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toozmanykids · 1 year ago

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Oh poor Jazlene. That sucks! Her mom had even talked to her beforehand, explaining how to prepare herself? Her job as a wife is to have sex and bear him children. Kudos to her mom for mentally preparing her for that role.

But now the King barely even looks at her or touches her??? God, that sucks. Of course in other situations or matches, a wife might be thankful???

Speaking of which..... I JUST heard this song today.

Winter's King 5

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: it's saturday.

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. 💖

You follow the king into the great hall. Despite the sun beaming in through the open doors and the chirping of sparrows from the courtyard, it is a dour affair.

King Geralt marches across the hall as you stand by a tall candelabra near the door. It remains unlit as the summer lights much of the space through the long windows and broad doors. He approaches the bishop in his robe and sash and points the man with a terse grunt. Lord Dustan and Lady Rozlyn stand behind the cleric, looking fraught.

“Where is the bride?” The king growls as his golden eyes skim the stone walls.

“Your highness, we’ve just called for her--”

“She is aware of our impending nuptials, she would keep her betrothed waiting?” The king rebukes, “you summer souls and your flimsy spines.”

The duchess twitches in offence but does not rebuff the insult. The wine has subsided well enough to allow her some sense. Lord Dustan’s lips press tight and he claps.

“My daughter, at once,�� he hisses in your direction.

Before you can turn on your sole, the king grunts, “fetch her yourself. How can I trust you to keep my kingdom in order if you cannot bring the same to your own house?”

“Yes, your highness,” Dustan blanches, “it was only I thought it would be swifter to send the maid.”

“It would be swifter if you stilled your tongue,” King Geralt barks.

The duke recoils and hurries off. Your eyes meet the king’s and he gives a slight tilt of his head and you resume your plaintive stance. Lady Rezlyn looks him up and down before she withdraws her gaze and instead focuses on the portrait of her husband’s predecessor.

The air grows stagnant as you wait. When at last a stirring comes from above, the king is gripping the dagger on his belt. He is not impressed with the delay.

“Father, I am here, I am here, unhand me,” Lady Jazlene blusters in ahead of the duke. She wears the red and ivory and matching ribbons have been braided into her curls. She has several necklaces piled around her neck and her hands are adorned in tones of silver and gold. “I am ready,” she sighs as she approaches the bishop and face the king, “it is not the wedding I dreamt of but for a king, I might settle.”

King Geralt’s golden eyes narrow. He looks through his bride and she wavers on her feet as she reaches for him. He does not offer his hand nor his arm before he faces the bishop.

“The vows,” the king demands flatly.

“Er,” the bishop falters and searches the chamber.

“Where is the writ?” The king hisses, “do you not have a scribe?”

“Here, your highness, here,” Dustan waves to a squire waiting near the outer doors. “It only requires ink and seal, after the vows of course.”

The king exhales hotly and faces the bishop again, signaling with a curt flick of his fingertips. You only then notice Merinda across from you, she must’ve followed the noble daughter in. She exchanges a glance with you, she is not more amused than King Geralt.

“Ahem,” the bishop adjusts his tall cap, “let us begin. We commune here today to--” The king waves his hand dismissively and the cleric flinches. “Hm, uh, sir, your highness, my lord, King Geralt, of Rivia and the Hinterlands, and the Summer countries,” he stutters as his eyes droop, “do you swear, by the sacred rites and the laws of the realm, to take this woman in blessed matrimony? To attend to your duties as husband and keeper, until death?”

The ceremony is as brusque as anything the king does. He does not have time or patience for the pageantry or prolonged talking. His shoulders rise with his breath and he heaves out, “I make this vow.”

“And, Lady Jazlene, daughter of Debray, do you swear, by the sacred rites and the laws of the realm, to take this man in blessed matrimony? To attend to your duties as wife and servant, until death?”

Jazlene sniffles and makes a show of blotting her face with her sleeve. Her mother blubbers from the side and Lord Dustan hushes her. Their threatrics are almost humourous amid the solemn air. King Geralt rumbles and stares over the bishop’s head.

“I... I make... I make this vow,” Jazlene bawls and pulls out a handkerchief from her bosom. She covers her nose and wipes away her tears. “I shall love the king and serve him better than any w-w-wife.”

The bishop hesitates as he looks between the bride and groom. He nods and beckons forth Lord Dustan, “so we will seal this marriage in ink and wax. Sign your names and let the royal stamp be applied to set in bond your fates until the black night sees you to rest.”

Dustan comes forward with the parchment and signals to another unseen figure. A servant brings forth a quill and well as the contract is laid out on the table near the wall. The king approaches as Jazlene weeps at his side, trailing after him as she trembles. The king signs first, with a slash of the quill, then Jazlene barely keeps hold of the pen as she loops her name across the rough surface.

She drops the feather and fans herself. She looks around, preening, and grabs onto the king’s arm, “so we are married.”

He doesn’t react. He turns without acknowledgement as she stays latched on, pulled forth by his easy strength. His gaze touches yours as you watch the strange and strained scene. This is unlike any wedding you’ve ever seen, though you haven’t seen a noble one in all your life. Only the whispered vows of servants behind the stables or in the meadows. Those ones that are only written in spirit.

His eyes quickly flit away and he sets his sight on the doorway beside you. He walks forward with his bride dragging on his arm. His mail jostles loudly with his steps as his soles scuff.

“Let the marriage be consummated,” he mutters without look back, “you will be ready to travel at dawn.”

“Your highness?” Dustan stumbles forward, “dawn?”

“Husband, am I to come with you?” Jazlene murmurs.

“A kingdom must be rebuilt,” King Geralt states without inflection. “I will not rule over a resentful people, I will show them I fought for them, not against them. And you will follow through on your vows to me or find I am not so weak as that fool, King Waleran.”

⚔️

You help Merinda with Lady Jazlene’s travel chest. You pack away as much as you can; shifts, nightclothes, gowns, stockings, all that you think she would like to take with her. The sudden departure allows you little time for ponderance, you only do as you must. As ever. So is life.

“She will hate it in the Hinterlands,” Merinda scoffs, “when I served for the earl, there was a man from the Winter Isles. He was missing fingers from the cold. He told me how they turned black and fell off.”

“Then she will need to find some mitts,” you shrug as you roll up a cloak. Much of the lady’s clothes are not suited to a colder climate. She has no furs; they are not needed in the Summer lands. Midsummer through to High Summer offer little more than a cooling rain between mild to sweltering highs.

“Perhaps she should bundle up against her husband too,” Merinda snickers, “he is icy as the tundras he hails from.”

“He is a king, he has much to worry for,” you sniff.

“Mm, I suppose, though he hardly ever looks concerned for anything. Speaks even less,” she muses, “I suppose Lady Jazlene will speak plenty for both of them.”

“Queen Jazlene,” you correct her bleakly.

“Oh, he should worry for that,” the other maid chuckles again. “Though I suppose now she will have all the gowns she likes.”

“Perhaps,” you allow.

“Let us prosper here without her demands. Where it is warm and sunny,” Merinda sighs.

“It will be rather quieter,” you agree.

You carry on until the chest is near overflowing. You sit on the lid as Merinda buckles the straps. You will need some male servants to come carry it to the stables. That should wait until morning. Lady Rezlyn bid you wait in her daughter’s chamber should she emerge from the king’s.

You pack a smaller chest for her jewels and her cosmetics, and a few books she’s worn down with her fingertips, and her sewing hoops and needles. Oft, she only holds onto those possessions as she gossips with her mother. You suppose that will be difficult. When the duchess and her husband return home and their daughter must face her obligation without ally.

There are servants like Merinda who might covet gems and pretty things, but you’ve never much envied the noble type. They have overly much responsibility. You only need swab a floor or lace a dress. Life could not be simpler.

“Hm,” she hums and gives a cluck of her tongue.

You wind up a length of ribbon and put it in the chest. You feel Merinda watching you. You look up and arch your brows. “What?”

She smiles, “you remind me of him.”

“Who?”

“The king,” she tinkles with laughter, “you are both so... quiet. You never say more than you need to. I can appreciate that given who we serve but you are a hard nut.”

“I don’t have much to say, suppose,” you reply. “Don’t know very much of the king, either.”

She’s quiet as you carry on. You assume some things will need to be sent after the lady; the queen. It will be a long journey and not one which you think would entail many banquets. It’s a scary unknown ahead of Lady Jazlene, though it is overdue.

When the smaller chest is full, you and Merinda lift it onto the larger. It is late and the night hue surrounds you as only a single flame is lit. You yawn intermittently but neither of you dare lay down to sleep. You wouldn’t want to be accused of idleness.

You sit on the window bench and watch the moon as Merinda paces through shadows. You rest your chin in your hand but only for a moment as suddenly the hinges groan and cut through the din. You stand as Merinda faces the door sharply.

Lady Jazlene drifts in. The ribbons in her hair are loose and her dress is still laced tight, though her skirts are rumbled and wrinkled. She leaves the door ajar behind her as she ambles stiffly towards the bed. She turns to fall onto the bench at the foot of the four-post frame.

She doesn’t speak as she stares ahead. Merinda shuts the door as you inch towards the noble woman. She offers no reaction as you hover near her. She presses her hands above her knees and shudders out a breath.

“My lady,” Merinda speaks first, glancing at you cautiously, “your highness, would you... would you like a bath?”

Jazlene doesn’t answer. Her head moves subtly back and forth then dips again. She balls fabric in her fists.

“I did what mother said,” she croaks, “and... I was... I was aroused. I was ready...” she murmurs.

You and Merinda stand in silence. You’ve never heard the noble daughter speak so smally. She lifts her head.

“I did it. I did my duty,” she declares, “but he...” she rises and you back away as she sweeps around the bed, a hitch in her step. She goes to the mirror and leans in, touching her cheeks, turning her head this way and that, “I’m beautiful, aren’t I? Mother says, father says... but the king... the king...”

She blows out her breath and is silent. She spins and clutches her bodice. She looks down at herself.

“He didn’t even let me take this off,” she babbles, “then he just... sent me away.” She puts her hand to her chest, “a bath? Did you say a bath?” She looks at Merinda, “yes, I must wash. Wash it all away.” She clears her throat and drops her hand, rolling her shoulders, “tomorrow we must leave--” her voice catches, “I must go to my new home with my...” she puts her back to you and sits on the cushioned seat before the vanity, “...husband.”

You nod to Merinda and cross the room to meet her at the door. You share a look, one which doesn’t need conversation. Even though she’s laid with a man, your fellow maid looks distressed. You go out into the hall, pulling shut the door gently in the nocturnal dim.

“Do you think he was cruel?” Merinda asks.

“It isn’t our concern, is it? It is a wife’s duty...” you whisper, uncertain.

“It was her first,” Merinda remarks, “perhaps she was unready.”

“We shouldn’t speak of it,” you gird.

“You needn’t be so chaste,” she reproaches, “if I didn’t know her wrath, I might even feel sorry for the lady.”

“Mer,” you warn again, “let us get some water for the bath.”

Merinda chuffs, “you are so... boring.”

You walk away from her, ignoring her chiding. You don’t care if she thinks you dull. It isn’t your place to judge the marital matters of the lady and her husband. It is even dangerous to gossip over royal business. You will not chance it.

She follows. You descend and go to boil a pot in the kitchen. Merinda lights several candles as you go to work. You carry the large vessel between you. Several trips up and down to fill the large tub. Merinda undresses Jazlene as you go to return the pot.

You place it near the fire stove as the embers burn low and orange. You stand in front of it, the cindery scent tinging your nostrils. You should go back but unease lingers in your gut. The way Jazlene just stared, how hollow she sounded, you’ve never seen her like that.

The candles behind you flicker and you turn to the swirling shadows. There’s a figure just inside the doorway, almost ghostly, much too towering to be the cook. You gulp and fold your hands against your stomach.

“Hello?” You utter to what must be a wraith.

There is no answer, the silhouette merely moves towards you. You steel yourself, a scream caught in your throat. The tint of the fire stove reflects off golden irises and the king’s figure comes clearer in the night. You suck in air and steady your feet.

“Your highness,” you gasp.

“Ale,” he sneers.

“Yes, your highness, I will fetch--”

“To my chambers,” he demands, looming over you.

“Yes, your highness, ale, at once,” you go to spin and he grabs onto your arm, drawing you back. He grips tightly, squeezing as he pulls you into the haze of warmth radiating from him. Or perhaps that is the oven.

He holds you, puffing out breaths as he glares down at you. You’re trapped in his simmering sights. You look up at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He lets out a low snarl and slowly releases you.

“I hate these summer lands,” he grumbles as you stagger back.

You still and stare as he backs away. He turns on his heel and stalks towards the door, leaving you in frightful curiosity. You open and close your fingers, your forearm tingling from his firm grasp. You rub it through your sleeve as you spin towards the cellar. You will be certain to grab a full cask for the king’s thirst.

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