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Chapter Text

„If you keep glaring like this, she will run away long before the wedding ends, “laughs Eskel. Geralt grunts in reply. The teasing was getting old, and he was hardly in the mood for remarks about his bride-to-be. If he was being honest, he tried not to think at all about the mysterious girl awaiting him inside the palace. He imagined her face when she sees him: tall, scarred, eyes like burning fire. She’d flinch, no doubt. Perhaps cry. He hated that most of all—the fear. He could stomach hatred; the long years at the Path made him used to it. He could survive disapproval. But fear? That made him feel like something less than human. She would see what decades of whisperers crafted- a legend of the witchers killing monsters, stealing food, and eating children. Would she at least pretend not to be frightened, or will she flee from the room? His scowl deepens. Eskel smirks. “I mean it. You should at least try.”

“She will be scared anyway,” he says at last. His already broody mood worsened by this whole ridiculous plan. If someone told him that one simple uprising would lead to this whole charade, he would have stayed on the Path, slaying monsters and never once complaining about his bitter ale or thin bedroll. Instead, he is dressed in his traditional attire, leading Roach through the city gates to meet his bride. Even the word tastes wrong on his tongue. As if he wished to have another human who was frightened by his appearance. He tries to focus on the landscape, although the view only crystallizes his doubts. The outer districts are a maze of buildings—homes, bakeries, smithies—stacked like blocks by a child too impatient to make them neat. Laundry lines stretched from one crooked window to another like spider silk. The whole city is bathed in sunshine and happiness. Geralt knows what awaits his bride in Kaer Morhen- cold and dark stone. Who in their right mind would trade this luxury for a ruin? As the procession climbed higher into the city, the streets narrowed, but the buildings grew grander—twisting towers, arched bridges connecting balconies. Ivy crawled up stairwells that seemed to float, and laughter spilled from shaded courtyards. Some of the citizens look at him and turn away, frightened, taking their children indoors. He knows this all too well. For decades, people would look at him with disgust and hatred, so why would their attitudes change once he was a King? He ignores them, staring into the distance and trying not to think about a girl in the palace who will look at him with the same expression he sees on the streets. A huge hand lands on his shoulder. Geralt looks around and grunts at his mentor. Vesemir smiles reassuringly. It was all his idea. A small revolt led to a war, and war led to the establishment of the Northern kingdom and the coronation of Geralt as their first king. But monsters didn’t disappear just because witchers were busy running their new land. The growing tension forced Vesemir to accept a deal. Queen for their king and peace for their lands. In return, Witchers would once again slay monsters and would be treated with respect. Geralt hated the idea of forcing an innocent girl to marry him, but Vesemir's plan made sense. Another war would bring only death and destruction, and Geralt was getting tired of washing the blood off his hands. The palace appears at the city’s crown, a great construction of cream-coloured stone, its windows a thousand flames in the sun. Birds circle its towers. He would meet her today. The princess. The new Queen of the North. His wife, by the end of the week, if the nobles had their way. 

Chapter Text

They pass the heavy metal gate and find themselves at the cobblestone square, busy with royal servants. The witcher quickly dismounts. The stable boy who takes Roach's reins squeaks when Roach tries to bite him.  “She doesn’t like people,” he says and pats her back. “Easy. Be good, girl.” He waits for his brothers to join him and another servant, who is trembling like a leaf in the wind. “The King awaits you, your Majesty.” He glances at the twin swords on his back. “Uhmm…it is a sign of goodwill to leave all weapons outside.” “No,” Geralt grunts. No one else dares to ask him again. The loud sound of his boots on the tiled floor cuts all the talking as he steps into the King’s receiving hall. King Alfons is dressed in a heavy red cloak and golden crown, sitting on an elaborate throne. Beside him stand nobles from different houses and a few servants. Geralt looks at the girl standing next to the throne. Her dress is sharply cut, simple, in cornflower blue with colorful embroidery. Her long, honey-coloured locks are tied in a complicated hairstyle, and her bright eyes remind him of the cloudless sky. Atop her head is a little golden tiara. Is that the princess who is promised to him? He was hoping she would be more…ordinary. After the whole mess with Yennefer, the last thing he needs is another beautiful woman.  Someone clears his throat, and he looks at Eskel. A few of the nobles look angry that Geralt isn’t kneeling; however, no one says anything. “Welcome to our land, King of the North. We welcome you in peace and hospitality and in hope that your stay will be beneficial to us both. Juliana, dear, greet our quest.” The girl with a tiara steps from King's side and stands in front of the witcher. She is even more beautiful up close. Her dress only adds colour to her eyes.  He took her in—she is tall, taller than he imagined, with soft features and unreadable eyes. Not beautiful in the delicate way nobles preferred to market their daughters. And she is studying him just as closely, her eyes trying to read him. “Lady Juliana,” he says, amused. “Your Majesty.” She bows slightly. The princess smells nice, nothing too overwhelming to his nose. And she is…embarrassed. And determined.  “Welcome to Lettenhove, my lord. My name is Juliana, my lord, but many call me Jaskier,” she says with a melodic voice. Geralt kisses her hand, still looking into her eyes. “What do you prefer to be called?” 
“Jaskier, my lord.”
“Don’t call me my lord. I'm Geralt.” Jaskier smiles softly. “Welcome, Garalt. I hope your stay will strengthen our nations.” 
“Hmm,” is all Geralt says. Fortunately, Eskel, by his side, quickly steps in. “We are most honoured, my lady, to be here. I'm Eskel.”
“Pleased to meet you, lord Eskel,” replies Jaskier and bows. When Eskel's lips touch her hand, Gerald feels a wave of possessiveness and mentally kicks himself. She isn’t his, and she will never be, the witcher reminds himself. “This, for you,” he grabs a small box from Lambert's hands and gives it to the princess. She rewards him with more of those perfect smiles, and her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. He could spend his whole life watching her. Jaskier opens the box and gasps. Inside is a small hairpin made from interwined wires and jewels. “Thank you, my lord. I will cherish it with utmost respect.” 
“Juliana, perhaps you can show our guests their rooms,” says King, and all of them turn to him. Geralt already forgot he isn’t in the room alone. Jaskier nods and bows. “My lords…witchers…please?” she stammers and blushes even deeply. “Tomorrow, a feast will be held. In the morning, I wish to speak to you, witcher,” the King says, ignoring the Geralts' title and mumbling of his daughter. In return, Geralts turns to leave without a sign of respect, earning a disapproving look from Eskel. The princess leads them through the extravagant palace. Lettenhove is a small kingdom, hardly a fifth of the North, but it's important for trade. All of the other kingdoms must pass through their gates in order to travel farther. No wonder Vesemir chose this girl to be his bride. Witchers will gain more influence, and Lettenhove will gain a new, powerful ally no one will dare to anger. He just doesn’t understand how the little flower occasionally humming in front of him feels about it. Jaksier stops in front of the carved door. “Your room, your Majesty,” she smiles and opens them. “Other rooms are at the end of the hall, I can take…,”
“No,” rumbles Geralt, and Jaksier startles. “My lord?” 
“My brothers will stay with me.”

“Brothers? I was not aware of….of Melitele, pardon my ignorance, I was…” She tries to kneel, but Geralt catches her chin. “We are not related by blood. And don’t call me my lord.”

“My lor…Geralt. There is only one bed in your room.”
“We will use our bedrolls,” says Eskel, “we are used to far worse conditions than a cold floor.” 
“Of course, as my lords wish. I….I will see you at the dinner, my..Geralt.” The witcher could only nod and watch in amusement till the princess disappeared around the corner. 

Chapter Text

The room is exactly as luxurious as the rest of the palace. Lambert and the other witchers immediately begin searching for a hidden pass or any magical objects that could harm them. The king seemed trustworthy, but they had been betrayed too many times in the past. Geralt frowns at the cozy four-poster bed and fluffy carpets covering the floors. Is that the life the princess expects from him? Of course she does, she is a princess. “She is beautiful,” says Eskel, standing close to Geralt. “She is,” he mumbles. “You look like you already fell in love.” 
“Fuck off,” growls Geralt. “There is nothing wrong in being in love, brother mine. She wasn’t afraid of you. Unlike the rest of the room. She is fierce.” 
“That’s what I'm afraid of,” the witcher whispers. Eskel sighs. “She won't be like them. She is not Yenefer or….you know she is not like that.” 
“You can't know that.” 
“No, I can't,” his brother admits, “But I know you. And I know you will never let her hurt.” 
“There has to be another way.” 
“If there was, would you do it? I saw you. You like her, she likes you. At least try.” 
“How am I supposed to try, Eskel? Is she blind? Or deaf? Or completely out of her mind? How could she, how could anyone look at me and be happy to see me?” Eskel opens his mouth to say something when Vesemir interrupts him. “The wedding seals our safe travel through the Continent. If we walk away, it will be seen as an insult.”
“If we walk away,” Geralt says slowly, “we insult them. If she walks away, they would simply...” Eskel tilts his head. “Are you suggesting we let her end it?”
“I’m suggesting we orchestrate the outcome we want. She doesn’t want this either.” Eskel's mouth twitched. “So what do you propose? A war?”

“No,” Geralt said. “I propose we break the engagement without breaking the alliance.” 
„We both know this will never work. King Alfred was hesitant to sign the deal. Having an alliance without security will endanger it, not to mention we will lose our only advantage. Without her, the whole deal is just a scrap of paper.“
„She is more than security.“ A loud munching sound disturbs him from his thoughts. He scowls at Yennefer, who is eating a honey biscuit from a glass bowl.  “Don’t stop on my account. I was rather enjoying our heroic leader defending the little flower.” Geralt sighs. “Why are you here,Yen?” 
“I have news. The kid is rather popular.” Geralt turns abruptly, almost knocking out Eskel. “Oh. Fell in love with her pretty face?” she asks mockingly. “Spit it out, Yen. What do you know? And How? Did you torture someone?” The witch just rolls her eyes with another smirk. “I asked around. The servants say she is graceful, well-spoken, learned in languages, and trained in courtly etiquette. She can sing and plays the lute.” 
“Exactly the thing we need. What do we do with her? It's not like we can take her to our path. What will she do, sing songs of our heroic battles?” asks Lamber, voice dripping with sarcasm.  
“She was not chosen to be a witcher, Lambert.” Lamber chuckles. “No, she definitely wasn’t. It would be a pity with a face like hers. Porcelain skin and those t…,” he is cut off by Gerlats' hands, squeezing his windpipe. “Finish that sentence, I dare you,” he growls. Lambert just smirks. “Oh. Already? Being a little protective, are we? Geralt lets him and rubs his temples.  He just attacked his brother because of that little princess. “Fuck,” he curses as he realises this may be the only battle that he will lose. Yennefer just smiles. “This trip is already getting better.” 

-----

His brothers are settled, either discussing the new treaty or polishing their weapons. Geralt is in discussion with Eskel when he hears a quiet knocking. He draws a sword, used to await monsters on the other side. He catches a whiff of roses and lavender and stills. He quickly sheathes his sword. Only one person in the castle smells like flowers. “Princess?” he opens the door. She looks different. Her eyes are no longer shining with determination, more like with guilt and defeat. She is dressed in a simple white dress that outlines her slender figure, with only a thin shawl covering her. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she looks like she was crying. “Can…can we talk…my lord? Not here. Somewhere, no one could hear us. Please. It's important.”

“Can you find a room?” the princess nods. Geralt turns to his brother, and Eskel nods approvingly, so he follows her through the hallway. They find a small room with cozy rugs on the floor. Geralt turns to the door handle and casts a sign so that no one can hear them. Before Geralt can ask why he was summoned here, Jaskier kneels in the middle of the floor. “I will take any punishment you find appropriate, but promise me you will not hurt innocent people. Promise me the treaty will hold.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. Gerlat sighs. “Look, I know you don’t want to marry me. And you don’t have to. We will find a way. I would never force you to be with me.” Jaskier looks at him with utter confusion. “That’s…that’s not the thing I wanted to discuss. ” Now Geralt looks confused. “Then why did you want to talk?” This whole wedding is a trap.”

“Trap?” echoes Geralt. “Yes. To get rid of me and humiliate you.”

“Speak,” he orders. “Promise me you won't hurt my people,” her voice is quiet, and Geralt resists the urge to hold her and never let her go, but the threat of danger is stronger. “Will this trap hurt my nation?”

“No. No, of course not.”

“Then you have my word.”

“I…I am not a princess,” Jaskier says and immediately bursts into tears. Geralt kneels beside her and pats her back awkwardly. “I…my father doesn’t want me to…he…I….I am not a princess. Not his. He…my mother is someone else.”

 “I…I am not a human either.” Geralt stills, and Jaksier feels the change in him and backs away from him. She is now in the corner, clutching her shawl like a newborn and whimpering softly. “No…I won't hurt you,” he says in a voice reserved only for Raoch. “You kill monsters.”

“You are not a monster.”

“You can't know that.”

“Believe me, Jaskier. I've seen enough monsters to know.”

“I…I don’t know what I am. My mother left me, and my father never spoke of her. I can be anything. I was raised in the palace, given tutors and silk gowns, but the bloodline is... blemished.”

“I don’t care what you are, Jaskier, I won't hurt you.” Princess turns his watery eyes on him. Tears make her eyes even wider and bluer than they already are. “You won't?”

“Of course not. I'm not a human either, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I…I can't be your queen. I can't be queen at all.” Gerlat stared at her, but his face gave nothing.

“You think this changes something?” he asked at last.

She laughs- a small, bitter sound. “It changes everything. In court, I’m a bargaining chip, but one with a crack. My legitimacy has always been quietly overlooked for the sake of politics. But once you and I are wed, the scrutiny will come. Your nobles will dig. They’ll whisper. They’ll say the queen is a lie. A daughter of a...monster... pretending to wear a crown.”

“And?” Geralt says, voice steady.

Jaskier steps back, confused by his calmness. “And it weakens your position. You can’t afford a scandal.” „There aren't any nobles in my court, Jaskier. And no one will ask. Will your father tell someone?“ Jaskier hesitates, then shakes her head. „I don't think so. He needs this alliance to work. And only he and I know what happened. Also, he is too scared of you. He just wants to feel more powerful. But he is not brave enough to actually say anything.“

„If that's true, then why are you here? Were you willing to sacrifice your life to save others? Willing to sacrifice everything for the truth?“

“Yes,” she whispers

“Then I’m honored you trusted me.”

She looks up sharply. “You don’t understand—”

“I understand exactly.” His voice is low now, but firm. “You carry this truth like a wound, and every room you walk into, you brace for it to be reopened. But you didn’t choose your birth, Jaskier. Nor did you choose this.” You never chose me, he yearns to say.

“Thank you. For understanding. ”

“Don’t thank me. So…you don’t want to marry me?” Jaskier looks at him. “I want to. I need to get away from here. I just wanted to give you a chance to rethink it. You deserve better than me.”

“I…look, Jaskier, I can't promise you life at my home will be better. But I can promise you no one will hurt you. I won't force you to do anything, and whatever you wish, you will get.”

“Thank you. I will forever be in your debt.”

“You…you don’t have to.” A few strands of her hair fall loose from her bun. “I will marry you. You and I will marry and bring peace. And then I will let you live your life. By my side or anywhere you please.”

“Thank you,” whispers Jaskier and lightly kisses his cheek. “We should probably go. My maid will be looking for me.”  Geralt nods silently. “But there is one more thing. You didn’t say you want to marry me. You said I would be free if I married you. That I could have anything I wish. But what's there for you? I will marry a true King of the North; your end of the deal will be accomplished. But I don’t have anything to offer. There must be something you want.”

“There is,” admits the witcher, “I need you. You are well educated in political affairs, aren’t you?” Jaskier nods. “And I need you. Nobles send me letters that are just a bunch of insults covered in flowery language. We are warriors, not diplomats. You can handle my correspondence for a start. Also, there is a vast library. None of us has the time to read it or sort it. There is a lot of work to do.” The princess smiles softly. “I will be your servant then?”

“What? No, of course that was not what I was implying,” he stammers. “I was just teasing you, my dear. I know what you were saying. And I accept. I will help you with anything you need.”Thank you, my lady.” She looks at him, really looks. She looks younger, more tired, and deeply relieved. Her smile is even prettier now.

“You are… not what I expected,” she whispers.

Geralt smiles bitterly. “Were you expecting a cold-blooded murderer?” Jaskier chuckles, „Not really. I've heard enough rumours to know better. Half of them is utter nonsense, and the rest is twisting the truth. It's just... I was expecting a man like my father, who would see me as a pretty palace decoration, as a possession that can be used however he wishes. You don't seem like that type,“ she says, seeming lost in her thoughts for a while. „So we have a deal?” She offers him a pale hand. Geralt shakes it firmly, noticing how soft it is. “We have a deal, my lady.”

Chapter Text

Twelve pairs of eyes turn toward him. The air buzzes with quiet expectation. Vesemir looks at him and nods.

Eskel clears his throat, always the first to break the silence. “You asked us to gather. Is there news? Has a decision been made about the wedding?”

„Hardly a decision. Geralt would play a knight in shining armour, and his noble heart cannot take the weight of loveless marriage,“ says Lamber, mimicking Geralt's deep voice.

“Yes,” Geralt says simply. „Yes?“

“I’m marrying her.”

For a breath, the room remains still. Then came the overlapping voices.

“Ha!” Coen laughs, clapping his hands. “You owe me five coins, Lambert.”

Eskel smirks. “I told you. All it would take is one look, and he is composing songs.”

“I am not composing songs,” Geralt mutters.“

“Oh? Then why the sudden change of heart?” Yennefer asks, grin wide. “You’ve been brooding about this alliance for weeks. Yesterday you said, and I quote, ‘I’d rather be eaten by kikimore.’”

“A wavyern,” Geralt corrects, deadpan. “But yes.”

“You’ve done more dodging than a  rabbit,” Aiden adds. “So forgive us, Your Majesty, but we’re curious — what turned your ‘no’ into a wedding date?”

He could tell the truth. Or at least part of it. That he had spoken with Jaskier the night before — really spoken. That she had confessed something no one else knew. That she was not, by blood, the daughter of a King. That her entire position in this court was held together by the whims of her father.

He could say that he saw her strength not as a product of her name, but of her survival.

But he wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t use her secret to satisfy their curiosity. It wasn’t theirs to know.

So instead, he smiles — just a little. “I changed my mind.”

The witchers groan in unison.

“That’s it?” Lambert asks, “You just decided?”

“I reconsidered the facts,” Geralt says calmly.

“Which facts?The fact that she is beautiful? Come on, brother, you weren't that long away.“

Geralt throws them all a long-suffering look and sits down at the head of the table.

“I’m not doing this because of her face,” he says.

“No,” Vesemir replies dryly. “You’re doing it because she’s clever, capable, poised, and happens to come with a powerful ally. But mostly, we think it’s because she’s the only person who’s ever looked you in the eye and didn't quiver with fear.”

Geralt allows himself a small smile. “Maybe I’m just tired of pain.”

There is a pause.

Eskel leans back in his chair. “Well. Whatever convinced you,  you’ve made the right choice. The old king brings strength, and the girl brings the new hope. She’ll make a good queen.”

“I think so too,” Geralt says quietly.

Vesemir studies him for a moment longer. “You’re different today.”

“Am I?”

“You look less like a man avoiding his destiny,” he says, “and more like one who’s finally made peace with it.”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away. He glances toward the window.

“It doesn’t feel like destiny anymore,” he says. “It feels like a choice.”

Coen nods slowly. “Then we’ll prepare for the wedding.” The witchers, one by one, leave his chamber, some muttering theories about the sudden change of heart. Only Vesemir stays. „You spoke to her,“ he says. „She was-is different. She was willing to sacrifice herself for her kingdom, and I have no doubt she wouldn't do it for the North, too.“

“And that's what scares you.“

„She needs help. I will marry her, but don't ask for anything more. This will never be a marriage of love. She will be my advisor. Her room would be far from mine, and if she finds someone worthy, I will let her go. This is the best I can offer.“

„Is that what she wants?“

„She wants to get away from here. And I can provide it for her. I don't have the proof, but I suspect the King hurt her. If that's the case....she is not marrying me because she loves me. She is trading one monster for another.“ Vesemir nods silently, but his eyes hold a question — one he would never dare ask aloud.

----------

The door to King's room opened loudly. The King looks up from his seat, slow and calm.

“Witcher,” he says. “You are late.”

“You and I have something to settle,” Geralt says. His voice is low.

The King sets down his quill.

“Yes, the wedding...” he stops when Geralt's fist hits the table. „Cut the crap. I know the truth.”

The King’s face doesn’t shift, but the stillness behind his eyes tightens— the kind that grows when a man is caught, but too proud to flinch.

“That little...She shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No,” Geralt says, crossing the room, “you shouldn’t have lied. “You lied to your council, your kingdom, and to me — when you promised me a royal bride.”

“It doesn’t matter now. The wedding is today, you can't stop it. Even you can't afford a scandal that big.”

“I don’t want to stop it.”

“Then what do you want?”

“The truth. Did you hurt her?” King Alfons lifts his chin defiantly. “I won't ask again. Did you ever hurt her?”

“She is mine to discipline,” King growls. “A disobedient girl with no sense of place. I took her in, gave her a roof, and I made her a lady. She is a wild beast, just like her mother was. I just did what was best for her.”

“You made her a prisoner,” Gerlat says, eyes burning. “And now you send her to me as a gift, hoping I’d kill her once I discover the truth.”

„Once she knows you, she will be begging for death. You should be grateful. I doubt other kingdoms would be willing to give you such a beautiful bride. And even if, what do you have to offer her? Blood, cheap ale, and a thin blanket? You were nobody, and you have nothing.“

“She would have everything she wishes. Safety, freedom to speak without fear of a hand raised against her. She will ride at my side. And if she chooses to walk away from all of it, I will not stop her.”

Alfons laughs — bitter and sharp. “You think yourself noble for taking in a castoff bastard?”

“I think myself accountable,” Geralt says, voice like ice. “And I think you’re afraid.”

The king’s face darkens.

“You fear what she told me. You fear what others may start to suspect — about her, about you, about how far your crown sits from the truth. Your kingdom is small, and only our deal prevents the other from attacking. What will happen once the King of the North decides he will no longer protect you?

“You overstep,” the king warns, his hands clenched into fists.

“And you underestimate me,” Geralt replies. “Harm her again — even whisper another threat in her direction — and I swear to you, no alliance, no treaty, nothing will protect you. No guard will stand fast enough. No wall high enough.”

“You dare to threaten the—”

“I warn a man. But hurt her again, and I will be back to kill the monster.”

The words ring out like steel.

Alfons's expression twists with rage, but he does not speak. Geralt gives a final bow. “Good day, Your Majesty. I hope you will enjoy my wedding.” Then, with a final, cold glance, he turns and strides from the hall, leaving silence in his wake — and a storm behind his eyes. After a while King Alfons calls for a servant. „Alert the mage,“ he orders in a cold voice. „I promise you, witcher, before the sun sets tonight, she will hate you much more than she hates me,“ he whispers too quiet for anyone to hear.

Chapter Text

He refused all servants offering help. Only Eskel and Vesemir stay in the room with him, Eskel smirking at his look.  His doublet is black, near featureless, save for fine needlework at the collar and cuffs—barely visible wolves and lines curling around his wrists. He had refused heavier ornamentation. His crown—a lighter circlet forged of steel and silver—rests untouched on the table beside him. It's the first time since the coronation that he would have to wear it. His white hair is combed in a half ponytail, and the medallion shines brightly against dark fabric. Tonight he will have a wife. And the North would have a new queen.

Jaskier’s chamber smells of rosewater and crushed lavender. Her maids flutter around her like birds—one fixing a stray curl, another threading silver into the netting that holds her hair, another adjusting the weight of her sleeves. The gown is a marvel — silk and feathers, rippling hues of blue, orange, and deep indigo that shimmers when she moves. Her sleeves flow like water down her arms, and the collar opens to show the fine line of her collarbones. There is no tiara today, only the hairpin Geralt gifted her and the little flowers she picked up this morning. Buttercups. She stares at herself in the mirror and sees a stranger. Her father would already be seated, flanked by nobles with clenched jaws and empty goblets. Geralt is waiting for her. She sighs. Today, she will be married. And tomorrow she will no longer belong to her father.

The temple is magnificent in the sunset, its façade a wall of glass and ivory stone, its doors rising higher than any cathedral in Lettenhove. Inside, the light is dim, filtered through great stained-glass windows that cast jewel-toned shadows across the flagstone floor. The air smells of sage and pine. The warlord is standing at the altar. She hadn’t expected him to be in an embroidered doublet, and Jaskier finds himself noticing his beauty. Yesterday, the fear and insecurity fogged his brain, but now, in the candlelight, the warlord looks like a demigod. He wears a crown, and a smaller, similar crown rests on the velvet pillow beside him. Their eyes meet. When he notices her, his mouth falls open, and he shakes his head a little. Jaskier smiles softly, and when Geralt smiles back, her heart flutters.
The priestess in a dark woolen hood inclines her head. “Let it be known: two sovereign hearts join in accord, not command. As the old ways bind your hands, may your words bind your hearts, and may your hearts never bind what must remain free.” She takes a red cord and ties it around their joined hands freely.  “Do you, Geralt and Juliana, join us here of your free will to acknowledge the eternal bond shared between you? Geralt recites his vows in a deep baritone, looking at Jaskier the whole time. “I vow you the first cut of my meat, the first sip of my wine,
from this day it shall only your name I cry out in the night
and into your eyes that I smile each morning;
I shall be a shield for you back as you are for mine,
no shall a grievous word be spoken about us,
for our marriage is sacred between us and no stranger
shall hear my grievance.
Above and beyond this, I will cherish and honor you
through this life
and into the next.“  Jaskier kneels in front of him and lets Geralt put the smaller crown on her head. After a quiet pause, Jaskier opens her mouth and replies in a sweet, melodic tone.
 May you never steal, lie or cheat.
But if you must steal, then steal away my sorrows.
And if you must lie, lie with me all the nights of my life.
And if you must cheat, then please cheat death,
because I couldn't live a day without you. Geralt offers his hand, and she stands beside him while the priestess lifts their joined hands. “Here before the witness, Geralt and Juliana have sworn their vows to each other. With this cord I bind them to these vows. However, these binds are not tied so that neither partner is restricted by the other. The only true enforcement of love is the will to love.” The priestess steps back. There is a moment of silence. Then the hall erupts in applause. Her father doesn’t clap. Nor do few of the nobles, but every one of the witchers cheers loudly, and Geralt suspects some of them are fighting the tears. He is also on the edge; the happiness and contentment radiating from Jaskier is dizzying, and the fact that she is happy in his presence only adds to his elevated mood. The morning seems like eons ago.  

The wedding feast is held in an open-air pavilion at the top of the palace, where pillars of white granite rise into the stars and silk canopies flow in the wind like the sails of ghost ships. The night is beautiful, the sky full of stars, and the air warm with the end of summer. Jaskier and Geralt sit next to each other at the head of the table, but between the endless toasts and congratulations, the space for a conversation is minimal. Finally, after what seems like the thousandth greeting, the buzz ends. “You look bored,” Geralt murmurs. “Oh no, my lord. I just want to thortle that bard for torturing the poor lute that way.”  Geralt chuckles. “I heard you play.“ She looks down at her dress — kingfisher silk that shimmers with every shift of light — then back up at him with a shy smile. “I do. I always wanted to be a bard.” That actually makes him smile. Not the polite kind, but something softer, amused. “A bard?”

“I like stories,” she says, a bit embarrassed. “Songs. Music. Laughing too loud. I wanted to travel and play in inns and write love ballads about strangers and epics about knights fighting monsters. The whole continent would know my name, Jaskier, the most extraordinary bard!” she laughs, then stills. “And instead,” Geralt says, lifting his goblet, “you married a warlord.”

“I’m not blaming you,” she replies with a small grin. He tilts his head. “Would it help if I promised you could still do all that? Once we’re home?” Her eyes widen. “You’d let me… sing? And write songs? In your court?” “I’ll let you do anything you want,” he says, simply, without pretense. “I promised you. You’ll be safe there. You’ll be free. My people won’t touch you unless you ask them to. And you can fill the halls with music if that’s what you want.” Jaskier leans toward him and kisses his cheek. „Thank you.“ Geralt opens his mouth when the sound of a goblet striking wood draws all attention to the dais.

King had risen from his seat. The room quiets. Conversations die. Even the musicians freeze, fingers still on strings. Jaskier curses under his breath.

“Let us not forget,” the King begins, voice calm as ice, “why we are gathered.”

He raises his cup, but doesn't smile.

“This union—though not of affection or choice—is one of necessity. Of strategy. Today, my daughter is given to the Lord of the North, that peace may reign where blood once ran freely.”

A beat. Lambert tenses, and Eskel whispers something in his ear to calm him down.

“The King of North is known by many names,” Alfons continues, “though few of them bear repeating in polite company. But he is, if nothing else, a man who gets what he wants. Even if he must bark like a dog to get it.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter passes through the southern nobles. Geralt’s expression doesn't change. Lambert looks ready to kill.

King’s gaze flicks to Jaskier, cold and empty. “And my daughter, ever dutiful, has served her crown in the way most expected of royal daughters—by becoming a coin for diplomacy.”

She doesn't flinch. “May this binding serve its purpose, and may it keep both our borders and our tempers intact.”

He drains the cup.

No toast. No blessings.

One of the nobles laughs nervously. „The drinks are strong today, and so will be the union of North and South,“ he cheers, and silence is broken. The witchers are glaring at the guests, jaws tense, but Eskel, always the diplomat, takes one of the noble ladies dancing. Geralt, to his credit, doesn't react. He just squeezes her trembling hand. „Sorry.“

„Don't apologize. My father always has his way to win. They will think he was too drunk. Nothing has changed.“

That night, after the feast, they walk together through the quiet halls — away from the music, the wine, the watchful eyes. Jaskier is humming quietly, slightly drunk. Geralt relishes the songs. Signing means Jaskier is happy. Singing means she is safe.

Their wedding chamber is at the edge of the old southern wing, long abandoned, far from the courtiers and guards. It was tradition, they told him-none can disturb them. The door will be locked until the next morning. But the room itself is beautiful. Filled with candlelight and warm sheets. There are faded murals on the wall, and a fire burning low in the hearth. The scent of lavender and roses drifts from the windowsill.

 A servant waits for them in the room. He holds two goblets with dark red wine.

Jaskier turns to Geralt. “There’s a custom,” she says quietly. “Before… consummation. We drink the wine. It’s said to increase the chances of conception.”

Geralt’s jaw clenches slightly. He takes the two goblets and sets them on a nearby table. The servant bows and locks the room behind him. Each turning of the lock echoes in the now quiet chamber. Geralt is still looking distastefully at the vine. Jaskier’s smile dims. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” he says gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I can’t give you children, Jaskier.” She blinks. “What?”

“It's part of the witcher training,” he explains. “Witchers can't have children.” Her mouth opens. “You… you never told me—” He shakes his head. “There wasn't enough time. I thought you knew.” Jaskier shakes her head. „I did not know. But I don't mind. If we can't have children, then so be it.“ She looks at the table. „At least we have nothing to fear then,“ she tries to sound cheerful, but her voice is trembling. “I won’t touch you. Not unless you want me to. And not tonight. I promised you safety. I’ll keep that promise. Jaskier smiles softly and holds the goblet. „Well then, my dear, the final toast to us.“ She drinks from the smaller goblet and grimaces. Geralt takes a sip of his own. The smell is overwhelming, spiced, and heavy. The taste isn't better, the liquid is warm and bitter. He resists the urge to spit it out. Jaskier places her empty goblet back at the table. „What happens now?“

„Now we sleep.“ She watches him grab a blanket from the foot of the bed and toss it near the fire. “You’re taking the floor?”

“I said you’d be safe. I don’t make war on unwilling brides. Jaskier looks at the bed, then turns to Geralt. „There is one more thing I have to tell you,“ she begins, but the loud groan interrupts her. The witcher feels a sudden pain striking through his head. Jaskier runs to him. „Geralt? Are you alright? Geralt?“Her voice is unsure now and quieter. „What...“ she screams, and the room in front of him falls into darkness.

Chapter Text

The chirping of birds and the smell of pain wake him up. His head throbbs. His limbs ache. And the copper tang of blood hangs in the air.
He sits up slowly, body sore, breath shallow, the blanket tangled around his legs. His vision blurs, then clears. The fire is gone, coals buried beneath the ash. And Jaskier is not in the bed. He finds her in the farthest corner of the chamber, wrapped in bedsheets, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair is unbraided, falling in wild strands around her face. A bruise blooms along her cheekbone. One lip is split. Her eyes are wide, unblinking, fixed on him. Like she is waiting for him to move. To change again. “…Jask?”
She doesn’t answer. His heartbeat picks up. He swings his legs off the bed. “Are you—?” She flinches. It is slight — a twitch, a recoil — but enough. Enough to carve a hole in him he doesn’t know how to fill.
He freezes where he stands. “Fuck,” he whispers. “What did I—?”
“You don’t remember?” Her voice is raw, but flat. Detached. Not angry. Just… hollow.
He shakes his head slowly. “Only pieces. Leaving the feast. Then… heat. Something in my blood. I couldn’t think. I—”
He runs a hand down his face, as if he could wipe the fog away. He swears. The curse comes out sharper than he meant, and Jaskier’s shoulders tense again. He swallows hard. “What happened?”
“We came to bed. We talked a little and…” Her voice remains disturbingly calm. “You weren’t speaking clearly. I thought you were just drunk. But when I said no… you didn’t hear me. Or maybe you didn’t care.”
“I didn’t—” he steps forward. She presses herself harder against the wall.
He stops. Cold runs through him.
“You pinned me down,” she says. “Your hands were on my arms. You were—angry.” His fingers curl at his sides. “Did I—?”
“No,” she answers quickly. “I don’t think you wanted to take me.” He sighs in relief, but the next words pierce right through his heart. “I think you wanted to kill me.”
He looks at her again. The bruise. The lip. The fear she can’t quite hide. Her ankle is swollen.
“You fought me.”
“I tried.” She touches her shoulder. “I bit you. When I did, you threw me off the bed and then just collapsed as if dead. I tried to open that damned door, but no one came. Then I was just grateful you left your weapons outside.”
His own hand goes to the wound — deep in the muscle, but already healing. He remembers nothing. Nothing real. Just flashes. Rage. Heat. The smell of her skin, blurred and maddening. And her eyes now, afraid of him. Geralt falls to his knees. “I’m sorry.” It comes out broken. “Fuck, Jask, I’m—” She flinches suddenly, wrapping the thin sheets tighter around her. "Don't you dare call me Jask again." He raises a hand instinctively, palm open, and she recoils. A quick, sharp breath — like a knife skimmed her ribs. That hurts more than anything else ever has. He lowers his hand slowly, like he might be holding a blade. “I didn’t know,” he says, “I swear to you. That wasn’t me. I would never have—”
“But you did.” Her voice is shaking now, even if she tries to hold it steady. “You did, Geralt. And I don’t know how to stop seeing it.”
The words land like stones. She wasn’t accusing. She wasn’t screaming. And that made it worse. “I remember how I felt,” she said. “I remember trying to breathe, and failing. I remember your hands holding me down. You weren’t a man. You were—” her voice breaks, “—something else.” A monster, Geralt thinks. She sees him as a monster now.
“I’ll find who drugged me,” he said. “I’ll bring them to you. I’ll give you their name, their life, whatever you want.”
She doesn’t respond. She only looks at him. “I understand if you hate me,” he says. “I would. I do.”
“I don’t hate you,” she replies, too quietly.
He looks up. “I don’t feel anything yet,” she continued. “That’s worse, maybe.” Geralt stands slowly. He keeps his distance, careful not to startle her again. “You said yesterday you’d protect me. Minutes before you attacked, you promised me you would never hurt me,” she says. “That I’d be safe with you.”
“I meant it.” He steps closer to her, but her whimper stops him. “Get out, Geralt.” He doesn’t move. “I said get out!” she screams and tries to stand up, but her face convulses in pain when she stands on the sprained ankle. “Let me he-”
“Get out or I swear I will kill you,” whispers Jaskier. After one push from his body, the door opens. “Geralt!” a voice barks— sharp, immediate. Eskel, who emerges at the end of the hall.
Behind him, two guards hover in confusion. But Eskel pays them no mind. His eyes sweep the room, catch sight of the disheveled bed, the spilled goblet, the blood droplets on the stone floor — and then, her. Jaskier. Curled near the far wall, trying to stand.
Her ankle gives way beneath her, but she stubbornly tries again.
“Fuck—” Eskel rushes forward, scooping her up without hesitation. “You're hurt. What the fuck happened?”
“Get her to the infirmary,” Geralt says, his voice rough. “Now.”
Eskel doesn’t argue. He casts one last look at his brother — not angry, but questioning — and carries the princess out, shouting for the healers. Jaskier is silent. Her jaw is tight, lips pale. She looks over Eskel’s shoulder, just once, toward Geralt — and her eyes shine with unshed tears.
Then she looks away.
The door closes behind them with a click that echoes like a hammer-blow.

Chapter Text

Geralt stays silent. He doesn’t move. The scent of the poisoned wine still clings to his skin. A tall man enters. Regal despite the weathered face. He closes the door behind him and surveys the wreckage. “Well,” he says. “I suppose congratulations are in order.” Geralt doesn’t rise. “Did you know?” Vesemir raises a brow. “Know what?”

“The wine,” Geralt growled. “Something was in it. I lost control. I—”

His voice breaks. He can’t finish. Vesemir steps closer, his boots silent on the stone.

“I heard,” he says calmly. “Your brother was shouting at the healers. The King’s daughter — injured on her wedding night. A scandal, if not handled carefully.”

“How could it even work? Shouldn’t I be able to detect drugs?”

“From what Jaskier described, the taste and smell masked anything else. It was just too much to detect one part. Yennefer will take the cup and examine it. I came here to talk about what you've done to her.”

Geralt’s eyes narrow. “It wasn’t me. Not really. I would never hurt her.”

“I know that,” Vesemir says evenly. “But the court may not. And the King certainly won’t waste the opportunity to twist the knife.”

Geralt finally stands, swaying slightly. “He did this. I know it.”

“Of course he did.” Vesemir doesn’t even flinch. “You embarrassed him. You took his only daughter and made her your wife. And then you threatened him. He loathes you. And he loathes her for liking you. She would rather be with a witcher than with her own father.”

“Then why poison me?”

“Because if he poisoned her, he’d start a war. But if you harmed her, under the influence or not, you become the monster. He wins sympathy. He proves that the rumors are true. He makes her doubt you. And worse — he makes you doubt yourself.”

Geralt staggers to the hearth, gripping the mantle to steady himself.

“I don’t care about court sympathy,” he growls. “I care about her.”

Vesemir folds his hands behind his back, watching him closely.

“And what are you prepared to do about it?”

Geralt looks up.

“I want to confront him. Drag him into the council chamber and kill him. Feed him to the wolves.”

“Good,” Vesemir says. “Righteous. Noble.” He steps forward. “And foolish.” Geralt’s jaw clenches. “You do that,” Vesemir continues, “and you start a war. You shame her in front of the realm. You make the deal invalid, and you make her choose between you and the blood that raised her.”

“I won’t let him do this,” Geralt says. “Not to her.”

“Then be patient. Wait. Watch. Gather proof. You’re not a boy anymore, you’re a ruler. And rulers strike only when the blow will end something.”

Geralt turned away from him, staring out the balcony doors. “You taught me to kill monsters. He is one.”

“He is. But do you usually marry the daughters of monsters you kill?”

“You’re telling me to let him think he’s won.”

“I’m telling you to let him think he’s safe,” Vesemir replied. “I never said I don’t want him dead, and I guarantee you, every one of the witchers would like to kill him. But that’s not how the world works. ”

Geralt doesn’t answer right away. His hand drifts to the scar on his bicep — an old wound, earned in his youth. Pain, he understood. But this…This was worse.

“She sprained her ankle when I pushed her,” he says quietly. “I don’t even remember. I just saw her afraid, and it broke something in me. What if she doesn’t forgive me?”

Vesemir’s tone softens, just slightly. “She will.”

“You sound certain.”

“She chose you, Geralt. When she didn’t have to. She knew the risks. She’s not blind. She’s brave. And clever. She knows it was her father's doing. She just didn’t think he would do it.”

“I have to make this right.”

“You will,” Vesemir said, turning to leave. “But not with rage and fury. Not yet. With silence. With patience. Let your enemies speak freely while you listen.” He heads to the door but stops. “You said that the poison worked, but it didn’t. Remember, the king wants her dead. You barely hurt her. He will try again.”

-----------

The infirmary is warmer than the bridal chamber had been.

It smells of crushed herbs and linen. The healers work quietly, glancing her way only when necessary. She appreciates the silence. Words would only make her tremble, and she refuses to do that here, in front of strangers. In front of them.

Her right ankle throbs, the swelling making the skin tight and angry. She hadn’t noticed it last night — adrenaline and terror had dulled the pain — but now it screams with every slight movement. The healers said it wasn’t broken, just sprained. Her fall from bed, she thinks. She can’t remember exactly when it happened. Somewhere between no and please.

She flinches as a hand touches her cheek gently. Not Geralt’s.

“Easy, little flower,” says a voice — soft, coaxing, male.

She looks up.

A younger man stands beside her bed, dark-haired with scars across his face and the same amber eyes as the witcher had. His expression is cautious, disarming. A satchel hangs from one shoulder. “My lady,” he says, crouching to her level.

“Eskel,” she says quietly.

“Good. You remember me. Geralt thought you might try to forget we existed.”

She doesn’t answer. Her lips tighten.

He moves to the side of her cot and sets the satchel down gently. “Don’t worry. I’m not here to defend what he did. Or make excuses. I just brought these.” He holds up the bandages like a peace offering. They both look at her already bandaged ankle.

A silence stretches between them. Then Eskel sighs, reaches into the satchel again, and pulls out a small linen-wrapped bundle.

“I brought you these,” he said. “Honey biscuits. Don’t ask me how I found them-it involves a few bee stings and one terrifying witch who threatened to turn me into a pig.”

Despite herself, she snorts.

“There,” he says triumphantly. “Proof you can laugh.”

“I didn’t laugh.”

“Snorted. Which is even better.”

She almost smiles. “I don’t hate him,” she says softly. “But I can’t go back to our chambers. Not yet.”

Eskel nods. “Then don’t. No one’s asking you to. Stay here. Let the healer fuss over you.”

She looks at him, curious. “Why are you being kind to me?”

His answer comes without hesitation. “Because you’re not a prisoner. You’re his wife. You matter to him. And that makes you matter to me. You are our pack now. We protect what is ours. I know you didn’t want to marry him, but you did. You are queen now. My queen.”

Her throat tightens. She looks away again. “If he ever touches you in anger again, I’ll slit his throat myself. Brother or not.”

She blinks at him. “He was supposed to protect me.”

 “He did,” Eskel says, quietly. “And he failed.”

That surprises her. The honesty. The lack of defense. No excuses. Just the raw truth.

“He cried, he’s sick over what happened,” Eskel says more softly. “He hasn’t spoken to anyone but our father. Won’t eat. Keeps pacing like he’s waiting for judgment.

„I am not the one who should judge him. He had the right. Who would want someone like me?” Eskel sighs. „You are wise, beautiful, and from what I've seen today, exceptionally fierce and brave. So your answer is everyone, my lady. Everyone would be lucky to love a lady like you.“

„What if I am not a lady?“ whispers Jaskier quietly, and were it not for Eskel's enhanced hearing, he wouldn't have heard her. “But you are.”

“And what if I don’t want to be?” Eskel's brow furrows. “I'm not sure I follow.”

“What if I don’t want to be a lady…but a lord?”

“Oh. Alright.”

“Alright? That’s all you say?”

“Of course. I can cut your hair if you wish. Or I can bring you pants. Anything you wish.” Jaskier smiles. “Thank you. For now, I would just be glad if you keep this a secret. Geralt…he doesn’t need to know. Not now, at least.” Eskel nods. “He wouldn’t mind.” Jaskier looks away. “I…don’t think I can trust him right now.”

“He-”  

“He promised me I’d be safe,” she says sharply. “And you will be,” Eskel replies. “He’ll see to it. Even if it means handing you the knife himself.”

And with that, he leaves, the door clicking softly behind him.

She lies back against the pillow, staring at the rafters, her thoughts tangled with voices and firelight, broken promises and honey biscuits.