#Geralt au

[viking-raider]

A Witcher's Legacy - PART TWO: OPEN SECRET

Summary: Being a Witcher is a daily struggle, so is being a parent. Things become even more difficult, when word reaches the wrong people that Geralt of Rivia has a son with you.

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia/Reader

Word Count: 6.8k

Parts: I

Warning: M - Witcher!AU, Soft & Protective!Geralt, Language, Assault, Attempted Breaking & Entering, Fighting, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Scrappy!Jaskier, Uncle!Jaskier, Magic Use, Nicknames, Mention of Child Endangerment(?), Witcher Hate, Memories, Mention of Past Pregnancy, Fluff, More Witcher Characters - SMUT -> Oral (F Receiving), Love Bites, Body Positivity, Partner Worship, Penetration (M-F), Orgasm

Inspiration: A subject from my story, A Witcher’s Destiny, Season Two of Netflix’s the Witcher and a Quest in The Witcher 3!

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy it! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS!

If you would like to be added A Witcher’s Legacy Tag List, please message me!

I also have the story on my AO3

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLIST and turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy!’

“I have seen it with my own eyes! The Witcher and his whore have a babe together, and it's rumored to be of both their blood!”

“How is this possible!?” Stregobor barked, leaning forward in his seat. “Witchers are impotent, their mutation makes them so! We all know it.” He said, looking about the room of other gathered mages.

“Are we sure that this baby is the White Wolf's?” Another of the mages asked, drumming their fingers on the arm of their chair. “The woman could have simply been with child and the Witcher may have claimed it as his.”

“Yes, where did this rumor start?” Another questioned. “Where did you hear it, Jordi?”

“A visitor at the Temple of Melitele.” Jordi answered, as he stood in the middle of the ringed chairs the mages sat in. “He claims to have heard the Witcher speaking to the priestess, Nenneke, almost a year ago now, about how he was assuredly the father of the babe and that he had no reason to believe her infidelity to him. The priestess asked how such a thing was possible, also stating the fact that Witchers are sterile, and the woman was at this time clearly and undeniably pregnant. The Witcher Geralt, replied by telling her, he wasn't entirely sure, but had a suspicion.”

“And what was that suspicion?” Stregobor asked, lifting his bushy eyebrow.

“The visitor couldn't say, because he was found to be spying on the conversation at that point and was thrown out of the temple.”

“This is troublesome, Stregobor. If the Witcher is capable of reproducing, it means they can create more Witchers, without the need of alchemical solutions. If the Continent finds this out, it could spell mass panic.”

“I am well aware of that, Artorius.” Stregobor replied, scratching at his thick, white beard. “We must find out if this claim is true first, and if it is, if the child is truly the Witcher's true born son, then we must destroy it.”

You bounced your son as he cried in your arms, at a loss for why he was upset. You had changed his pamper and fed him, and he wasn't interested in sleeping. There was nothing you could tell that was causing him pain either.

“Please, little one.” You begged him, rubbing the back of his head with your palm and pacing the inn room you and Geralt had gotten in the town you were stopping at. “Fuck.” You snapped, as a loud banging sounded on the door, causing your son to scream even louder.

“Yes?” You asked, pulling the room door open.

“Everyone on this floor is complaining about the wailin'.” A tall and burly male on the other side growled down at you.

“I'm so sorry.” You frowned back at the innkeeper, swaying on your feet. “I'm really trying to calm him, I don't know what's wrong and I've tried everything. My husband is away with a job, so I have no help with him.” You explained to him, meekly.

The man let out a rumbling growl at you and walked away, you sighed and closed the door, returning to your pacing in the small room.

“Come now, Lycus.” You cooed at him. “If we don't quiet down, your father is going to come back from killing his monster to us standing out on the street with our things, because we've been kicked out on a noise complaint.” You tried convincing him. “And, there it is now!” You added, as another knock sounded on the door and opened it again, this time finding a woman standing out in the hallway.

“Yes, I know. The noise.” You nodded at her.

“No, no.” She shook her head at you. “My husband, the innkeeper, has sent me up to help you with the babe.” She explained to you. “I've had six barns myself.” She told you, smiling softly, seeing the exhausted and at-a-loss look on your face.

Your shoulders slumped with relief. “Oh gosh, thank you.” You sighed, stepping back and letting her step into the room with you.

“Do you have a baby blanket for the wee thing?” She asked, lifting a brow at you.

“Yes.” You nodded, going over to the bed and picking up a soft blanket that you made yourself.

“Here.” She held her hand out for it and you handed it over. “Spread it out like this.” She instructed you, laying it out on the bed. “Now,” She turned towards you and held out her arms. “May I?” She asked, her eyebrows lifting.

You looked at her for a moment, no one had held your son other than yourself, Geralt, Jaskier, Nenneke and Vesemir since the day he had entered the world, but the woman had said she reared six kids into the world and if it helped whatever ailed your sweet boy, then—you held him out to her. She took him from you with skilled hands, maneuvering him onto the blanket. You watched her closely as she folded and tucked the blanket in around his squirming body.

“The swaddle.” She said, finishing and gently picking him up, then held him out to you. “Does the trick.” She smiled, as your son slowly calmed down.

You sighed with relief, almost bursting into to tears, as you cradled him in the nook of your arm, smiling into his tears stained little face. “Thank you so very much.” You told her, looking back up at her.

“You're a lifesaver.”

She chuckled at you, shaking her head. “He's very handsome.” She commented, gently rubbing his cheek with the back of her index knuckle.

“Thank you.” You grinned, swaying and looking proud of your son. “He's just like his father.” You added, with just as much pride.

“I'll let you rest now.” She said, nodding her head to you and went to the door, squeaking as she ran into Geralt in the hall.

“Are you all right?” Geralt asked, hurrying into the room, his gold eyes examining you and the baby.

“We're more than fine, now.” You smiled at him.

“What happened?” He asked, closing the door and the gap between you.

“He got incredibly fussy after you left, and nothing I did calmed him down.” You explained to him, leaning forward to gently rest your now sleeping son on the bed. “People on the floor, understandably, started to complain.”

Geralt looked at the door over his shoulder and growled.

“The innkeeper came up to inform me of the complaints, and I informed him of the problem.” You continued, turning back to Geralt and started unstrapping his leather armor from his body. “And, I suppose, instead of kicking us out, he went to get his wife and she helped me calm him down, by showing me how to swaddle him.”

Geralt looked at the sleeping infant, burrito wrapped in the soft, mint-green blanket and smiled. “That was very kind of them. They could very well have kicked us out of the inn.” He said, looking down at you, as you set his armor down, not quite used to the hospitality.

“They could have.” You agreed, nodding. “How was your monster?” You asked, lifting a brow at him, before turning to fill a bowl with water from a pitcher and dipped a cloth in it.

“A pesky selkiemore.” He replied, as you started rubbing the wet cloth over his bloody hands, washing off the selkiemore's blood and guts off his knuckles.

“Fun.” You grinned up at him, dipping the cloth back into the water and wringing it out, before reaching up to clean off a smear on the side of his neck. “Seems you have it all in your cracks and crevices.” You commented, seeing bits stuck in the Witcher's white hair.

“You know me.” Geralt chuckled, grinning at you.

“Mmhm, I do.” You nodded, smiling back at him. “Sit yourself down, Witcher.” You said, motioning to a chair by the small fireplace in the room.

Humming, Geralt pulled off his boots and moved to sit down, while you removed a brush from Roach's saddle bag on the floor by the bed. You stood behind Geralt, gently removing the tie from his hair, then started to methodically brush it, being careful with any knots you found or bits of the monster's blood or guts that matted his hair, using your fingers to detangle a few of them. Geralt allowed himself to relax under your care, his shoulders and back slouching, and extending his feet towards the flames of the fire in the grate; his eyes falling shut.

You smiled at him, it was always nice to see Geralt relax and let his guard down, as rare as it was. Only the most trusted of people were gifted with Geralt closing his eyes and falling asleep. Especially while touching him, and you were at the very top of that list of rare people.

You kiss the top of his head. “Come to bed, me'bleidd.” You whispered into his white and silver strands, resting your hands on his strong shoulders and gently squeezing, not wishing to startle him awake, knowing the detriment it can cause if he was woken suddenly.

“Hm.” The sound rumbled deep inside his chest, before he stirred on the chair, flexing his ankles and toes, as he took a deep breath, dropping his head back to look up at you. “I ordered the use of the tub in the washroom.” He informed you, blinking slowly, much like a cat.

“Well, off with you.” You told him, kissing his forehead.

“It's not for me.” He sighed, putting his boots back on and standing up. “It's for you.”

“Why?” You frowned at him, tilting your head.

“You need to relax and have some time to yourself.” He said, undoing the buttons of his shirt. “Nothing better than a tub of warm and soapy water to do the trick.” He smiled over at you. “Especially since we've been bathing in cold streams and lakes.” He laughed, going to the door of the room.

“I'll have the innkeeper bring up the water and fill the tub for you, then I'll watch our little one.”

“Thank you.” You whispered, as he opened the door, a soft smile on your lips.

Geralt smiled at you, crossing back over to you and kissing you intimately on the lips for a long moment, before breaking it off and going out, going downstairs to the bustling taproom of the inn and found the innkeeper speaking to one of the patrons by the door. He politely waited for the two men to finish talking, but he made it known that he wished to speak with him next.

“What can I do for you, Witcher?” The innkeeper asked, approaching him, folding his beefy arms over his chest.

“Well, firstly...” Geralt replied, planting his feet. “Thank you for helping my wife with our son. We both appreciate it.” He told him, tipping his head in a respective manner.

The innkeeper returned the gesture.

“Secondly, the wash room I paid for the use of. I would like to use it now, if I could have the hot water brought up for it.” He added, explaining his reason for being there.

“Of course, Witcher. I'll have my boy, Simon, haul them up presently, then knock on your room door, when the task is complete.” The innkeeper reassured him.

“Thank you.” Geralt answered, inclining his head and went back upstairs. “The innkeeper's son will knock on our door, when your bath is ready, me'minne.” Geralt said, stepping back into the room.

“Wonderful.” You smiled at him, loosening at the laces of your shirt and turning to sit down, so you could pull your boots off.

Geralt came around the bed, grabbing the chair as he did and sat down before you, he leaned down and closed one of his big, calloused hands around your delicate ankle and lifted it, resting your heel on his knee and started to massage your foot. You moaned softly as he did, his skilled hands hitting all the right points.

“What have you done, me'bleidd?” You asked, your eyes falling closed and your head falling back.

“What makes you think I did something, me'minne?” Geralt whispered back, lifting a brow at you.

“You've spent a precious coin on a bath for me and now you're massaging my feet.” You pointed out, lifting your head and cracking an eye at him. “The last time you did that, I was bearing your son.” You said, a smirk pulling at one corner of your mouth. “And I am certifiably not with child again, unless you've been back to Toussaint without my knowledge.”

“Hm.” Geralt hummed at you, narrowing his golden eyes. “You've grown to know me too well.”

“We've been together for almost eight years.” You retorted, opening both of your eyes and laughing. “How are you to be a stranger to me, after that length of time, Geralt? Surely, you know just as much about me as I do you!” You quipped, amused.

Geralt shook his head at you, letting your foot go to favor the other one. “It's true. But, I've done nothing, and I've certainly not been back to Toussaint.” He answered, pressing his thumbs into your arch. “Since, our last visit, at least.” He added, glancing over at your son, still comfortably swaddled in his blanket and dozing peacefully on the bed behind you.

“I just wanted to...pamper—you.” He explained, gulping around the word.

You narrowed your eyes at it, suspicious. “You've seen Jaskier, haven't you?” You asked, knowing all too well that such a word as, pamper, wasn't generally in Geralt's repertoire.

But, it was in the Bard's.

“I have.” Geralt nodded, rolling his eyes. “He's in the village.”

“And he hasn't come to see me!” You huffed, outraged and hurt. “The jerk.”

Geralt laughed, grinning. “He was accosted by two women outside the inn and swept away not long after we ran into each other, when I was returning from dealing with the monster.” He explained to you, softly. “I'm sure, once they're done thrashing him, he'll come and say hello to you and Lycus.” He assured you, raising your foot to press a gentle kiss to the top of it, before putting it back down.

“But, before he was taken away, he was right. You are the one primarily taking care of our son. You need time to yourself, to relax and freshen up. I've neglected you in that way, and I'm sorry, me'minne.” He told you, his brow creasing and his molten eyes growing somber.

“Geralt.” You sighed, shaking your head, and leaning forward, cupping his face in your hands. “You have never neglected me, in any way.” You whispered to him. “It is my honor and privilege to care for our son, to care for you. It gives me the purpose in life I have looked for. I want, need and ask for nothing else.”

You gently kissed him and pressed your forehead to his, sharing a quiet and close moment with him, before a soft knock echoed from the door, announcing your bath was ready.

“I love you, me'bleidd.” You said, smiling and rubbing noses with Geralt, playfully.

“And I you, me'minne.” He replied back, nudging his forehead against yours. “Go and enjoy your bath, the both of us will be fine, until your return.”

You lingered for a second longer, before leaving the room, finding a boy standing out in the hall waiting for you. He didn't say a word, but turned and walked down the hall, guiding you to where the wash room was, then left you to relax in privacy. It felt quite strange, as you let your simple dress slip down your body, pooling around your feet, to have the luxury of a huge, full and steaming tub of water, all to yourself.

The steam rising from the water filled the room, leaving you in a thick mist, as you dipped your first foot inside; moaning as the unbelievable warmth enveloped your leg. It was as if you were in heaven. Once inside, you turned your attention to the tray attached to one wall of the tub, holding a thick, white and oval shaped bar of soap and a small, square, wooden handle and stiff bristle, body brush. You lifted the soap to your nose and took a deep breath, a smile touching your lips.

“Lavender.” You laughed, feeling the irony as a distant memory leapt out to the forefront of your mind.

“Geralt.” You mewled, feeling his hot hands grab and knead at your hips, as he pulled you against his body.

“Hmm.” He growled back, his mouth devouring your neck for a moment longer. “You smell...” He moaned against your skin, his nose gliding up your neck and burying in your hair. “Like Lavender and Cardamom.” He purred, turning his head to nibble on the rim of your earlobe.

“Is that a good thing?” You asked, lifting a brow at him.

“Yes.” He nodded, tugging on your ear. “I love it, it's refreshing and sweet.” He whispered, kissing behind your ear and back down your neck, while pushing your dress off your shoulders and body, leaving you to stand naked before him. “It suits you.” He smiled, taking a step back, to admire your nude body.

“Because you are both of those things, and much more.”

You grinned shyly at Geralt, glancing away from him as his golden orbs appraised you with a growing look of love and lust. Geralt reached out, cupping your chin between his thumb and index finger, to turn your face back towards him and smiled at you, slowly leaning in to kiss you on the lips. His hand moved from your face and found yours, bringing it up to the buttons on his shirt, guiding and encouraging you, as you continued to kiss.

Geralt was the first man you had ever lain with, and while he had been wild, hungry and possessive, like a wolf at the end of winter, he was gentle, encouraging and patient with you as well. You rarely catch the scent of Lavender or Cardamom without thinking back at that moment, with fondness.

You lounged back in the tub, disappearing up to your chin the godly water and closed your eyes, moaning softly, feeling the heat seep into all of the sore and travel-worn places your body had from the long rides on Roach from town to village to city, and sleeping rough. It was amazing to feel normal again. But, you weren't aware of falling asleep in the bath, until you heard a strange scraping noise, almost like the sound of mice with metal nails scurrying across the floor, but much louder.

Sitting up, you reached for the towel on the seat of a chair beside the tub, and slowly stood up and wrapped it around your dripping body, then stepped out of the tub, shivering as a cold draft hit your wet skin. You stood silently, listening, but the sound had stopped, as if sensing your movement, however several long minutes later, the scratching metal sound started up again, coming from the door. Biting your lip, you tip-toed over to it, trying to make the worn and warped floorboards of the bath room squeak as little as possible, before gently touching your ear to the door.

The sound of the scraping became louder.

“What?” You whispered, your brow pinching.

You quickly picked up your dress and secured it, before yanking open the bathroom door, and found a man crouched in the hallway, a lock pick in his hands.

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked at him, crossing your arms over your chest.

The man jumped up and grabbed you roughly by the arms, shaking you. “Where is he!?” He demanded, as he shoved you into the room, his grasp bruising your skin.

“Who?” You cried, shaking your head and beating on his chest, confused and frightened. “Geralt!!” You screamed, lashing out and clawing at your attacker's face and anything else you could. “Help!” You yelled, hoping anyone would hear you.

A thunder of footfalls came down the hall and a voice called out your name in alarm, like the ringing of a clear and beautiful bell. “Get off of her!” They growled, picking up the nearest object, a chipped, porcelain vase and smashed it over your assailant's head. Your attacker groaned, letting go of you and stumbling away, holding the back of his bleeding head and crashing into a wall.

“Jaskier!” You gasped with relief, throwing your arms around his neck. “Thank gods.” You sniffled into his shoulder.

“Don't say that just yet!” Jaskier said, seeing the man starting to pull himself together and grabbed your hand, dragging you out of the room. “Geralt!” He yelled, storming down the hallway and looked over his shoulder, only to see the man make it to the doorway and start to summon something.

“Oh gosh! GEERRRALLLLT!” He roared louder, feeling his body prickle with anticipation of the apparent Mage's incoming magic strike.

The door to your and Geralt's room flew open, and Geralt came storming out, just as you and Jaskier came bolting by. He looked between you and Jaskier, then the direction you had come from and saw the Mage about to let loose his bolt of Chaos. Without hesitation, Geralt threw up his forearm to form the sign of the Quen, creating a shimmering shield as the Mage released his surge of Magic, protecting himself, and you and Jaskier behind him, from the blast of magic; depleting the shield with the hit.

“Get in the room!” He barked at you and Jaskier, then charged down the hallway towards the Mage.

“Who the fuck was that!?” Jaskier asked, slamming the room door behind the both of you, startling Lycus awake and causing him to cry.

“How am I supposed to know?” You replied, rushing over and picking him up. “I found him trying to pick the lock to the washroom, while I was enjoying my bath, and he started attacking me.” You explained, trying to soothe your son, hearing the commotion of Geralt fighting the Mage in the hallway.

Geralt rushed the Mage, not giving him the time to hopefully cast anything else at him, throwing a white-knuckled fist to the Caster's face, tossing the smaller man backwards into the tub of water, then advanced on him, grabbing him by his soaked tunic and yanked him up to face level.

“What do you want?” He growled at him, his upper lip twitching. “Why have you attacked my wife?” He demanded, jerking him roughly. “Speak!” He roared as the Mage remained tight lipped, before striking him again out of annoyed rage.

“Witcher!” The voice of the innkeeper barked in the doorway. “What is the meaning of this bedlam?!” He ordered Geralt, having received and heard all the noise from downstairs in the tavern.

“This Mage scum attacked my wife, while she was having her bath.” Geralt replied, yanking the Mage out of the tub and standing him up, for the innkeeper to see. “I want to know why!” He hissed, shoving the Mage into the wall and held him there with a hand to his throat.

“Tell me, if you want to live.”

“They know, Witcher.” The Mage finally answered, with a choking laugh, blood speckling his lips. “They know your secret.”

Geralt frowned at him, shaking his head, confused. “What secret?” He huffed, only growing angrier.

The Mage laughed, before striking Geralt with a rush of Magic, and quickly slipped through a portal before he or the innkeeper could get their hands on him again. Geralt roared with frustration and fury, punching the wall where the Mage's head had been, then shoved past the innkeeper and stomped back down to your shared room.

“Easy, Jaskier! It's just me.” He barked as Jaskier wildly swung a fire poker at his head.

“Thank the gods.” You cried, rushing Geralt and wrapping an arm around his waist, sandwiching Lycus between your bodies. “What happened?” You asked, looking up at him. “Did you find out what he wanted?”

“All he said was he knew our secret.” Geralt replied, wrapping his arms around the two of you. “Did he say anything to you?”

“He asked where he was, but I didn't know who he was talking about.” You told him, shaking your head, then saw Geralt's face change. “What?” You squeaked, blinking up at him.

Geralt gulped, his eyes shifting down to his son.

“No.” You shook your head at him, holding him closer to your body. “He's no secret, Geralt.”

“But, we also don't go around telling people that he's ours.” He answered, gently stroking your stiffening back.

“Particularly, that he's the biological son of a Witcher.” Jaskier blurted out.

“But,” You choked on the growth of your overwhelming emotions. “Why would--” You paused, it was fruitless, you knew why, you had been with Geralt long enough to know the hate and prejudice people had for Witchers, and your baby boy was the son of one, and looked so much like Geralt on top of it.

“How then would anyone find out about him?”

“They could have seen him, while we've been traveling.” Geralt said, kissing the top of Lycus's head, deeply bothered. “Perhaps, I should send you both to Kaer Morhen and finish out the last three months until winter comes, then I'll join the both of you.”

“No.” You whimpered, shaking your head at him. “Geralt, no.” You snapped, strengthening your voice.

“I won't be going about the Continent, worrying while I kill monsters, whether or not another fucking Mage, or something worse, as come after the both of you.” Geralt replied, firmly. “So, you'll be safer at Kaer Morhen, with Vesemir.” He argued, staunchly.

“Jaskier will accompany you.” He added, looking at his old friend over your head.

Jaskier looked terrified for a moment, before he yielded. “Of course.” He nodded, biting his lip. “I'll even stay, until you come and join them.” He added, trying to smile at you encouragingly.

“Thank you.” Geralt said softly, inclining his head to the Bard.

“Geralt!” You barked, eyes wide. “I'm not going without you!” You told him, stomping your foot in defiance.

“I told you, I would--”

“You know what I'm saying, Geralt.” You growled, cutting him off.

Geralt cupped your face in his hands and drew you closer to him. “I won't have you and our son in danger, and that is what the two of you are in, right now.” He told you, his facial expression set. “There's only two places on the Continent that are safe for the both of you, with me and at Kaer Morhen. I need to finish the next three months, so we have everything we need for winter, then I'll come and join the both of you at the Keep, just as always.” He told you, his voice softening and his thumbs gently caressing the apples of your cheeks.

“I promise, me'minne.” He said tenderly, before leaning in to kiss you.

“Don't think for a moment, I don't know you'll be spending that time looking for the people threatening our son.” You said against his lips, your eyes on his face, critically.

Geralt chuckled through his nose, smiling back at you. “I would never question your intelligence or how well you know me, dear one.” He said, before playfully tapping you on the nose.

“Jesus, you really bring out his mushy side, don't you?” Jaskier said, looking between the two of you, wide eyed.

You looked smugly over your shoulder at Jaskier. “Like it's hard.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “It's good to see you, by the way.” You said, turning to him, now that everything was a bit calmer. “And, thanks for helping me back there.” You added, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

“Hey.” He smirked, his cheeks coloring. “I gotta protect you and my nephew.” He said, smiling at the two of you, reaching out to gently touch the back of Lycus's head. “Hey, little man! Come to Uncle Julian!” He said, holding his hands out for him.

You chuckled and let Jaskier take him from you, knowing how much he loved the Bard, especially when he sang to him. The four of you finished calming down, before Geralt went downstairs to get you all something for supper, not wanting you and the baby downstairs, risking anymore unwanted attention and attacks on you both. But he begrudgingly allowed you both to go downstairs to watch Jaskier perform a few songs, before going up to bed.

But, on rarity, sleep wouldn't find you, as you laid in bed with Geralt, Lycus in his usual spot between you. You shifted onto your side, lightly touching your fingertips to Lycus's rising and falling chest, stilling the paranoia in your mind about his safety, before reaching out to lay your hand Geralt's side, making the Witcher hum in his sleep and stir, but not wake. You couldn't help your brain from jumping around to different memories, from paranoia, fear and trying to soothe yourself.

Like one memory in particular.

There were hundreds of lit candles in the hallways and the entry of the Temple of Melitele, giving it such a beautiful ambiance as you walked the otherwise dark and quiet building. Even though you were exhausted, sore and about to give birth at any moment, you were wide awake and restless, the baby was moving way too much for you to lay down or sit for any length of time, so you hoped taking a small walk around the Temple would help you both settle down.

“Tough night?” A gentle voice asked, startling you some.

“Yes.” You nodded, turning to face Nenneke, the head Priestess of the Temple. “The little one is very active tonight.” You told her, resting your hand on your pronounced stomach, feeling the active kicks against your palm.

“May I?” She asked, holding out her own hand to you.

You nodded your head at her, moving yours away and smiled as she gently laid her palm against your belly. A large smile crossed her beautiful face, feeling the baby beat against her hand, like a drum, memorized by the feeling.

“It never matters how many babies I help birth into this world, they still fascinate me.” Nenneke said, moving her hand with the baby. “They are so sweet and innocent.” She sighed, before drawing her hand back. “I'm surprised Geralt has let you out of his sight. He seems more attached to you than the baby's umbilical cord.” She laughed, her cocoa-colored skin glowing as she did.

“He is.” You laughed with her, nodding. “But, he's finally fallen asleep, so I managed to tip-toe away without bothering him.” You told her, turning to walk with her. “He's gotten even less sleep than I have, since we found out I was with child. He's always awake, watching me at night, then killing monsters during the day.” You confessed to her, showing your worry for him.

“I'm afraid he'll overdo himself.”

Nenneke chuckled softly, resting her hand on your back as you both rounded a pillar. “Geralt has slept like shit all his life.” She told you, honestly. “He can take a lot. But, I know he brought you here for more than just because Melitele is the Temple of Fertility and Birth. He brought you here, because this is a safe place, a haven, and it is a place Geralt has always come to when he needs a safe and healing sanctuary.”

“So, he can fall asleep, knowing we will take care of you, while he rests.”

“He has been a lot less tense.” You agreed, finally seeing it. “He smiled this afternoon, and he hasn't really done that in months.”

“And, you?” Nenneke asked, tilting her head closer, her eyes studying you.

“I'm terrified, Nenneke.” You gulped, thickly.

“You're a new mother, of course you are!” She said, shaking her head. “It would be mad to think you wouldn't be.”

“True.” You nodded, biting your lip, trying to get a handle on your hormone-crazed emotions. “I do feel safe here. Especially knowing, should anything happen, I have you to look over me.” You said, grasping her hand.

“That does take a lot of stress off of me.”

Nenneke smiled at you, giving you the most motherly vibe, her hand cupping your cheek. “You will be fine. You're a strong woman and your child will be strong too.”

You sighed, closing your eyes, and savoring the warmth of her palm against your skin, feeling your fears melt away, knowing that hand would take care of and protect you, and the life inside of you. Nenneke smiled at you, seeing you relax and let out all your stress, with a heavy breath.

“Are you all right?” Geralt's deep voice echoed in the quiet room, his pale face and molten eyes looking at you with concern and worry.

You opened your eyes and stared back at him. “I'm fine, why?”

“Your heart was thundering in your chest.” He whispered, not wanting to wake the baby, as he peacefully dozed. “It's calmer now, but you were bothered by something. Did you have a nightmare?” He asked, reaching out to gently squeeze your shoulder.

“No.” You murmured back, blinking slowly at him, then licked your lips. “But-” You gulped and looked away from him.

“Tell me.” He cooed, brushing his knuckles against your cheek.

“I need you.” You sighed, meeting his eyes again.

The ghost of a smile pulled across his lips, but Geralt nodded at you, understanding.

He had needed you for sometime, but it had become hard to do with Lycus always in bed with the pair of you. He squeezed your arm again, before carefully rolling out of bed and going to one of the saddlebags, removing a neatly folded blanket from inside; spread it out on the floor at the foot of the bed, creating a makeshift one for the two of you. You followed his lead, getting up as carefully as you could, so you didn't wake your son, and moved around the bed to Geralt, meeting the Witcher on the staging grounds of the blankets.

“I've missed you, my little firefly.” Geralt purred, his expression softening to a look of kindled lust.

“And I have missed you, Wolf.” You tittered back at him, your own eyes smoldering with the concupiscence pent up inside of you.

Humming, Geralt lifted his hands to the ties of your chemise, slowly untying them as he leaned in and kissed you with a reserved passion, his hands finally got your ties free and pushed inside the soft fabric, his skin tingling as it came into contact with yours. He moaned into your mouth. You moaned back at him, your palms pressed to the burning skin of his sides, smoothing them over to the small of his back, so you could slip your fingers into the back of his pants.

“Beautiful.” Geralt rumbled, having freed your body from the garment and stood back to appraise you.

You glanced away from him shyly, raising your arms to cross them over your chest, you had felt self-conscious about your body ever since having Lycus all those months ago. Your breasts weren't their normal and perky selves, like they were when you and Geralt had first met and made love, many years before. Geralt gave you a disappearing hmm, reaching out and closing his fingers around your wrists to gently pull your arms away from your body, making you lay your hands on his bare shoulders. He cupped one of your breasts in his palm, swirling the pad of his thumb over your hardening nipple, making you whimper and shiver.

“Such silly nonsense.” He hummed, his voice a deeper timber. “Trying to hide such a gorgeous body from me.” He said, smirking wolfishly at you, while giving the teased area of skin a pinch, producing a gasp out of you.

Geralt removed his hand from your chest and made short work of his pants, pushing them down his legs and kicking them aside, before wrapping an arm around your waist and hugging you against his body. His lips found yours once more and devoured them, like they were the sweetest of Toussaint's treats. His hands were hot on your skin as he pawed at your ass, slipping down to your thighs to pick you up and wrap your legs around his lean, scarred waist.

Pressing a hand to your back to steady you, Geralt turned and lowered himself to his knees, while laying you down on the pallet.

“How I've missed your soft folds.” Geralt whispered against your throat, sucking gently on it, while a hand strayed between your legs to caress you, then brought his wet fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a hungry moan.

“I could live off your essence for the rest of my life.” He said, a low growl in his throat.

“Mmph!” You chuckled, brushing your fingers through his loose hair, feeling the ends of it graze your shoulders and breasts as Geralt kissed all over your throat, working his way downward, leaving kisses and love-bites. “Oh.” You gasped softly, your back arching as Geralt's mouth found your pussy, flicking and swirling his tongue at your pearl, with eye-crossing skill. “It's unfair, you barely say a word most days, but your tongue is as skilled as your swordsmanship.” You huffed, gulping thickly, and hooking your legs over his shoulders, using them to hug him closer to you.

He tickled your folds with the rumble of his chuckle, while he continued to lick and suckle between your legs, making your thighs quake, your hand going to the back of his hair as you rocked against his mouth. You bit into your hand as you moaned loudly, coming against Geralt's face, not wanting to wake Lycus. Geralt moved back up your body, wrapping your legs around his waist and slipped in you with ease. Both of you sighing as he settled completely. The feeling of refreshing the physical bond and connection between you and Geralt was everything you had been looking for after all these long months. He leaned in close to you, noses brushing for a second, before capturing your lips in a tender kiss and he started to gently rock his hips into you.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, savoring his kiss, as you slipped away into the bliss of Geralt's manhood burrowing inside of you. It had been far too long since you had been elevated to this height, that you allowed yourself to feel anything other than the stress of taking care of your son and the worry for Geralt's safety, while he plied his trade. You hummed softly into Geralt's mouth, a smile tugging up one side of your mouth, breaking the kiss as you pushed your head back, his gently thumping against your chest.

“Wolf.” You sighed, tangling your fingers through his hair.

He grunted back, kissing the damp skin of your chest, before running the tip of his nose up the side of your neck and drawing in a deep breath, taking in your scent. “Firefly.” He moaned back, his warm breath leaving a rush of goose-bumps over your sweaty flesh.

The both of you were nearing your peak, when a soft sound reached you from the bed, making your heart clench with horrified anticipation. Lycus whined softly, wiggling slightly inside the warm and soft swaddle of his blanket, while making a soft sucking sound. Without missing a beat inside of you, Geralt shifted and lifted his head, cocking a brow over the plain of the mattress to his son, eyeing his restless movements, while still thrusting into you, waiting to see if Lycus woke.

But the little boy settled and went silent again.

Geralt looked down at you and chuckled, both relieved and amused.

“Close.” You whispered, gulping thickly.

“I know.” He replied, nodding, understanding. “I love you.” He whispered, as the two of you finally came together.

“I love you too.” You whispered back, floating in the warmth of your fading climax, the assault by the Mage furthest from your mind for the moment.

[asgardian-angel]

I was trying to put together something cool with this Aragorn and Geralt you know some kind of crossover universal tavern and found this last gif and it fits too perfectly someone help me.

[raynecreates]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[wehavekookies]

First of all, how are these five years old already.

[darkmasterlistyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King Masterlist

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Status: In Progress

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

[hannibard]

....I'm sorry (x)

[pickleforstony]

Geraskier DND AU with Oathbreaker!Geralt and Bard!Jaskier (ofc)

[fangirleaconmigo]

Modern AU where Jaskier posts all of his song to youtube. He doesn't have very many hits so he doesn't think much about taking them all off one day when he is rethinking his social media strategy.

He is shocked when his handsome but introverted neighbor (Geralt is his name) calls him at one am panicking. (The man has never even used his number. Jaskier came up with some painfully transparent excuse about a neighborhood watch just to get him to take it.)

Geralt's daughter Ciri has woken up with a nightmare and apparently the only thing that gets her to sleep is Jaskier's singing. However, Geralt is panicking because can't find his videos. He rambles about not being able to find them anywhere and he feels stupid, bad at social media, he shouldn't have called, etc.

Jaskier is intrigued. "I didn't even know you knew about my music."

"You mention it every time I see you in the hall."

"Oh, you are unbearably blunt. Touche, touche. In my defense, I didn't know you listened when I rambled on."

"I do." His neighbor sounds affronted.

"Alright then."

"Is that a yes? You'll sing to her?"

Jaskier isn't done questioning him. "You really play her my music?"

*Pause*

"She hears your music."

"How."

"I might listen to your music at night. To wind down. She just overhears. She's gotten used to it."

Jaskier feels quite smug. "Well alright. Anything for my fans. Put the little one on."

Geralt rolls his eyes but smiles and puts the phone on speaker. Ciri shrieks with delight to hear Jaskier's voice. After she falls asleep, Geralt sneaks out of her room whispering a thank you.

"You know," Jaskier says playfully. "My voice is better live. I could come over sometimes to sing you lullabies in person."

Geralt is glad you can't hear a blush over the phone.

"Yes. Ok."

"Yes?" Jaskier crows.

"Yes. I'd like that."

--fin

Inspiration

[humblebardd]

Jaskier: you know why I called you in here, right?

Geralt: yeah, because I accidentally sent you a dick pic—

Jaskier: *stops pouring two glasses of wine* accidentally??

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Tonality [5]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous Chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.

“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand. 

Your father is to be buried tomorrow. 

You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.

“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin. 

“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar. 

Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird.  You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone. 

“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle. 

“Please, mother—”

“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch. 

You cannot stop—

She will not let you. 

You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.

“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear. 

“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle. 

“Now close his eyes.”

You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes. 

Perhaps I am mad, after all.

Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady. 

They stay.

“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things. 

At least, you try to. 

The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.

“W-who is it?”

“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?” 

“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face. 

Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression. 

“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.” 

“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”

“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one. 

You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses. 

“You won’t need them.”

The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you. 

“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.

“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself. 

“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.” 

You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric. 

“Even so, our fashion does suit you.”  You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line. 

“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.

“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired. 

“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”

“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling. 

“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways. 

“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here. 

“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”

“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.” 

“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.

“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”

In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—

And then burnt their dreams out. 

“What did it cost?”

“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”

Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know. 

But the witch might. 

—

The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below. 

There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty. 

The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions. 

You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”

Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges. 

Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone. 

The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms. 

It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again. 

The thought spurs you onward. 

The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.

You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square. 

The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago. 

The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.

“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.

“I—I am looking for—”

“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too. 

She is an elf. 

It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.

“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look. 

“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed. 

“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside. 

The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl. 

“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.” 

“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again. 

“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?” 

Your throat tightens. 

“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.” 

The stone stops. 

“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence. 

“And what do you dream?”

“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”

“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand,  she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye. 

“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm.  She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.” 

“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes. 

“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.” 

“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles. 

“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron. 

“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead. 

“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace. 

“Please, I—”

“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart. 

“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!” 

“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.” 

“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine. 

“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you. 

It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?

Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known? 

Would he have even wanted to?

Perhaps I can just ask him myself.

The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses. 

It is by that grace alone that you see the man. 

You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip. 

“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black. 

Nilfgaardian.

 You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.

“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards. 

The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky. 

“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.” 

Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet. 

“No.” 

“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you. 

“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.” 

“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble. 

“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat. 

“I’ve little stomach for lies.”  

A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you,  clears his throat. 

“Here, my Lord.” 

The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.

The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—

No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.

As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.

The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale. 

“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!”  There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth. 

“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not  comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them. 

The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed. 

“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”

Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling. 

“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”

The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night. 

“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.” 

“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king��s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear. 

“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”

 “Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.” 

He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck. 

“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.

“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.” 

Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry. 

“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder. 

He came for me.

Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.

“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”

In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse. 

“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”

Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.” 

You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—

A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing. 

“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak. 

“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums. 

“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.” 

You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—

The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours. 

Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.

“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark. 

I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure. 

Just for a little while. 

to be continued…

next chapter

[raynecreates]

Yee-Haw 🤠

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 20

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

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The crackling of the fire grows clearer as the tides of sleep swirl and still. Your eyelids part to the flicker of the hearth, a figured limned in the rustic haze, looming over you, lifting you, moving you with ease. You stir and fidget, pressing a hand to the firm wall against your arm. The woolly tunic scratches against your palm as you feel the pulsing of a heartbeat beneath.  

You look up at the square jaw of your accoster. King Geralt lays you on the mattress, your disposed clothes cleared away from the corner. He's gentle as he sets your head on the pillow, caressing your cheek and your hip as he draws away. He stands, looking down on you as his fingers curl and extend, a hot breath rushing from his nostrils. 

You watch him as the the world sharpens around you and a flow rolls over you like cold water. You push yourself up on your elbows as the king's eyes rove your figure beneath the thin shift. He sways and brushes his hand over his chest, letting out a deep rumble. 

You want to say something. Anything. Just a word to break the fragile tension between you. You can't get a single noise out. He stares down at you with his gold eyes, like coins shining, forged in flame. 

He sits on the edge of the bed, snug to you as he rests his hand on the other side of you, tenting his arm over you. His other crawls along your shoulder and down to your wrist, walking back up again. His fingertips spread goose prickles along your flesh as you lay frozen in his fiery exploration. 

The haze of the fireplace, the gleam of his eyes, and the dregs of your drowsiness make you doubt the realness of it all. Are you dreaming still? Everything is so much more than it should be. His heat, his touch, the way you can feel his need radiating from him. 

You fall flat, staring at him, entranced by him. He brings his calloused palm to cradle your face. You gasp and latch onto his wrist.He lets his fingers flutter away and turns his arm, looking down at your grasp on him, cautious but firm. You see how his cheek strains and he sits up, grazing his other hand over yours.  

He covers your hand with both of his and draws it up. He unveils it like some precious treasure and kisses each knuckle. You shake as each brush of his lips tingles through you. He pulls back and keeps hold of you, lowering your hand between you. 

"You fear me," he says, "you fear what I want from you." His voice is low and sonorous, "I want nothing from you. I only want you, my summer maid." He inhales deeply and lets it out with a quaver as you feel the tremor in him, "my treasure." 

Your eyes sting and tears soften the lines in your vision. You shake your head, a knot in your throat, a pinch in your chest. He brings your hand flat to one of yours and twines his thick fingers between yours. The difference is drastic, a reflection of your status. He is all-powerful and you are a speck in the wind. 

"I have worn a heavy crown, I have raised an army, I have bled in battle, and not of it can compare to this, my treasure. You are my greatest achievement. By fates, I found you. I thought that I was destined to sit the throne, to unite these peoples, to hold it all in my hand," he squeezes, "but this is all I need have in my grasp. This is what called me to your southern plains. All of it for you. I have won it and so quickly as you bid me, I would give it up." 

Your lashes flick as your heart swells. He cannot mean it. Not any of it. You are only a maid. 

"You have your fear, little maid, and I have mine. They are one and the same," he gazes down at you, eyes wrought in layers of pain, sadness, and longing, like the sediment of the earth, worn and weathered through the years. "I fear myself all the same as you. I have withheld myself for as long as I can and yet I feel myself dwindling. I feel the rope fraying." 

You sniff and shake your head, "your highness..." you croak and your voice seems to crackle in the air, "Queen Jazlene--" 

"Do not speak her name. I beg of you. Treasure, I beg. I will beg you anon." 

He keeps hold of you and shifts off the bed. He brings himself to his knees at the side of the bed, clinging to you as he once more kisses your hand. As you lay helpless to him. 

"Do not fear me. How can you when I only mean to worship you," he rasps. "As any treasure, I only mean to prize you, to hold you dear, to keep you from those who would steal you away. To keep you for my own. Treasure, you are mine, all mine. By rights, I, King Geralt of Rivia and the Hinterlands, claim you. No other shall have you. Upon my life, I could not bear it." 

You close your eyes, ice trickling into your veins at his declaration. He is king, he is the almighty, and you are his. You are sworn to serve and by rights of marriage, you are bound to him. Even if it wrong, even it transcends the vow he spoke to another, a king may bend the laws as serve his purposes. A maid may only obey. 

"You have forsaken me," you whisper. 

He kneels in silence, lowering his head to rest on your hand. You lay in tableau, strangled and solemn, as he prostrates himself at your side. As a mourner might do for some tragic corpse. Is that not what this is? Grief for the treachery of it all. 

"I belong to you," he speaks at last, rising as he releases you. Your eyes roll open and pinpoint on him.  

He turns away and pulls at his tunic, stripping it from his broad shoulders, revealing a back ridged with muscles. He drops it on the seat of a chair and sits in another. He is patient as he unbinds the straps of his boots and removes each in turn, placing them neatly aside. He undresses piece by piece, rapt in the task of his dissembling. 

He remains only in his braies, the short garment ending at the top of his thick thighs. His stomach is as thick as the rest of his, muscles wrapping around his arms and chest, fur like the very wolf he's sewn into his cloak. He approaches the bed and you steel yourself for him. 

He lifts himself over you, hovering just above, his hands above your shoulders as he holds himself on his knees, straddling as he once did in the moonlight of your unconscious. He peers down and breathes a scalding plume upon you. You shiver and meet his eyes, unable to repress the wash of terror that comes over you. 

He pushes himself to the other side of you, folding his arm to fall upon his side. His other stretches over your stomach as he nestles against your side. He lays on his shoulder, facing you, and his nose brushes your temple. You clutch a fold of the blankets in your hand as his traces the shape of your side, playing with the seam of your shift. 

His touch creeps over your stomach and his lips dance on your cheek. He exhales your name into your ear and his hand cups one side of your chest. A whimper escapes your throat as your nipple hardens, poking him as he fondles you. He is gentle but diligent, eager as he explores your body, as if you are another map to be conquered. 

He trails up to your neck and his thumb draws a line along your throat. You feel his gaze but cannot face it. It burns hotter than the heart. He touches jaw and chin, as if he's never seen anything like you; cheekbones, nose, forehead, as if he is an artist moulding a statue.  

He presses his straight nose to your cheek and drapes his arm around you once more. He embraces you from the side. He tucks his fingers under you and you bring your hand to his thick forearm, feeling the soft hair along it. You claps onto him and shudder at the ceiling. 

"You will not always fear me," he whispers, "when you see the world for what it is, when you see me truly, you will feel as I do." He snarls as he leans his weight into you. "You cannot fight fate, my treasure. Even a king cannot bid what is written by destiny." 

You let every ounce of strength drain from you. You sink into the mattress, surrendering to his will. Whatever he might do, whatever he might demand of you, you will give in. That is your duty. 

He purrs as his own body relaxes, "I only wish to feel you, little maid. My soul needs yours close." He closes his eyes and bows his head to rest against yours. You shut your eyes once more but know you will not rest.  

You are afraid. You are terrified. All your life you've served but this is more than you've ever been asked. The peril is all yours. A king would never face the same atonement as a maid. 

⚔️

The king enshrines you in his warmth. You examine the white strands of his hair as you lay in his arms. Your gaze wanders further to his rounded muscle, the unmatched strength woven in his body. His statue matches the intangible authority attached to his very being. He is power incarnate. 

You feel smaller as you lay beside him. The night passes, as it will not matter water. Time marches on like the very army that invaded your homeland at the behest of the man now clinging to you. Just a maid. Just a deceiver. 

You turn your eyes past the king's sleeping form. His rumbling snores underline the soft crackle of embers breaking down. You cannot remove the danger buried deep in your chest. Memories only drive it deeper and deeper. 

Your remember when Jazlene was only a girl. You've known her through every year of her life. You've seen her grow from cradle to crown. She might be flawed, she might be selfish and rotten and mean, but she is still that life you watch round the duchess' stomach when you were but yourself a child. She is still a living being. 

There was a time when she did not obsess over jewels and silks and bottle. When you both were just young and naive. When she counted and you hid, then switched places. When you revealed yourself form behind your hands and she giggled in amazement. That time is gone and you only see doom ahead of you. 

You can't lay there any longer. 

You move the king's arm off of you and sit up. You put your back to him and bend over your lap. How you could melt to a puddle like the icy outside those castle walls. How you might wilt away like a flower without shade. 

You do not dare leave the bed. Your emotions cannot overrule the man behind you. You flinch as he quiets and his snoring turns to a long groan. A tickle crawls up your back as he touches you. He pinches the fabric, tugging it as if to get your attention. 

"Are you well, treasure?" He asks with grit in his throat. 

"It is morning," you say, though the shutters block out the day, "shall I fetch you something to break your fast?" 

He sighs and his hand fists the back of your shift. He pulls until you twist to look at him. He props himself on one elbow, holding his head as he looks at you. His expression is not as stony as it usually is. He is not the statuesque king, he is just a man, entirely vulnerable in nothing more than a piece of cloth. 

"I don't want you to be maid this day," he touches your hip, his eyes dipping to watch his hand. "I want to... show you something. I want you to know this land. Once you do, you will know me." 

"As you wish, your highness." 

His brows lower and he pushes himself up, sitting against the pillows, "it doesn't need be. What do you wish, treasure? Tell me and I will grant it?" 

You push up one shoulder, "I wish for nothing. A maid does not..." 

"Not a maid," he insists again, "you, what do you wish?" 

You lower your head and turn back to the chamber, "I would see your land. Show me then what I have not already seen." 

His forceful breath uneases you. He is disappointed, though you say exactly what you should. What he should want. You will heed his desire, he only need declare it. 

"Very well," he jostles the bed as he moves to sit beside you, "you will need to dress warmly. I will have gloves and a hat. Some boots," his arm is snug to yours, " 

"Thank you, your highness," you utter. 

"No, Geralt. My name is Geralt." 

Your chest racks and your shoulders feel as if there are pins stuck in the joint. Your lips part then clamp together. You try to muster your voice but it catches like phlegm. You nearly choke. 

"Will you say it?" He asks gently. 

You turn to glance at him. It feels next to blasphemy. You blink and he reaches to frame your face with his large hand. 

"To hear my name on your lips would me like a sacred melody. Please, treasure, just for me, you can say it," he pleads. 

You take a breath through your nose and let it out in a wisp, "Geralt." 

He smiles and his thumb runs along your chin to your lower lip, "again." 

"Geralt," you say louder and he toys with your lip, his golden eyes narrowing on it, hungering for it as if a starving man looking upon a fine citrus. 

"Again," he commands once more. 

"Ger--" 

You cannot finish is name as he covers your mouth with his. He smothers you in his need, pulling you against him, snaring you in his arms. He brings you over him as he falls onto his back, moaning as he delights in the taste of you, nibbling at your bottom lip. He hums and draws away as you breathless stare down at him. 

"I have never known paradise, not in the hinter or the summer, but I find it here," he growls, "upon my very chest, in my very arms. If only it could be forever." 

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 43

Geralt will never admit it, but he loves when he dreams. It's soft, and weak, and bordering on psychotic, and yet the dreams are the best thing to ever happen to him. It all started when he opened his eyes to find himself in a field of buttercups and dandelions, with a man stood in the middle, playing a tune on his lute. He was a young man, looked to be barely a man, in all honesty. He introduced himself as Jaskier and pestered Geralt the entire dream until he finally woke up. But every time he dreamt, he dreamt of Jaskier again, until he began to look forward to it, every night. It must be some sort of sick lucid dreaming, given that Jaskier also began to grow closer affections to Geralt. Geralt was quite good at dreaming if you ask him. Over the years, he imagined Jaskier differently. He grew into himself more. Looked more 'complete' in a way. More confident. Jaskier begins getting more and more affectionate, until one night he kisses Geralt. They do a lot more kissing from then on. They fuck, and cuddle, and Jaskier plays with Geralt's hair, and sings him songs, and they kiss, and laugh, and talk, and it's all in their sunny paradise. Geralt appreciates the relieve from the cruel realities of world every night. He thinks it must be a bad trait for a witcher, but he watches Jaskier laugh at his own joke for the fourth time that hour and realizes he doesn't really care if it makes him a worse witcher. It isn't until the night Jaskier mutters "Oh Geralt, how I wish you were real." that Geralt realizes their dreams might not be as fake as they had both apparently assumed.

[feelsforsterek]

[spielzeugkaiser]

[MASTERPOST] Roach steals Jaskier the show, Jaskier has a nice community and the chat is thirsting for Geralts arms. 👀