Chapter Text
It's surprising how fast two years can pass when you're not paying attention.
Before he knows it, Jaskier’s twenty-first birthday is just around the corner and it's time to make plans for the big day.
The only reason he could spend all this time in peace and safety, Jaskier is well aware, is due to Yennefer's protective enchantments all over the estate.
But Stregobor is not one to give up easily. He's aware that Jaskier is still alive, or assuming as much at least, and he has no doubt spent these two years scheming and plotting and making sure Jaskier won't be able to get his butt anywhere near the throne.
They pull out all the stops. The Witchers arm themselves with a ridiculously impractical amount of different kinds of weapons.
For three days straight Ciri insists on communicating solely via scribbling on a stack of parchment she carries around, explaining to everyone who bothers to read her smeared handwriting that she’s resting her voice for the big day.
Yennefer even suggests releasing Jaskier’s seal, just in case, but Jaskier points out that the council would be less likely to crown him if he burns the castle down first.
However, when the day finally arrives and they make their way into Lettenhove city, things remain eerily silent.
Well, not silent. People go about their usual business, the smith at the corner is hammering away at a horseshoe and a busker plays a truly horrendous rendition of what would otherwise be one of Jaskier’s favourite songs.
But there’s no sudden magic explosions as they make their way down the main road. No poisoned arrows shooting out of dark alleyways.
The people around them watch their little group curiously and whisper and point amongst each other, but no one stops them as they head towards the castle.
The guard on duty even grants them a respectful nod and holds the heavy wooden door open as they approach.
Jaskier gulps as he steps over the threshold behind Eskel and the gloomy shadows of the entry hall engulf him.
Whatever Stregobor is planning, it can’t be anything good if he’s this confident about letting Jaskier get close. He must have some sort of trump up his sleeve, some sort of secret plan that they aren’t prepared for. And that means Jaskier has put not only himself in danger, but his entire new-found family, too.
Hells, even Ciri is with them, right in the middle of all the danger.
Not that anyone could have stopped her from coming along once she had set her mind on it.
But now Jaskier realises that he never should have involved any of them in the first place.
He should have just snuck out on his own and faced whatever Stregobor has planned for him by himself. Or let the whole crown business kiss his ass and never show up in the first place.
But then again, he couldn’t do that, either. Not after he saw how Stregobor’s politics have influenced not only his beloved Witchers, but the whole populace of Lettenhove as well.
Oh well, none of that matters now anyway. He’s here, at the castle, with his family, and there’s no going back.
Wordlessly, Jaskier takes the lead of their little delegation and marches into the throne room, head held high and giving an impression of confidence that he doesn’t actually feel.
And there he is.
Stregobor.
The bane of Jaskier’s existence.
Lounging on the throne as if it were already decided that his stupid ass belonged there.
Jaskier grinds his teeth to hold back all the flowery insults and protests that pop into his mind.
“Julian, my boy!” Stregobor announces theatrically and spreads his arms wide in a welcoming gesture.
The performance is noticeably for the merit of the assembled council members rather than Jaskier himself. “You have returned. What happy tidings! I’ve feared the worst for your well-being after you suddenly disappeared all those years ago!”
“I’m not your boy, we’re not related,“ Jaskier returns coldly. “And I’ve come to claim my throne.”
“Ah, Julian, always so focused and determined. Just like your mother!” Stregobor retorts unperturbed, and at the mention of Jaskier’s mother Eskel puts a steadying hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.
Which is probably the only reason Jaskier doesn’t pounce forward and try to get his hands around Stregobor’s neck.
“But why don’t we let politics be politics for the moment,” Stregobor continues with false generosity, “and celebrate your safe return home! Such happy news calls for celebrations!”
“Sure,” Jaskier replies sarcastically. “We can throw a feast. As soon as I’ve been crowned king and taken my rightful place on the throne.”
“Straight to the point, I see,” Stregobor sighs, faking disappointment but barely able to hide a wide, predatory grin. “Well, you see dear Julian, I’m afraid things aren’t quite so simple. There’s lots to discuss. Many questions to answer about your whereabouts for all those years. The honoured council has a right to hear all the information before they decide which course of action is best for the benefit of the country.”
“Two,” Jaskier corrects. “It’s only been two years. And I’ve spent them in hiding to protect myself from the assasination attempts against my person.”
At that, surprised whispers travel through the crowd of assembled councilmen, and Jaskier has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
Even if no one can admit things openly in this silly game of cat and mouse, surely the council must have been aware that Stregobor has been trying to remove Jaskier from the picture.
“Assasination?” Stregobor gasps overdramatically. “My, how utterly terrible! Whoever would do such a thing to our beloved prince?”
“If only I knew,” Jaskier sighs mockingly.
Unfortunately, he has to play along in this ridiculous game and can’t outright accuse Stregobor. Without proof, he’d only be playing into his stepfather’s hands and help him declare Jaskier paranoid or whatever, and unfit to the throne. “Regardless, what matters is that they haven’t succeeded and that I’m here now.”
“Ah, yes, how lovely,” Stregobor returns, equally sarcastic. “And I see you’ve brought your…court with you,” he adds with a motion of his hand that indicates the three Witchers standing around him protectively. The heavy pause before the word ‘court’ causes another round of frantic murmuring from the council.
“Is this how you intend to ensure the continuation of the royal bloodline, then? By fraternising with these…men?”
Another heavy pause.
Another implication.
Jaskier closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath and once again pictures his hands around Stregobor’s neck. It helps to calm the rising fury in his stomach to a manageable level.
“What exactly are you saying?” Jaskier merely asks, though he can guess where this is going.
With all the preparation, with all the strategic planning and protective spells they had put in place, none of Jaskier’s family had even remotely considered that Stregobor wouldn’t try to beat him with poison and force, but with the game of politics.
The thing is, while it’s not surprising in itself that Stregobor would use Jaskier’s relationship with the Witchers against him, it’s worrying that he’s doing it so confidently.
He shouldn’t have known about their relationship.
He shouldn’t have been able to prepare it as an accusation against Jaskier.
How had he found out about it? Yennefer’s estate was protected and Jaskier has full trust in her magical abilities.
Stregobor must have set his spies on them on those rare occasions when the others left the protective wards to buy supplies from the nearby village.
The idea that Stregobor had known where Jaskier was hiding all this time and merely chose to not try any kind of attack against him has Jaskier feeling sick to his stomach.
He thought he’d been hidden, had escaped Stregobor’s reach for the time being.
And worst of all, Jaskier still isn’t entirely sure what kind of play Stregobor is preparing.
“What I’m saying is,” Stregobor points out, unaware of Jaskier’s rising panic, “can you provide an heir to the throne?”
“I’m turning twenty-one today,” Jaskier points out, unable to fight the feeling that he’s walking right into a trap. “That’s hardly a matter that needs to be settled today.”
“So you don’t,” Stregobor replies and shakes his head in mock disappointment. “I feared as much. Ah, the carelessness of the youth. But might I remind everyone present-” and at that he turns to the council proper for the first time since Jaskier entered the throne room. “-of the terrible disease that curses the royal bloodline. Chances are, the poor lad will be taken from us before he has the chance to secure an heir.”
“So?” Lambert scoffs. “What’s the alternative? You’re, what, sixty? You old greaser won’t be getting it up anytime soon. You don’t have an heir, either!”
“Lambert!” Yennefer snarls. “Keep out of this, you moron!”
Then she composes herself and addresses the council herself, once again the epitome of elegance and authority.
“It is my great joy to inform you, honoured gentlemen of the council, that I have found a cure for the disease. Prince Julian here has a long and healthy life to look forward to.”
“Ah, and I suppose you have proof for that, then” Stregobor snarls, dropping the facade of the concerned stepfather.
“I-,” Yennefer falters and looks at Jaskier pleadingly.
She’s out of practice at playing the intrigue game. They both are.
“And as for my own heir,” Stregobor exclaims triumphantly, “I may have passed the age where one is capable of reproduction, as the red-haired gentleman pointed out so eloquently,” he nods at Lambert, “but luckily, I have taken care of that issue in a timely manner.”
With that cryptic announcement, he motions towards the shadows behind the throne and a thin, unassuming man that Jaskier hadn’t noticed so far nervously steps forward.
“My son, Valdo,” Stregobor announces.
“What?” Jaskier can’t help but shout.
Stregobor’s son?
But that means…
The man is around Jaskier’s age, a few years younger maybe.
Jaskier always thought his mother’s marriage to that arsehole had been purely out of financial reasons.
The idea that the two of them…
“He’s not of royal blood, of course,” Stregobor continues. “Another woman sired him. But with things as they are, it appears there’s a need for a new royal bloodline, anyway.”
Oh, that’s… well that means Stregobor cheated on Jaskier’s mother, but it’s not like he gives much of a damn.
Other than that he wished that Valdo guy would drop dead this instance.
Painfully, preferably. Maybe he could be struck by apoplexy?
“I’m not dead, yet,” Jaskier reminds everyone. “The royal bloodline still exists.”
“Ah, yes, but for how much longer?” Stregobor repeats his point. “There’s no heir, there’s no certainty that poor Julian will live long enough to sire one. I, on the other hand, might not be of royal blood, but I have successfully ruled this land for the past years, have I not? While our dear Julian had been galavanting about, doing gods knows-”
“Hiding!” Jaskier interrupts. “From assassins, remember?”
But he can see the doubt on the councilmens’ faces.
Jaskier has lost. Stregobor has successfully framed himself as the preferable, safer option for the throne.
Sure, a king with a proper claim to the throne is always preferable, a former trader with no titles whatsoever will have a hard time getting recognized by the rulers of neighbouring countries.
But since Stregobor seems to have convinced the council that betting on Jaskier will mean no king at all in a short amount of time… Well.
Unless Jaskier can pull an unexpected heir out of his hat like Stregobor just did, it would appear he’s been beaten.
And that means he has not only failed his country and his parents, but his new family, as well. Because Stregobor surely won’t allow Jaskier to simply walk away. Not since he could still sire a child and thus strengthen his claim to the throne.
No, the only way this can end now is for Jaskier and his companions to end up in the dungeons or at the gallows.
Stregobor practically has no other choice.
“He has an heir, though,” a voice rings through the silence that followed Jaskier’s weak protest.
All heads in the room turn in unison at the source of those words.
From behind Geralt’s broad back, Ciri steps forward.
It’s only because Jaskier has gotten to know her so well over the past two years that he can see the fear and insecurity at the unfamiliar attention sparkling in her eyes. To anyone in the room who doesn’t know her, she must appear entirely certain and confident.
“Jask- Prince Julian has an heir,” Ciri repeats. “Me. He adopted me.”
Only barely can Jaskier stop himself from shouting “I did?”
“That doesn’t count,” Stregobor’s voice thunders through the room instead.
“It doesn’t give me the status of a member of the royal bloodline, true,” Ciri agrees. “But in lieu of another candidate, it does make me the rightful heir of Prince Julian. And unlike the king regent and his bastard,” she nods her chin at Stregobor, “I am at least of noble birth. Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg is my mother.”
“I, uhm-,” Jaskier stutters as he stares at Ciri with wide eyes.
Has she learned the laws of Lettenhove’s court by heart?
Sure, Jaskier has rambled at her about them often enough, they are what kept him from becoming king right after his mother’s death, after all. But he hadn’t expected her to listen to any of that, let alone remember it. It’s about the most boring topic one could possibly think of!
“So you have a choice between a title-less nobody with an illegitimate son who’s equally unimportant,” Ciri points out, defiance and determination in her voice. “Or you can appoint the rightful heir to the throne, who might still have an heir later on, or if he doesn’t will pass on his legacy to an honoured and high-born member of the nobility.”
Ciri looks at her parents, her actual parents for reassurance, and the way Yennefer and Geralt stare back at her with the same bafflement that’s taken over Jaskier tells him that they had no idea what Ciri was planning.
“I, uh, Ciri, are you sure-,” Jaskier splutters, but Ciri merely steps over to him and gives him a tight hug.
“I know, dad , that we wanted to keep the adoption a secret until things settle down about the whole crowning matter,” she says meaningfully. “But grandpapa Stregobor was so happy to see you, I thought he’d be even happier to learn he has a granddaughter now!”
Fuck.
Jaskier still only manages to stare at her in wonder.
It’s like little Ciri is taking to this whole court business like a fish to water.
But still, he can’t expect her to make such a sacrifice for him.
“What about Yen and Geralt, though?” he whispers in her ear. “What about your parents?”
“They’ll still be my parents, duh,” Ciri whispers back and rolls her eyes. “Who cares about what’s official when we all know what counts? Besides, I’ve finally decided what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a queen!”
“Huh, okay, right,” Jaskier chuckles incredulously.
“But, but, but-,” Stregobor huffs, the smug look he held since they arrived fallen from his face. “That’s ridiculous! He didn’t adopt her!”
“We’re very sad we couldn’t do the ceremony with the whole family present,” Ciri chimes with false innocence. “But we wanted to get it done as soon as possible. I’m sure you understand!”
She and Yennefer look at each other for a long moment, and there’s a lot of unsaid words passing between them.
Maybe they even communicate silently in some sort of magic way, who’s to say?
Then Yennefer turns towards the room again and, her confidence reclaimed, announces: “Should any party present doubt the legitimacy of my daughter’s claim they may rest assured that I, Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, witnessed the ceremony and can indeed attest to the proper proceedings of the adoption. I present to the court: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Lady of Lettenhove and Vengerberg.”
Only Geralt continues to look utterly confused.
Jaskier feels guilty for a moment, but there’s more pressing matters right now. He’ll fill Geralt in later.
At Yennefer’s words, a cascade of whispers and murmurs breaks out at the council seats.
Jaskier ignores them for now. There’s little doubt what conclusion they’ll come to.
Instead, he watches Stregobor, who’s grown rather pale in the last few minutes.
His son, that strange Valdo guy, bends down towards his father, but Stregobor waves him off like an annoying fly.
Jaskier feels almost bad about his earlier wish that the man may drop dead. It seems he’s nothing more than a pawn to Stregobor’s plans.
The lad looks around the room, uncertain, and chews on his lips. He’s probably not used to all the commotion at court, probably barely ever met Stregobor until he became useful.
Jaskier imagines he’s hoping for someone to tell him what to do now.
“Well, well, well,” a high, breathy voice interrupts Jaskier’s musings as the eldest of the council members slowly rises from his seat.
Normally, Jaskier would assume that the speed, or lack thereof, with which the Elder steps forward would be for additional dramatics. But considering the deep creases in his face, the thin, crooked fingers that tightly clutch the top of a gnarled walking stick, and the way his spindly legs tremble with effort with each shaky step, Jaskier is inclined to believe that the old man probably can’t actually walk any faster.
“The council is overjoyed at the return of our young prince,” the elder announces between shaky breaths once he reaches the lectern at the forefront of the council’s ranks.
“We thank master Stregobor for his dutiful service. But given that today is his highness’ twenty-first birthday and he has finally come of age, we shall start the crowning ceremony at once. Now where did we store that crown away, exactly?”
Jaskier rolls his eyes.
Of course the council would pretend now like they had always intended to stand by his side.
But that’s politics for you, and Jaskier has had about enough of that, at least for today.
What matters is that he did it.
He outsmarted Stregobor and won the game!
He’ll be able to undo all the damage Stregobor’s rule has caused, his family will be safe, it’s a happy end, after all!
Swayed by the joy and relief that floods through him, Jaskier laughs loudly and scoops up Ciri, who’s still pressed to his side, swinging her around in a wide circle.
“You’re a genius, my dear!” he tells her. “I couldn’t think of anyone better to become the future queen of this land!”