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Chapter Text

Witchers, as a general rule, do not involve themselves in the affairs of men. Which king marries who and how much grain each township is taxed are of little consequence to immortal monster hunters. Lambert, especially, avoids human politics. Kings are tiresome, queens are never as beautiful once you get to know them, and the exhaustion of dealing with human ignorance is more than he can bear, most nights.

This time, though, he’s going to have to make an exception. Because the Baron de Rothfurt’s new wife is a faerie, and Lambert is pretty sure she’s responsible for the deaths of twenty innocent men.

He rode into Kerack a week ago and was immediately sought out by the local township to handle a monster problem. What plagued them, he did not know, but a mutilated body had been found by the edge of the forest every other night for over a month. The people were desperate. Despite some of the strongest anti-witcher sentiments this side of Novigrad, the local baron put out a contract with an impressive reward for anyone who could make the killings stop.

Lambert let the stares slide off of him as he rode up to the baron’s estate. It was a tasteless thing, covered in gold and poor imitations of great artists’ works, with a lawn so large and elaborately decorated that the man must be compensating for something. Two servants in horrid orange and green uniforms ushered him into the main hall.

The colors were so mismatched that Lambert focused in on his pendant and sent an image of his surroundings to Jaskier. A shocked gasp echoed in his ears a moment later, followed by a distinct feeling of disgust.

Orange and green? Jaskier’s voice said. Who taught these fools to dress? There was a pause, and then, Wait, aren’t those the Baron de Rothfurt’s colors? Are you in Rothfurt?

You know him?

I hate that fucker. Spit in his ale for me, would you?

Lambert chuckled aloud. He didn’t feel bad for the look of terror that crossed the servants’ faces. They could hate him all they wanted, but a healthy dose of fear mixed with their revulsion meant they should leave him be.

I’ll try. What did he do to you?

Wait until you meet him. He’s an easy man to hate.

Five minutes later, the Baron received him in his office and Jaskier was proven right.

Markus Holmberg, Baron de Rothfurt, was a pile of maggots shoved into human skin. He greeted Lambert from behind a massive desk, lounged back in the chair like a king, one hand resting on the wood, gemstone rings on each finger, the other hand running through his golden hair. A servant girl stood behind his left shoulder, trembling, and he squeezed her ass as she fled the room with hardly a glance in Lambert’s direction.

“Mutant,” he said.

Bastard, Lambert thought. What he said was, “Baron. I hear you have work for me.”

“Lamentably. I would ban your filthy kind from my land entirely if I could, witcher.” He eyed Lambert up and down, gaze lingering at the scars on his face and the hair he hadn’t washed in a few days. “Disgusting creatures, aren’t you? No better than the beasts you hunt. But even beasts have their uses.”

Lambert ground his teeth together. He was no stranger to prejudice, particularly from nobility, who always seemed to think themselves more divine than human, but rare was the man who would declare it to his face. “The work?”

“A mystery,” answered the Baron. “Twenty dead farmers and a decided drop in the taxes I am owed due to unworked fields.” He clicked his fingers against the desktop, rings glinting in the light. “Find it. Kill it. Bring me its head, I’ll give you some silver, and I can have the joy of never seeing your brutish face on my property again. Does that suit, witcher?”

“Perfectly.”

Lambert saw himself out. Fuming though he was, he didn’t miss the beautiful woman he passed in the hallway, nor the way his wolf medallion hummed against his chest.

His room is as far from the main hall as the Baron could offer. It has not been dusted in years. The sheets are ancient, smell of mold, and have a diamond pattern with the same combination of orange and green that was on the servants’ uniforms- giving it the general appearance of day-old vomit.

Lambert sleeps on the floor.

Dawn filters through his windows a few hours later and he wakes, head tilted towards the door in expectation of a knock. It is the noble host’s duty to provide breakfast for their guests- Jaskier was very clear on that point during his decorum lessons last winter- but when it becomes clear that no such knock is forthcoming, Lambert stumbles out of his bedroll and goes in search of food.

He nearly trips over a bag of pig slop that has been left outside his room. The thing reeks of half rotten vegetables and chicken innards. He kicks it away with a sneer. To hell with spitting in the man’s ale- Lambert is going to piss in it.

The locals hate their baron nearly as much as the monster that hunts them. No one is willing to speak to him until he starts suggesting how nice it would be to relieve the baron of his coin. That earns him begrudging smiles from the farmers he visits and their stories start flowing forth.

Figuring out that the baron’s new wife is the source of the town’s problem is laughably easy. Every man to speak of her does so with wistfulness in his tone. Some of the women, too, describe her ethereal looks and eternal kindness. Why she married such a bastard of a baron, no one can explain. They’re all too busy being grateful for her smiles, and her shining hair, and the way she looks at them when she emerges from the halls of the manor.

Lambert has never seen such an obvious enchantment. The baroness could probably hold a dagger to the throat of any one of the villagers and have them thank her for it. Their besotted descriptions, paired with the furious vibrations of his medallion when they meet for lunch, paint a clear picture. The baroness is a murderer. And from the glimpse of her gossamer wings that he catches in a silver mirror while tailing her through the manor, she’s also a faerie.

It leaves him in a tricky spot. Killing her would be simple. Near as he can tell, she isn’t a fighter. The enchantment on the town ensures that her prey is willing and unafraid. She has no need to practice defensive magic when everyone she comes across bows beneath her power, so Lambert is certain that one good swipe with his silver sword would take her head clean off and end the villagers’ terror. The only problem is, when?

He’s not foolish enough to expect a reward from the baron for killing his wife. The second she dies, faerie or no, she will be painted as the victim and Lambert as the brutal killer. But be that as it may, he cannot leave the townspeople to die. It will have to be handled quietly. Pack his bags, slay the faerie, and leave town before the baron is any wiser.

Nothing goes according to plan.

Lambert tracks the baroness as she leaves the manor and heads into town. She turns down a series of side alleys and he follows on silent feet, sword already drawn. When she freezes at a dead end, he comes to a halt.

“Are you there, witcher?” she calls.

There is no point in hiding. Lambert steps out from the shadows and lets his blade flash in the moonlight. “Aye,” he says. “I’m here.”

“Then I suppose my time is up.”

Lambert cocks his head and meets her eyes. They gleam with magic in the dark of the alleyway. “Did you kill those people?”

The baroness grins. “I did. Drained them of their lives and left their bodies for my people in the forest. Neat handiwork, don’t you think?”

“It is a clever complacency spell.”

“I know.” She sighs. “Pity it doesn’t work on you.”

“Pity,” Lambert agrees.

It’s odd, he thinks, that she isn’t putting up more of a fight. Faeries are notorious for their tricks and riddles, their schemes to lure in mortals and ruin them with magic. Even without true fighting skill, he expected her to try to make a deal, or simply to run when she learned he was onto her.

The baroness lets down her hair. It falls in chestnut brown curls down her shoulders, becoming disheveled as she runs her hands through it. She slides one side of her dress down and Lambert wonders idly if she’s trying to seduce him. She’s not doing a very good job of it.

“Come on then, witcher. Kill me.”

It’s so obviously a trap that Lambert has to do a double take. But he can sense that there is no magic in the area. No strange talismans around her bare neck, nothing unusual about the alley, and no other faeries in town, as far as he could tell from his day spent amongst the villagers. If this is a trap, Lambert cannot see it, and he cannot defend against it. Instincts honed by years of experience scream at him to act. He raises his sword and lunges.

The instant his foot leaves the ground, the world shifts. Moonlight is replaced by torchlight, uneven cobblestones by gleaming wood. The baroness cowers, eyes dull like a mortal’s, and screams.

“No!” she cries, but it’s too late. Momentum carries Lambert’s sword forward and her head tumbles from her shoulders with a sickening thud.

Silence in the hall.

Gone is the dark alleyway. Lambert raises his eyes from the faerie’s body to take in the scene before him. There is a minstrel a few feet away with a slack jaw. At the main table, nobles and their servants are frozen with their hands in the air, shock written plainly across their faces, meals forgotten before them. Markus Holmberg himself lords over the scene, a gaudy coronet weighing heavy on his brow, eyes storming with revulsion that turns quickly to rage. Ever so slowly, Lambert gets to his feet.

He knows from explorations earlier in the day that there are ten guards in the hall. Probably more, given that the baron is hosting noble guests, and there are scores of servants, entertainers, and bystanders that will get in the way of fighting himself free. The silver sword is in his hand, slick with the baroness’ blood. His mind screams at him to run, even though he won’t get far. Run, run, run, and pray the gods have mercy.

But the gods abandoned Lambert long ago.

The soldiers attack with all the rage of scorned lovers- men whose enchantment addled minds have space for nothing save lust and hatred. Lambert's mutated body is fast, but not faster than ten guards. They catch up to him before he makes it halfway to the nearest door. He knocks the sword out of one of the men’s hands and puts it through his chest, whirling as another sword sails over his head and collides with the soldier behind him. The move takes his balance away for a few precious seconds. A spear collides with Lambert’s right knee and he falls, catching another blow with his sword as he goes.

“Stop,” shouts the baron. The men drop their weapons and Lambert tries to stand again. A heavy metal boot falls on his back, pushing him into the floor. His sword is kicked out of his hand with a clang.

“Sire,” one of the men begins. He falls silent at a gesture from the baron that Lambert can’t quite see. Silk shoes whisper over the polished floor as Markus approaches his fallen bride.

“My wife,” he says. It is spoken with the tone of a child who has lost their favorite plaything. “My wife,” he repeats, a theatric boom in his voice, “my beautiful bride, slain! By this beast!” Lambert cannot see the baron, but is certain that a bejeweled finger is being pointed in his direction. “Throw him in the dungeons.”

Fuck, Lambert thinks. Three soldiers lift him by the arms as a fourth presses a spear against the small of his back. He stumbles forward at their insistence, eyes scanning the room for a way to escape but finding nothing.

What happened?

It’s Geralt’s voice, gruff yet open in the way he is after he has just woken. He must be halfway across the continent for him to be waking at this hour. Far away- and of little use even if he were with Lambert. There are too many men too fight, too many innocents for an all-out slaughter.

Lambert sends images through the pendants. The baroness, baring her neck in the alleyway. The shift. Her head, rolling on the floor, and her husband’s face when he realized it was a witcher who put it there.

He can feel Geralt thinking as the guards march him down hall after hall, their boots ringing on the stone. They throw him in a cell none too gently and two men hold him down while another searches him for weapons. Lambert sends an image of that, too.

Escape routes?

The room is dark, lit only by the torches held by the guards in the hall outside. No windows. One door. Metal bars thick and rust-free, barring him from making a run for it.

Not many.

Resources?

Lambert looks around. His cell is sparse, with little more to speak of than a few pebbles on the floor. The guards stripped him of his potions, knives, and anything else they deemed a threat. In a rare burst of wisdom, these lackeys seemed to realize that anything can be deadly in a witcher’s hands, and have divested him of everything save his tunic, trousers, and a few pieces of leather armor.

Not many, he repeats.

A new voice comes down the line. Oh, Lambert, dear. What have you gotten yourself into?

Nothing pleasant, Jaskier. This baron of yours is a real piece of work.

Jaskier’s offended scoff comes down the line clear as day. He’s not my fucking anything. He’s a bastard and a scoundrel, and honestly, I’m not shocked the man had you thrown in prison a few days after meeting you. Markus always did have a pathetic little power complex.

Lambert thinks on his first impression of the man and finds himself agreeing. I think he’s compensating for something.

A delighted laugh rings in his ears. I’ve seen his cock, it’s tiny.

You’ve seen his-

Lambert, Geralt interrupts. Have they hurt you?

Given the fact that he killed their baroness and three soldiers in the span of a few minutes, Lambert is grateful that the bruises in his side aren’t worse. No.

Are they going to? Jaskier asks. The mirth in his tone has fled.

Probably. I killed their faerie baroness. Most of the town was under her enchantment.

The light in the hallway fades as the guards leave for the night. Before the last of them slips out, he spins on his heel and spits directly in Lambert’s face.

“Fuckin’ mutant.”

I can be there in a week, Geralt says.

We can’t fight our way out of this one, Geralt. It isn’t Nilfgaard. The baron is not without protection.

He cannot see his brother’s face, but Lambert would bet anything that Geralt’s brows are drawn in frustration. They cannot win this fight. Any attempt to break Lambert out with force would be a suicide mission.

We can try.

No, no. No need for that. Jaskier cuts in, forced joviality in his voice. He always sounds strained like this after they mention Nilfgaard, though the pain isn’t as bad as it once was. Lambert gets the urge to slaughter someone every time he hears it. As it so happens, I am in the area. I parted ways with Eskel a few days ago you know, and I made my way to Kerack. I can be at the piss-poor fields of Rothfurt by dawn.

And what are you going to do about it? Lambert can’t keep the incredulity out of his tone. Write a nasty song about him?

I have written several nasty songs about him, actually. But that is beside the point. I’m going to use something you witchers don’t seem acquainted with, darling. A tool that has not yet entered your arsenal. Jaskier pauses, no doubt so a teasing grin can spread across his face. Diplomacy.

Chapter Text

The closet doors are thrown open by a steady hand. His carriage stands ready outside, his most trusted driver at the reins. He did not rush through dinner. He will not rush through this.

Servants help him dress. They are silent as they divest him of his doublet and replace it with far finer threads, stripping the signs of the road from his body. The weight of the night is heavy on their shoulders and their hands are gentle on his skin, dancing carefully over fresh scars, their wariness and curiosity swallowed back in the face of their lord. He is rarely home. Celebrations are held when he is, of course; the people love him. But he has never looked like this- rugged and silken, broken and brutal, every inch the regal man they know him to be.

His voice sings songs of the White Wolf. Their voices whisper praises of him. Their lord, their traveller, who dares to stand by the side of legends and manages to emerge unscathed. They mutter about his face, which never seems to age. They gossip about his scars, wondering if perhaps, just perhaps, the stories are true. Minstrels come through Lettenhove telling tales of sorceresses and dragons, of princesses and destiny. The bold among them lower their voices and speak of slaughter. Of a war camp burnt to the ground. Of piles of corpses and broken swords and screams, and at the center of it all, a bard.

None of them know why he is dressing in the middle of the night, but all are certain that there is adventure afoot. He rides to someone’s aid. He rides to destiny. They help him into velvet and ancient jewels, quiet as their awed whispers of his name, and smile to themselves with the knowledge that this time, they were part of destiny too.

It is morning when a guard comes to open Lambert’s cell. There are no windows in his prison, but he has been awake the entire night, deep in meditation. The boy who enters his cell is slight. He trembles as he sets a tray of food by the door. Lambert can’t help himself- he leans forward from his place on the floor and snarls at the boy, showing his teeth like the beast they think he is.

The young soldier squeals and scrambles back. He bolts down the hallway, torch forgotten behind him, and shouts for his companions. Lambert curses as he runs. Vesemir always warned him about his impulse control- about not digging himself into a deeper hole. Pity he didn’t heed that advice.

Four men come down the hallway, the boy at their heels.

“I see the monster is awake,” says the first one.

“I never slept,” Lambert spits back. “Unlike you, I have no need for it.”

That’s not entirely true, but Lambert enjoys the shock in brings to the man’s face. Those who fear witchers are willing to believe anything about them. Any monstrous detail, and difference between witchers and themselves, telling stories of how inhuman witchers are, how unnatural. Most witchers try to ignore the myths. Lambert appreciates their usefulness.

“Beast,” the soldier says.

“Whore’s son.”

The soldier lets out a shout of rage and throws the cell door open. Lambert has no plans to escape. He just wants the fight, wants to enjoy the crunch of his fist on bone as he throws the man into the wall with a single blow. They beat him afterwards, of course. His skin is torn and his ribs bruised, but Lambert doesn’t care. He spits blood into the face of the nearest guard and grins.

Julian steps from his carriage door onto the gravel drive. The weight on his back is not from a lute as usual, but from a velvet cloak that sweeps against the ground as he walks. It is familiar all the same. Two servants flank him, their heads held high as he strides to the front doors of the manor. He lifts the knocker and lets it fall, just once, before settling back to wait. A disgruntled butler opens the door.

“The Baron is not expecting guests,” he says. It is not a proper greeting. Julian’s lips press into a thin line.

“I do not need to be expected. Markus is at breakfast, I assume?”

The butler takes in his appearance for the first time. His eyes linger on the signet ring around Julian’s finger and he swallows hard. “Yes, my Lord. He sat down not three minutes past.”

“Good. See me to him.”

Markus’ estate is as atrocious as Julian remembered. He eyes the artwork with distaste and decides to give the housekeeper at Lettenhove a raise. In front of a pair of double doors, the butler hesitates. Julian raises an eyebrow at him and he lowers his eyes, raising a hand to knock.

“Enter,” booms Markus’ voice.

His butler swings open the doors and bows low. “A visitor, sire.”

Markus cannot see him in the darkness of the hallway, hidden as he is behind the half open doors and the butler. Good. Julian always did enjoy making an entrance.

“Who?”

Another bow, and then the butler raises his voice in the proper tone for announcing a noble guest. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

He needs no further introduction. Julian sweeps past the man into the main hall. Markus is at the head of the table, surrounded by minor lords and their servants. He meets Julian’s eyes with the most delicious look of surprise.

“Julian,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“Lord Pankratz,” Julian corrects. “Do remember your manners, Markus.”

The baron’s face flames beet red and he drops his fork with a clatter. “Why are you here?”

“I have come for my witcher.”

Markus’ guests break into a storm of excited chatter. The baron digs his fingers into the table until his knuckles turn white. “You dare claim that beast as your own? He killed my wife!”

A small white lie is called for here. Julian is uncertain how the baron would react to the news that he has shared a bed with Lambert, albeit platonically. “Indeed. He is in my service, and I will not stand to have him mistreated.”

The baron lashes out in anger, sweeping his water goblet from the table. “Mistreated? That mutant is a monster.”

Julian hums dismissively. “I heard the true monster was your wife. She had the whole town bewitched and you were too busy getting your dick wet to notice.”

Slack jawed, the baron casts about for an excuse. Finding none, he narrows his eyes at Julian and changes tactics. “How could you possibly know that? She was killed just last night. Are you a sorcerer as well as a monster lover now, too?”

“Nothing happens in Kerack without my knowledge.” Julian gestures widely, encompassing the room and everything beyond it. “Every whisper, every death. My network is wide and varied, Holmberg, unlike yours. Word of your faerie bride’s untimely demise reached my ears scant hours after the fact.” The baron’s face pales, and Julian continues, “I know there is naught but shit between your ears, so I’ll use small words.” He leans in closer and speaks slowly, as if to a child. “You have my witcher. Release him.”

“He’s a murderer!”

“And you’re a cunt.” Julian levels him with a haughty glare. “Must we stand here stating the obvious? Release him, Markus. I’ll not ask again.”

The baron pushes himself to his feet, sputtering. “You cannot make me.”

“I can.”

“With what?” Markus points a finger at Julian’s chest. His guards tighten their grip on their weapons. Perhaps it would have threatened a lesser man. “Are you here to blackmail me, Lord Pankratz? To spit on my name with another of your ridiculous ditties? The witcher is a killer and a criminal, and I shall do with him as I see fit.”

Julian does not flinch. He hardly moves as Markus spits and shouts, standing firm before the table and giving off the distinct impression that it is his hall rather than the baron’s.

“Blackmail you?” he asks lightly. “I could. I could tell these lovely guests of yours all about the bastard children, and the affairs, and how it is you came to be married to a faerie woman in the first place.” Julian offers the diners a smirk. “Or perhaps I should mention the gambling, or the empty lines on your ledgers.”

He tilts his head as if in thought, and continues, “I could threaten you. With as few knights as you have these days, I don’t imagine Rothfurt is up for protecting against an attack, even from a mortal army. And, well, I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”

A shudder works its way down Markus’ spine. Every man in Kerack has heard the stories. Supernatural hunters, with alchemical fire and blades sharp enough to cut a man through sight alone. He notes the quiet confidence in Julian’s posture and realizes, with a bolt of shock, exactly who he has imprisoned in his dungeon. A witcher with a wolf medallion. The spectre that haunts the dreams of Nilfgaardians. Fear like cold steel wraps around his throat.

“But here’s the beautiful thing,” Julian says. “I don’t need to.” He smiles at Markus like a predator, eyes flashing with something not entirely human. “I don’t need to blackmail you, or threaten you, or remind you of my favor with the king. I don’t need to do anything, Markus, because I outrank you. My boots are yours to polish. My orders are yours to obey.” His voice rings clear as a bell in the stillness of the hall. “Make no mistake, Baron de Rothfurt- this is a direct order. Bring me my witcher.”

There are no insults this time. No leers, no bruises. The soldiers open Lambert’s cell door with their eyes firmly planted on the floor, their skin reeking of barely suppressed fear. Two of them haul him to his feet and march him out of the dungeon. Lambert goes willingly.

He recognizes the halls they dragged him through yesterday. His body aches from the morning’s beatings, but he is lucid enough to retrace their steps. The smell of fear grows stronger as they approach the main hall, until it’s so thick in the air that Lambert can hardly stand it. He is unsure why their fear increases, when he is already subdued.

A servant pushes open the doors and he is thrown unceremoniously to the ground, the soldiers behind him making a hasty retreat.

“Are you satisfied now, my lord?” the baron asks.

“Not quite.”

Lambert’s head snaps up at the voice. A familiar man stands in front of him, displeasure written into every line on his face. But this man is not the one he knows.

He always thought the bard’s travelling silks were ridiculous. Now Lambert understands why he called them “casual.” Julian’s outfit is a thousand times more decadent than anything he brings on the Path. Rich blue velvet makes up his overcoat, the sleeves embroidered in gold thread to match the heavy gold belt at his waist. His breeches and shoes are similarly adorned. Gemstones glint in place of buttons.

The coronet on his head looks like it belongs there. Lambert can see it in the set of Julian’s spine, can hear it in the echoes of his voice from lessons past, teaching about the differences between crowns, coronets, and tiaras. Status drips from his pores. It races through his veins like blood. His syllables come out clipped, in a perfect, studied lilt that is built from issuing orders and knowing they will be obeyed.

“Stand up, Lambert.”

He hauls his feet beneath his aching body and stands. Julian does not reach out a hand to help him. Instead, he turns to the baron.

“This man saved your town. What say you to him?”

Markus’ eyes are filled with liquid hate, and no small amount of fear, as he looks at Lambert. “Thank you,” he grits out.

“No.” Julian clicks his tongue. “On your knees, Markus.”

Every soul in the hall holds their breath. Julian looks on, unaffected. The baron meets his eyes and defiance burns bright in his gaze.

With a voice like the whisper of an arrow being released from a bowstring, Julian says, “I will not repeat myself.”

The baron’s jaw clenches. It unclenches. He pushes his seat away from the table, ignoring the scrape of metal on wood flooring. He moves to stand in front of Jaskier. He sinks to his knees.

“Thank you, Lord Pankratz.”

Julian shakes his head. “Not me.”

“Thank you,” says the baron, with his eyes lowered in shame and his breeches dirty from the floor, “witcher.”

“And?”

“I am sorry for your wrongful imprisonment.”

The words are said between gritted teeth, but they are said all the same. Lambert feels a little as though the air has been knocked from his chest. Insincere though it may be, he has never received an apology for mistreatment before. Not even at sword point.

A smug smile breaks across Julian’s face. “Better.” He leans down to grab the baron’s chin, tilting his face up so he is forced to meet Julian’s icy glare. “Be careful from now on, Markus. Remember, I hear everything. Every. Little. Slip.” His fingers grip hard enough to turn the baron’s skin red beneath them. “I won’t always be in such a generous mood.”

With that, he shoves Markus away and pivots on his heel. Two servants emerge from the shadows to fall in step behind him. They shoot self-satisfied looks to the baron’s men, still garbed in their horrid livery. The baron is still on the floor, shivering.

“Come along, Lambert.”

His injured knee causes a bit of a limp as Lambert follows him to the front door. They burst out into sunlight and Jaskier immediately throws the velvet cloak from his shoulders, sighing loudly as it hits the ground.

“Shit,” he says with feeling.

Lambert is manhandled into the waiting carriage, and immediately familiar fingers slip under his shirt to check for injuries. When he brushes over a few minor cuts, Jaskier’s face darkens.

“I am going to ruin him.”

“I’m alright,” Lambert says, but he lets Jaskier pull off his shirt anyway. A first aid kit emerges from somewhere as the carriage starts rolling. Jaskier rubs an ointment along a vicious purple bruise and Lambert relaxes back into it, feeling the strain of fighting and imprisonment finally catch up to him.

“Oh, no,” Jaskier says firmly, “I have plans. I am going to drag that man’s reputation through so much mud even swine will shudder to look at him.”

It’s no idle threat. Lambert is certain that the Baron de Rothfurt may soon find himself divested of a title. He’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t please him.

Lambert shoots a wry grin up at Jaskier, letting his teeth show and reveling in the lack of fear produced by them. “You said you’d seen his cock?”

Jaskier groans and squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “It was an ill-advised tryst in my teenage years.”

“You’ve slept with that shit stain?”

“I’ve slept with half the Continent,” Jaskier shoots back. “And a good chunk of the nobility, too. Don’t look so surprised about it.”

Laughing makes his ribs ache, but Lambert does it anyway. “Half the Continent, and you settle down with Geralt? You’re selling yourself short, Lord Pankratz.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Jaskier cuffs him over the back of the head. It’s childish, and silly, and exactly the kind of casual touch that every other mortal on the face of the earth is too afraid to engage in with a witcher. A grin spreads between Lambert’s ears as he cuffs him right back.

Their lord brings back a witcher. He has glowing gold eyes and two terrifying slashes down one side of his face, but the lord touches him like something precious. They joke and tease as they walk into the manor, the witcher leaning on the lord for support.

The two men retire to a sitting room, the servants gathering round outside the door to eavesdrop. One serving girl grows bold enough to peek in the keyhole. Her eye catches on the glint of a wolf medallion, and she turns excitedly to tell the others.

Yes, she says, it’s one of them.

One of them. The four. The great.

Nilfgaard’s Bane, one man calls them. The Wolves of Wrath, says another. Indeed, a great debate has waged for months in Lettenhove on what to call the four men who laid siege to Nilfgaard’s army and saved the viscount’s life, but one thing can be agreed upon by all; they are heroes.

The butler brings wine and refreshments before the lord can think to ask, bowing as deeply to the witcher as he does the viscount. Servants rush to clear out a room, changing the sheets twice in their excitement and running feather dusters down every inch of exposed surface, running back and forth to take turns at the keyhole.

When he has eaten his fill, the witcher is ushered up the stairs by a rather disgruntled looking viscount. “Trust you to start a fight instead of sleeping like a sane prisoner,” he mutters, and they disappear up the stairs.

The witcher sleeps for a long time. His fire is stoked with diligence. His hallway is kept clear of noises, distractions, and overwhelming smells. A bath is drawn for him with water near to boiling. Curious eyes watch through yet another keyhole as their lord bathes him, running fingers through the witcher’s hair and chastising him gently for the blood that has accumulated there. It feels too private, and soon they look away.

Later, hours later, when the witcher has eaten, and made conversation, and fallen asleep once more, the lord makes his way down to the kitchens. He has changed back into more common clothes, but the regality remains. The butler and the cook and the wait staff gather at his summons.

“Thank you,” he says. He meets each of their eyes and holds them there, pride glowing bright in his expression. A matching pride roars to life within them. “Thank you for welcoming him.”

One by one, they bow. One by one, they return to their duties. Determination is set in their expressions. Come morning, the witcher will have breakfast at his bedside and a freshly polished set of swords in the corner of his room. It is the least they can do for a man who has saved so many lives. The world may not be ready to thank him yet, but there is a home for him in Lettenhove.

Yes, the servants have heard the stories. They listened well.