've done something differently for me to... remember these things.

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podcastenthusiast · 2 years

Text

Three little drabbles featuring Geralt "Horse Girl" of Rivia and different animals, from Jaskier's POV.

---

1. Horse

Jaskier realized it a few weeks into this new witcher-following, song-composing venture. Specifically, when he went to eat the last apple and was told in no uncertain terms that it's for Roach, even though their food rations were running worringly low and they were a day's ride from the next village. Even though he's a fragile human. Even though she could literally just eat grass.

The mare outranked him. She had seniority.

He tried to befriend the horse, with middling success.

He tried to befriend the witcher, too.

At least Roach could be bribed with a carrot or a handful of raisins.

People project a lot of their own feelings onto animals, he supposed. It's a relationship designed to be unequal. As complex or as simple as a person wants it to be.

For a while, he had started to resent her a little, as pathetic as that may sound. That is, until he woke in the middle of the night and overheard a murmured, rather one-sided conversation.

"I worry about him, though," Geralt was saying. "Can't exactly just find a new bard and start calling him Jaskier if something happens, can I."

What?

"Wish he'd shut up sometimes, but... I guess it's been kind of nice having someone around who talks back."

Jaskier's heart felt like it might burst or break. Or both.

"Not that you aren't good company, old girl."

Roach gave a quiet snort.

That was all years ago, now. The horse is different, but still somehow Roach.

He is different, too, but somehow still Jaskier. Still the reliable bard his friend needs him to be.

Now, he watches from his spot by the campfire as Geralt brushes through Roach's mane. The witcher's got drowner brains in his own hair but gods forbid he has a wash before his trusty companion is completely tended to. He's very gentle with her, which is probably why she tolerates it as well as she does. He's heard tales of stablehands losing fingers to routine grooming before.

Jaskier wishes he could write a ballad about this without potentially damaging his fearsome reputation-- the unbreakable bond between a witcher and his horse. The unexpected tenderness of hands made to kill.

He reaches for his quill to jot down a few ideas. Something something the mighty wolf and the wild horse, loyal and brave companions defending their forest home together. Keep it vague enough. Maybe a folktale vibe.

Besides, Jaskier thinks with a touch of bitterness, the wolf's tongue is the real danger. His jaws that snap at anyone foolish enough to get too close, to offer help when he's caught in a trap.

...Maybe he still has some feelings to work through.

The wolf also has a heart he tries so hard to bury. Jaskier can see it. Always has.

"You spoil her rotten, you know," he remarks lightly, plucking on his lute strings. "She eats better than we do."

"It's like sharpening my swords. I have to keep Roach in good condition, or we don't eat at all."

"Mhm. And it's very sweet."

He no longer begrudges Roach her well-earned place at Geralt's side. The witcher had been alone out here for such a long time before he came along, probably will be again after he's dead and buried. Even if Jaskier does wish that he could be the one Geralt trusts with his innermost thoughts and secrets and sleepless night fears, he is glad the man has someone in whom he can confide.

They all have their roles in this story. Perhaps he ought to accept his as its scribe, and let that be enough.

But Jaskier's greatest fault, he knows, is an always has been his refusal to accept things as they are.

2. Cat

"Oh, look at that. Someone's cat has gone missing. Poor thing."

"We're here for real work, Jaskier," Geralt says, scanning a contract notice. Recent plague. Graves disturbed. Ghouls. See alderman for details. Bit dull.

"They're offering a reward. See?"

"Somehow I doubt a small child has enough coin to justify ignoring the ghouls."

"Says here you'll get their eternal gratitude and-- oh! The lady of the house will darn your socks free of charge for a full year. Any additional mending at a discount. Now that's a good deal."

"Hm."

"Geralt, as you know my favorite doublet is in a sorry state after that minor werewolf incident--"

"I told you to stay with Roach."

"--All water under the bridge now, of course, and what an adventure! Worthy of a fine ballad--"

"Jaskier."

"--as this would be. Can't you at least keep one keen witchery eye out for the cat?"

"And risk a ghoul catching me off guard? Sure."

"Well, now you're just being silly. Don't tell me you're a dog person. Or are you allergic?"

Geralt sighs, realizing now that only the truth will free him from this conversation.

"Don't mind cats," he mutters. "But they don't like me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Cats don't like me," he repeats. "They start hissing whenever I get too close."

Jaskier's expression is caught somewhere between disbelief and sadness. "Why?"

"I insulted their king. Why do you think? They've got more sense than certain humans, I guess."

It's a veiled remark. Jaskier sees right through it.

"You're not a monster, Geralt," he says, achingly sincere. Then, in a lighter tone, "Does that mean you've never pet a cat before?"

"I don't know. Maybe when I was very young. I can't remember."

Jaskier mercifully drops the subject after a quiet and thoughtful walk back to the village's tavern.

He doesn't fail to notice Geralt buying extra scraps of meat from the innkeeper, or how he sneaks away at night to set them like snares in promising locations near the village. He'd probably say it's for the ghoul contract if asked, but Jaskier knows better.

Even if he didn't, there is really no other explanation for Geralt returning to the inn on the second night, covered in claw marks, carrying a ghoul's severed head in one hand and a bag containing one squirming, hissing feline in the other.

3. Spider

"GERALT!"

Every witcher in Kaer Morhen hears the bard's scream, but Geralt reaches the room in moments, his silver sword already drawn.

"Jaskier, what--"

"Kill it!"

The bard is standing on his bed, pointing frantically at something. Geralt follows his panicked gaze and sees--

"Really, Jaskier?" He sighs.

"What are you waiting for? It's a monster! Kill it!"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not a monster. Just a spider. Not even poisonous."

"How do you know?"

"I read." Geralt crouches down for a closer look at the spider. "Might look scary but it's harmless. Probably sought shelter from the cold."

"Well, then it can go right back outside."

"Jaskier, be reasonable."

"I am. Either the spider goes or I do."

The witcher looks thoughtful. Says nothing.

"Oh, thanks, Geralt! I feel so loved."

The spider crawls onto Geralt's hand and Jaskier almost screams again, shrinking back even farther. Gods, it has so many legs!

"Pretend it's a kikimora or something," he pleads. "Why won't you kill one little spider for your very dearest old friend in the world?"

"Because kikimoras have no niche. They're invasive, and need to be dealt with to maintain balance in the ecosystem. Spiders aren't like that; they do belong. A monster, fundamentally, is any creature that doesn't."

Jaskier just stares at him, speechless. He's not sure he has ever heard Geralt say that many words all at once.

Geralt's eyes remain on the spider. "Witchers aren't sent out on the Path not knowing why we kill; we're not soldiers."

"I never thought of it like that," Jaskier admits. "That spider's still fucking terrifying, though."

"Hm. I'll take it outside."

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"I know what scared, stupid people say about witchers sometimes. But I-- You do belong. You're important. Just want you to know that."

"...Thank you, Jaskier," he says. Then, quieter, "You too."

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