#the fishmonger's daughter

[kingthunder]

Analysis of Jaskier's songs from s1—

—and how they reflect the narrative events and Jaskier's character arc through the show. I'm trying to keep this as canon as possible and not look at it through shipping goggles, but there is textual stuff about Jaskier's relationship with and love for Geralt that's impossible to ignore.

Toss a Coin to Your Witcher: Jaskier’s first big break, the famous and famously annoying Toss a Coin. He wrote this when he was around eighteen and it definitely feels immature. He’s cracking bad jokes like “elf on a shelf” (god I hate that one, it grates me every time) and substituting “bleat” for “beat.” He’s taking enormous creative liberties with facts. And he’s being a little thoughtless; in his enthusiasm to hero-wash Geralt, he’s throwing elves under the bus, calling them devils and pests while he’s talking about Geralt as a friend to “humanity.” (more about this when we get into some of his later songs and his time as the Sandpiper)

This is an upbeat, catchy (and kind of shallow) song that I mentally classify as one of his “narrative” songs. It tells a story. It feels optimistic, much like Jaskier himself at this point in his life. After all, this is the kid who saw a big scary witcher brooding in a corner and decided that nothing could go wrong by following him around. He’s got a head full of heroics and heartbreak and nothing is going to dissuade him, not even being nearly killed. This song is a perfect time capsule of the beginning of Jaskier’s career and also the beginning of his long-running relationship with Geralt.

The Fishmonger’s Daughter: Jaskier plays this at Calanthe’s court when she orders him to play “a jig.” It seems like a pretty typical bawdy tavern song, the kind where you try to drum up audience participation. Most of the court seems to know it and sing along with it. No idea if Jaskier wrote this himself. He probably didn’t. It seems like one of those songs that everyone just knows.

Her Sweet Kiss: This song makes me feel deranged. This is definitely a Jaskier original. We see him writing and noodling with it at the beginning of The Mountain (tm) and asking other people if his lyrics are scanning well. He’s been traveling with Geralt on and off for about twenty years now, so he’s forty years old or close to it. He’s seen some shit, and part of the shit he’s seen has been Geralt and Yennefer’s relationship. He is not a fan. He is so deeply not a fan that he’s writing a whole song about it. But also? He’s putting himself in the song too, and he’s putting his heart on his sleeve, the same way that he tries to do when he talks to Geralt about going to the coast. The lyrics of this song are about three people—a man (Geralt), a woman (Yennefer), and the singer (Jaskier). It’s about how the woman is bad for the man, and how much the singer loves the man.

Whether you see Jaskier’s feelings for Geralt as romantic or not, these are the facts:

He doesn’t like Yennefer or think that she’s good for Geralt, and says so, repeatedly, both in casual conversation and in his music. In the song, he writes, “She’s always bad news, it’s always lose-lose” and that, “She’ll destroy with her sweet kiss.” 

In the song, Jaskier calls Geralt “my love” and says, “I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting.”

He asks Geralt to go to the coast with him, so they can “work out what pleases” them. He wants them to stay together and not go their separate ways like they often do.

Immediately after this plea, Geralt goes straight to Yennefer and (just in case anyone was doubting that Her Sweet Kiss was about the three of them) Geralt and Yennefer fuck while an instrumental version of Her Sweet Kiss plays over the sex. I still can’t believe the showrunners did that. That was A Damn Choice. (deranged, I am deranged about everything about this)

The kicker is that the song wasn’t even finished when Geralt flipped his lid and shouted Jaskier off The Mountain (tm) and out of his life. Which means that Jaskier, alone and heartbroken (his own words from s2), finished this song and published it afterwards, even knowing that the entire situation had gone tits up and that he might not even see Geralt or Yennefer again. Maybe it gave him some catharsis to sing it, who knows.

This isn’t a shallow catchy tune like Toss a Coin or even Fishmonger’s Daughter. It’s deeply personal and a tonal shift from his previous music.

(and it makes me deranged)

Stay tuned for my season 2 thoughts!

[whitetyger123]

Jaskier song poll! (Hopefully) in order that they happen

[fangirlsfavoritebardboy]

Jaskier edit #4 - Merman

"The Fishmonger's Daughter, Ba Ba. The Fishmonger's Daughter, Ba Ba Ba!"

[bluedillylee]

It started with fish heads

“What, only one fish head today?” Jaskier shouted toward the outcropping of rocks next to the dock. “I got two heads yesterday. You losing interest? Or just losing your touch?”

[wren-of-the-woods]

I had my music on shuffle and it just gave me Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious followed immediately by Fishmonger’s Daughter. I am once again reminded of the great range posessed by Joey Batey.

[cherryjuicegf]

imagine! spell gone wrong and now yen has a telepathic bond with jaskier, she hears his every thought :D

she would probably knock him unconscious in the first fifteen minutes he wouldn't shut up otherwise

[greypetrel]

Good afternoon/evening!

Kingcup for Aisling? (I am curious about canon kid!Aisling, but! wherever it fits best c:)

Hello, Mo!

And canon it will be, no problem!

I sincerely do hope you weren’t expecting just some fluff because… My brain jumped on the angst instead. And apparently a wild Merrill appeared because you know, let’s get the talented children to play together surely they’ll have so much in common and to talk about. *they join forces in an elaborate escape plan* (Pavyn is an idiot but he’s my idiot son. Mythal will, eventually, give him wisdom.)

Tis the prompt list

Right Where You Are

Kingcup- youth, innocence, dawn

There were times when she still felt starkly different than the rest of the clan. It happened less and less, but it still happened, on occasions. It happened when everyone was able to speak about parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, and she… And she couldn’t, and was instantly cut off the discourse every time it fell on family.

She never said anything or acted upon it, not wanting to sound as different as she felt. She just stayed silent -it wasn’t difficult, at least- and let the others speak, smiling and nodding and laughing when everyone did. But whenever she walked away, her mind wandered and felt the pain of being some sort of part of a familiar nucleus that looked nothing like her.

Today was different, tho. Today she had plans, and big ones.

Today it was the Arlathven, her first Arlathven, and she knew what to do. She was still little, but it didn’t matter: the Lavellans were a little clan, and she was the Second. So, since they were so few, she was allowed to participate in rituals. At least the first for Mythal, even if in a scant role. But it was the biggest and the more important, and so the Keeper had allowed her to do her part. She had prepared for long for it, because that was crucial to her projects.

Because Aisling was tired of not being able to participate to any discourse involving family. She was tired of feeling excluded. And at the same time, she didn’t want the Keeper to feel bad because she asked about her mamae, the real one that she barely remembered. She didn’t want Deshanna, Pavyn or Radha to think she didn’t like them, or she wanted to get back. No, she loved them! She just wanted to be able to say she had grandparents and maybe even some uncles and aunts -she wanted an aunt, and maybe a cousin that looked like her. And that she wasn’t born under a rashvine, or from a magic halla as sometimes Pavyn told her (she was pretty sure he was joking, she has seen hallas giving birth). She just wanted to know without giving the wrong impression and resulting ungrateful and unwanted. She just wanted some names. Uncospicuously.  She just had to find her.

She just wanted to know without giving the wrong impression and resulting ungrateful and unwanted. She just wanted some names. Uncospicuously.  She just had to find her.

And for that she studied and practiced her hardest, again and again when the Keeper told her she could. She did her best and reviewed the plan three, four, five times, inventing a plan B and C and D. Because who knew what could happen, right?

Aisling was as ready as a short elven girl of 9 (“and a half!”) who showed even less could be.

She would have participated in the big ritual for Mythal, and did so well, even if on the sidelines, that her mamae would have noticed her in the group of Keepers and Firsts and Seconds, recognized her and come and greet her. Or plan B: she would have slipped out of the ritual as soon as it was finished and just look around for her, until recognition stroke and she could ask all her questions.

And who knows, maybe her mamae could come with the Lavellans too, this time. But that was really plan D, and the big speech to make to the Keeper that she reharsed the least, reviewing the notes she drew on her book under her blanket, late at night when Pavyn and Radha were already asleep.

It was a good plan, the best she had. It would have worked, and she couldn’t wait.

---

In the end, Aisling had to restore to plan B.

She did her best and she did good. Everyone just told her so, when the ritual was done and Deshanna presented her to the other mages. She was praised for being so young and doing so good with her magic, but of the faces that stop to meet her, no one looked like her, no one seemed to know her.

That didn’t stop her, tho. Maybe her mamae wasn’t a mage. She couldn’t approach her because she was surrounded by all those different people. That was it. That must be it.

So, she said she was very sorry to the black-haired girl from clan Sabrae, and slipped out. She was a little older than her, even if she was already the First. She seemed a nice person to make friend with, and she was told she too was adopted from another clan. And for that, she understood when Aisling whispered into her ear that she was sorry but she couldn’t stay. She had to find her mamae who was around there, she was sure. Understanding flashed in the green eyes of Merrill, and even if she was a little doubtful, she understood. They squeezed their hands and smiled at each other, and Aisling slipped out of the crowd and started to run.

In her plans, her mamae would have been just around the big central space left for the earth and the shrine, waiting for her with a big smile and a hug just for her. She remembered her mamae hugging her when she was very little, after all. But she wasn’t anywhere. She did two rounds, ignoring the children playing and looking up at the adults, following flashes of blonde hair that, in the end, were always the wrong shade, had big noses or blue eyes, less cheeks than she had, more angular, less round complexions. The best she got was people asking her if she got lost.

She wasn’t lost!

Plan C: slip in the camp and look for her. Someone must have known her. She wasn’t grown up so much to be unrecognizable, she was sure. She was short and little, surely she couldn’t be that different.

So, she collected the skirt of her dress, not to ruin it, and ran into a random alley between two aravels, as fast as her legs could bring her.

Her breath came in ragged, and she tripped a couple of times, looking up at foreign faces she never saw in her life, in all kinds of shapes and colours and eyes and clothes, and not at where she was putting her feet. But she couldn’t stop: if she stopped, sadness would have caught with her, and she would have had to admit that she missed her mamae still, and she was still sad and felt alone, even if all the Lavellans were lovely and nice and she loved them all.

She just wanted one person she could proudly say she took her nose from. She wanted to look like someone. Just one person would do, she didn’t really care about grandparents and cousins and aunts. One person would do and she would have been happy.

---

Plan C failed, making plan D pointless too, and Aisling didn’t know where she was anymore.

She had run for long, before she couldn’t anymore and she realized that her plan had failed and she didn’t know the way back. Then, she had crawled beneath an aravel, hid behind its wheel, and crouched on herself, crying in her knees.

Her dress was dirty and ruined, and it tore in two points, she scraped her left toes tripping over a sharp rock, and the heels of her hand trying to break the fall. The Keeper would have been angry at her and it was all for nothing.

Nonetheless, she was alone, now, and she could cry not because she ran and everyone must be angry at her, and the Keeper would have been so disappointed she would have looked at another clan to send her away. The creeping thought that her mamae didn’t want her, and so Deshanna could have not wanted her as well, it all caught up with her when she fell, and she couldn’t stop crying. It was better, in the end, if she just stood there and saved everyone the displeasure of kicking her out. Because, she knew, that was her destiny.

She cried and cried and cried, so much she felt she would never have stopped.

“There you are, Shrimp!”

A voice called her, and she just knew whose voice it was. She just hugged her legs tighter and tried to make herself even smaller than before, catching her breath even.

“I looked for you everywhere, you know? Mother was very worried.”

Pavyn wasn’t scolding. He rarely was, he usually was the scolded one. He could be grumpy at his mother when she complained he wasn’t studying or exercising his magic as much as he should have. But with her and Radha, he was always kind. He was kind, right now, but Aisling couldn’t move and look at him.

“Ok, then, we’ll just sit here. I have so many things to tell you, you know.”

She felt his foot poking at her ankle, playfully, but didn’t react to it. He wasn’t her brother. Not in the way he was Radha’s. His skin was brown where hers was pink or red when she stayed in the sun too much. His hair had the colour of the bark of oak trees and hers of roasted hazelnuts, he loved to talk to people and she was shy.

Pavyn didn’t seem to care, tho, resting his foot in contact with hers even if he was too big, at seventeen, to fit under an aravel, and started to talk. He told her that everyone was so happy with her, she did exceptionally well –“Of course you did, I helped you learning the spell and the steps, how could you be bad?”- and it took them long to realize she had just disappeared. The central square had looked like a buzzing beehive, and she should have seen it! He was honestly impressed, he told her: if he knew slipping away was enough to send the Arlathven in such a frenzy, he would have attempted it himself at the other Arlathven he attended. And he proceeded to tell her everything about what he remembered of his first Arlathven, he had been roughly her age now and it was so much boring.

Pavyn talked of anything and everything, never leaving her, never stopped touching her, asking her questions she didn’t reply to and not reacting when she didn’t.

“Can I ask you something, Shrimp? I promise I’m not getting angry, and to help you with Mamae. But you have to answer to this, ok?”

Aisling had stopped crying, at least. And without any better options, and realizing she couldn’t stay where she was forever, she nodded.

“What were you trying to do? I saw you scribbling on your notebook… What was the plan for?”

There. The start and the end of it. She curled more on herself, and he poked her again with the foot he still had against hers.

“Hey. Answer, right? It’s ok. I’m just getting offended if you were planning on petting the Dreadwolf without me.”

“I wanted to-” She sobbed again, in spite of herself. “-f-find her.”

“Her who?”

“My ma-”

She didn’t finish, a big sob coming right from her chest. Pavyn didn’t say anything, but she felt him move her feet over hers, and squeeze the opposite side as best as he could with his toes. It was something little, but it mattered.

“It sounds like you had it pretty rough, buddy. Want a hug?”

She shook her head, vigorously. She wasn’t a baby.

“Mh.” He didn’t sound convinced, and truth to be told, she wasn’t either. “Want me to help you?”

At that, she stopped. Slowly, she unfurled minutely, just enough to turn and watch him, crouching down enough so he could look at her with his warm black eyes, between the rays of the wheel. He was smiling, and he looked exactly like his mother, when he smiled.

“W-would you…?” She asked, little convinced.

“Of course.”

“B-but-”

“Come on, just get out of there.”

She did, reluctantly, and he took her by the hand as he did when she was little -she didn’t mind it terribly- and they walked the camp for some more. Pavyn crouched down, whispering to her ear to stop him whenever she saw someone that convinced her, he would have done the talking. And as much as Aisling didn’t really understand why he was helping her exactly, she accepted it nevertheless, even if she was scared by it. He held true when she pointed at the back of an elf that could have been. Her hair was wavy, but the colour was similar, if a little more dark. But… She pointed, and Pavyn nodded, correcting their steps.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” He tapped her shoulder, in his most amiable tone of voice.

“Yes? May I help you?”

She didn’t look like Aisling. Her nose was the wrong shape, and her cheekbones were high and visible, cheeks to skinny and eyes of the wrong slant. Pavyn considered her, squinting her eyes, before asking her.

“Yes, have you seen a Lobster, perhaps?”

Aisling gasped, and the woman glared at him annoyed, telling him something Aisling wasn’t even sure she could repeat on the line of how silly youths these days were. Pavyn marched away with all the pride of a male turkey looking for a female, humming a song and dragging a sad and now terribly embarrassed Aisling along by her hand.

“Why the lobster?” Aisling asked, forlornly, quickening her steps to follow him around, striding with his long legs.

“You’re a shrimp, so you must have been born from a lobster.” He declared, deadpanning. “It’s only logical, no?”

Aisling wasn’t sure if the idea made her want to laugh or leave his hand and run away. She liked Pavyn, he was easy to be around and always knew how to put people at ease. Sometimes, tho, she didn’t like how he could joke on everything and in every given moment, it was too much. That was one of those times.

“Or what do you think, maybe she’s a crab. That’s why you couldn’t find her, you’re looking for the wrong crustacean!” He declared, stopping a little to pick her up from her armpit, with a oomph. “No, that won’t do, you’re getting too heavy.”

He grumbled, and instead left her hand and stepped forward, crouching down before her and stretching his arms backward in a silent invitation. She considered just skipping it and keeping walking on her feet: she wasn’t a baby anymore, and she didn’t need to be picked up and brought around like one. And yet, her toes hurt and she was tired… And she was honestly desperate for some contact and a hug. Hugs always made her feel better, even if right now the one hug she wanted was the one hug apparently she couldn’t have. Pavyn had found her, tho, and Pavyn was, in his way, helping her in something she thought he would have gotten angry at, without even questioning why she was doing it. Shily, she stepped forward, and placed her hands on his shoulders. When he didn’t budge, she leaned on his back, circling his waist with her legs and letting his hand close on the back of her knees, hauling her up as he rose. She hugged his neck tight as he did, and his back was warm, his hair still smelled like the incense they burnt for the rite.

“There, all better. Hold on tight!”

And there they went, and the more they went, the less Aisling stopped him to point at people, the more she crouched on his back and slipped her face in her neck and air, closing her eyes. She was tired and let him do all the talking, describing people and warning her that she was still too little to accept stuff to drink. He refused some drinks himself, and took  a long and winding way back to the place the Lavellan set camp, all the aravels placed in two circle rows around a fire pit, larger than they would have in the wild by themselves.

They were greeted warmly by everyone, and the only harsh word was, expectantly, from hahren Isene, who was always grumpy with everyone. Pavyn, tho, had only kind words and told her off with a laugh, and kept on to the Keeper, who was sitting on a log around the fire, long hair pleated with coloured feathers shining against the black of her hair, faintly streaked grey on the temples.

“Look who Ghilan’nain brought back!” She said, smiling warmly at the child, even if said child shied away and hid her face back against the teen’s neck, not looking.

Pavyn crouched down, tho, moving her legs so she was standing. Aisling refused to let go of his neck tho, making him laugh.

“I have a shrimp cape, look!” He laughed, raising back up and twirling around, making Aisling spin, legs flailing around as she tried to haul herself up and gain some grip that wasn’t just hanging from his neck, holding on for dear life.

“Mythal give you wisdom, my son, she knows you need it.” The Keeper sighed at the display, raising up to catch Aisling and bring her back and on the ground. “And you, ma hallain.” She asked to Aisling, turning her around delicately by her shoulders and cupping her face in her hands, turning her face this way and that with a smile on her face. “Are you fine? You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

Deshanna was always kind and gentle, and her smile was warm as her hands, touch delicate. Hands of a healer, she would laugh, softened and smoothed by herbs and poultices. Aisling liked her hands very much, how delicate they always were when she caressed her or braided her hair, combing softly with her fingers through her locks, without hurting. But she couldn’t abandon the feeling that she would have been very disappointed in her, had she revealed exactly why she ran away. Particularly because all her carefully thought plan ended up in a glorious failure.

She just shook her head in all answer and lowered her eyes, looking at her dirty dress she bothered with her hands, and at the ground, vision blurring with tears.

“I see.” Deshanna said, gently. “Go and sit with your sister, would you? I’m getting you something to eat. You’ll feel better with a full belly, and then you can tell me about your adventure. You look like you had quite the one, my child.”

And with a kiss pressed on her forehead, she was gently pushed towards a bench, where Radha was sitting, looking at the scene before her with a frown on her face. Aisling didn’t need to be told twice. Radha was her favourite person in the clan, probably: she never expected her to talk, and she understood how some days words just didn’t want to come out. She didn’t want to talk, right now, and didn’t feel like she had any adventure. She sat beside her and they hugged, without needing any further word. Aisling cried in her shoulder, and she felt the older girl sighing on her hair, which she started to caress. Pavyn set on her other side, soothing her with words and elbowing her back, telling her that it was ok, they would have looked at a fishmonger stalls the next day.

When Deshanna returned, she scolded her eldest and his fishmongering jokes -which he kept on-, as she gave him and Aisling one bowl of soup each. It was the thick, creamy chickpea soup she favoured, the earthy one that made her mouth tingle. Her belly grumbled loudly, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat.

“What is it, my child?”

Aisling shook her head.

“Why did you run? What were you trying to do?”

As gentle as the Keeper always was, when she asked questions in that tone of voice, people just had to answer. Kind, still, but firm, the kind of voice fit for a Keeper. Aisling looked down in her untouched soup and replied, barely a whisper, full of shame.

“… I wanted to find my mamae.”

Pavyn didn’t react, but Radha, still sitting close so their legs and arms touched, let out a long huff from her nose, the one Aisling knew was a disapproving one. Deshanna, tho, just placed her hand over her head, caressing her.

“That was it? And why wouldn’t you eat, now?”

“B-because… B-because I didn’t want… I wanted to get back here. I… I like it here, I do!” She continued, vehemently, fresh tears coming to her eyes. “But nobody looks like me here and… And…”

She couldn’t word it any better, the rest of the truth was too big and she wasn’t proud of it, and scared of revealing it. It was a betrayal, in her young mind, and she was torn between not wanting to disappoint them and, on the other hand, the bone-deep wish to know.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Deshanna asked, kindly, hand still caressing her hair.

“You would have been disappointed and angry, and sent me away.”

“And yet I am not, you won’t be sent away, ever.” It was still the Keeper tone, and Aisling could almost have believed her, if she wasn’t so scared. “Of course you want to know about your family. It’s only natural. Can I…?”

Aisling nodded, letting the Keeper move and shift. Aisling stood, so the Keeper could sit at her place and pick her up to sit on her lap, gently combing her hair with her fingers and keeping her close it was soothing, and it made Aisling cry more.

“Eat, my child, please. No one is disappointed nor angry. I was just worried when I turned and you weren’t there, that you got lost and hurt.”

Aisling ate, reluctantly at first but obeying the request, wanting nothing more than to please the Keeper and making her happy with her. So, maybe, she would have been allowed to stay for real. No. The truth was that she wanted nothing more than her skin to tan and her hair to turn the same chocolate curls of Radha, and to be the third daughter of the Keeper for real, and finally fit in. But she knew that  no matter how much she prayed Mythal and Sylaise and Andruil to make her look change, that simply couldn’t be. What could be was that she could eat and realise that she did feel a little better with her belly full and warm of soup, surrounded by people who loved her and slowly convinced that no one was angry with her because she ran. Some clan members stopped to check on her and ask if she was fine and where did she got lost. Someone joked about some people in another clan not waiting for their Vallaslin to try and lure young elflings to drink, other told her they were happy she was back and all right. Vyrina stopped by with her babae, and she kissed her cheek, and told her she was very happy, and asked if they could play later: her mamae just bought her a new doll from a stall and she couldn’t wait to show her first of everyone. No one mentioned the poor state of her dress, or how her plan was, in the end, stupid.

“Do you want me to tell you about your mamae?” Deshanna asked her after a while, when she had eaten all her bowl and the cutleries were given to Pavyn to bring back with the rest to be washed.

Aisling, warmed from the fire and the meal, and feeling a little better and less sad from all the attention and kindness from her clan, considered it. Did she want to, after today? It wasn’t her mamae who found her when she was lost, it was Pavyn. It wasn’t her mamae who soothed her when she had bad dreams, that was Deshanna if she was awake, or Radha when she slipped in her cot and they slept hugged together. But there was one burning question she had.

“Did she not want me? Did she not follow because she hated me?”

“Oh, my little one.” Deshanna sighed, with a sad voice, hugging her little form tight from behind and squeezing hard. “She didn’t hate you. She loved you, very much. But the truth is often more complicated than that.”

Aisling didn’t understand. She was just nine (“and a half!”), after all, and that concept was too big for her. She didn’t understand and convinced herself, there and then, that the Keeper was wrong, it wasn’t complicated. If the Lavellans could want her so much they didn’t get angry at her, then it was simple.

“Do you want me to tell you who she is? I know her name and her clan, if you-”

It was simple as that.

“No. I don’t want her anymore. She didn’t find me, and I looked and looked. She’s mean.”

“Mh. When you’ll change your mind, the offer still stands, you know it?”

“I won’t.” She declared, stubbornly, and squirmed in her lap to turn around and hug the Keeper’s neck, sighing heavily in it and relishing in how she smelled of balsamic herbs and the faint tone of cinnamon.

She felt Radha reaching up to hug her and her mother as well, and when Pavyn got back, it was Deshanna who dragged him in the hug as well. Aisling was surrounded and squeezed, and she liked how warm it made her feel. It made her feel present and wanted, and it made her cry more. They were tears of happiness, and when Pavyn commented the thing by saying she was a mountain spring and not a child, from how much water spilled from her eyes, Deshanna swatted the back of his neck and stopped the mockery, praying Mythal again to open his head and pour a lot of salt into it, since he clearly missed it.

They started bickering around her, and Radha sighed and dragged her down. They curled together against Deshanna’s side, and right then, Aisling felt somewhat like she was home for real, for the first time there.

---

The next day, Pavyn got back well into the evening, wobbling on his feet and laughing at everything, making the Keeper sick with worry and very, very disappointed in him. His mother brought him to their aravel dragging him by his ear and loudly complaining that he was too young to drink that much and she told him. Right then, stopping to play with Vyrina and her new doll -it was very pretty, made of shells- Aisling was finally convinced that maybe her little act of rebellion wasn’t the worst that could happen, and that maybe no one would have kicked her out of the clan for real. Not if Pavyn was the one who puked on his pillow and woke up lamenting the sun was too bright and asking his mom to switch it off. He was thoroughtly scolded, and he was safe, and so she was too.

She crawled in the aravel as soon as she could and slipped in the cot he was sleeping the hangover away. She offered him the prettiest pinecone she could find on the ground -the roundest one, full of the fattest, whitest nuts- as a consolation, because she knew he loved pine nuts. And when he thanked her and saved them for later, she just curled against his side and napped with him, to remind him that he would have been fine, no one was kicking him out of the clan either, he would have felt better. Radha reached them after little, and she too curled with them, just telling them that their mother was waiting for both for dinner. No one really cared, and all three siblings stayed where they were, curling and pressing together to fit in a cot that was growing too small to house them all three all too quickly.

Hugging made her feel better the day before, so surely it would have worked for him as well. She was very sure of it.

She didn’t get an aunt, but a big brother and a big sister were good enough, she decided. Maybe even better.

[this-is-fine-dont-worry]

K, but where is the love song Jaskier sings in front of that red haired snack in episode 2? Like what’s it called? Like why is that not published to Spotify yet? I HAVE NO PATIENCE

[homosociallyyours]

Alsooooo i kinda don't want to know but maybe i do: is there D*scourse about all the age gaps on LI or is it chill bc they all act like youths?

[davidtennantpussytulpa]

guys im normal again dont worry.

[cailenbraern]

Not sure if I can fully articulate my thoughts about Jaskier’s growth as an artist throughout the seasons of The Witcher but I'm going to give it a go.

Because when we meet him in season 1 , he's more or less just starting out. He's fresh from Oxenfurt and determined to make a name for himself on the continent. The trouble is, he's got nothing to draw on. He's still young so his experience is negligible. He performs songs about monsters and creatures with little accuracy or meaning, and we meet him being jeered and pelted with food.

Meeting Geralt gives him a new inspiration for original songs, although he's not truthful, particularly in Toss a Coin. As Geralt said, that's not what happened, and Jaskier responds with respect doesn't make history. He's still too young and too inexperienced to realise what impact his songs can have, and he's solely determined to improve the reputations of Witchers along with his own reputation.

The two other songs in season 1 are Fishmongers Daughter, which I'm not going to discuss in any detail, and Her Sweet Kiss. Now one cane argue that the latter is heavily drawn from personal emotion and feeling, but the end result is a fairly normal ballad style of song with poetry as lyrics and vivid imagery and metaphors. It's a start, but Jaskier still has a long way to go.

Then we get to season 2, where we find Jaskier in the early stages of recognition. We see him performing in a packed bar, with accompaniment, and the crowd are lapping it up. It helps that the song he's singing comes, as per his own words, from the heart. Burn Butcher, Burn is 100% emotion, 100% authentic, and gone is the poetry. The lyrics are raw and passionate.

Despite this, we're led to believe that he found his fame with The Golden One. In contrast with BBB, this song lacks any emotional punch. It's purely a story or anecdote set to music. A fun little ditty, but unless you can suspend your disbelief, if open to criticism. As happens when attempting to smuggle the Elves onto the ship.

Now, we know that at this point, Jaskier has done and seen and experienced far more things than he had in season 1, and this has left an impact on him. He has matured and developed his sense of empathy and his kindness so much more than the immature travelling bard showed in Posada, thanks tp witnessing the violence and persecution of the elves, while also dealing with his own broken heart. Yet he's still clinging on to his want and desire to be respected and applauded for his skill and talent in writing and singing songs, so we see that he does not take criticism well.

More happens in season 2 to shape and form him, Rience's torture for one, the massacre at Kaer Morhen, his friendship with Yennefer and his mending (such as it is) of his friendship with Geralt along with the continuing politics all across the continent.

I do have a soft spot for Whoreson Prison Blues. The first two verses are beautiful, followed by a very crude, very catchy chorus. I can't imagine he would include it in future sets, but it's so personal to him in that moment that I love it.

Little wonder that by Season Three, we are met with yet more changes in our bard. His words to Radovid stating that he doesn't 'do pretty' suggest to me that he has consciously decided to move away from filling his songs with poetry and imagery and is focused more on honesty and truth. Extraordinary Things which immediately follows is a perfect demonstration of Jaskier singing openly and from the heart.

But what I wanted to get to in this long winded post, is that this is the season we finally see the Emotional Impact Jaskier's songs have on other people. No criticisms, no jokes, just the power of his music.

Whatever your opinion on Radovid and his motivations, Extraordinary Things affected him. You can see this in his reaction as he hears it for the first time, and he so clearly can't get it out of his head after hearing it only one time, that he goes above and beyond to learn it.

Next is Ciri, and we see Jaskier singing a lullaby (which he may or may not have written himself, jury's out on that) to her. Later, in the desert, she sings the lullaby back to herself, drawing strength and courage from it. This power has been given by Jaskier through his singing, making her feel safe and loved in a vulnerable moment.

Finally, Eternal Flowers, which I'll say here, is the best I've ever heard Joey sing, both on the album version and in the live performance on the show. He has his lute, but he lays it down like laying down a weapon. It's just him, stripped bare, open, vulnerable, honest, true. This is not his song, but he feels the emotion and the message as thought it was. His empathy is shining. It moves him to tears, but not only him, the Dryads also feel the emotion he is channelling, and it moves them to tears.

I don't have much of a conclusion to this ramble, but TL;DR, Jaskier’s songwriting and art has evolved over the three seasons and his bardic power is a might force to be reckoned with. He will be remembered long after Valdo for his honesty and beauty.

Not pretty. Real.

[chere-indolente-plays]

Introducing...

The Rouault family (aka Alice's family)

Jules is a fisherman and Marie Louise a fishmonger in Loguenan. Both the daughters work at the fish shop too and so did Alice before she left for Honfreville. By the way Marie Louise and Alice bump heads quite a bit (being both hot headed and all) so she really couldn't wait to live the nest.

As for Alice's sisters, while Lucie wouldn't mind just taking over the family business and continuing her life as is, Blanche is dreaming of romance. Actually, she is beginning to feel a bit insecure to still be looking for love at this point (don't worry bb girl surely you'll find someone soon enough).

These guys all live in Loguenan so I probably won't be playing them much but I thought it'd be nice to introduce them nonetheless.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 17

"Jaskier, no! Keep your eyes open!" "I'm- I'm getting so tired, Geralt..." "You can rest soon. Now, talk to me." "G'rlt..." "Talk, damn it!" "..." "Jaskier, please, PLEASE. Stay awake! Fuck- Sing for me. I need you to sing for me, Jask." "...You want to hear me sing?" "Yes, yes, I've never wanted to hear you perform more than now."

If Geralt wasn't currently stitching up Jaskier's profusely bleeding wound, he'd find the time to sob in relief at the sound of fucking Fishmonger's Daughter.

[kell-be-belle]

Watching Jaskier’s artistic evolution throughout the series of TWN has been such a delight to behold. In the beginning when we first meet Jaskier, he’s young and hungry for recognition. He already knows he’s going to be the greatest bard whoever lived, he just needs to convince everyone else of that. While it’s obvious Jaskier has a passion for his craft, he isn’t really focused on anything other than coming up with a smash hit. “Toss a Coin” is no doubt a catchy tune, but lacks any significant amount of substance. That’s Jaskier's overall artistic energy in S1. He wants his name out there even if it involves a bit of pandering to the masses. 

And Jaskier achieves this! Through the popularity of his work, Jaskier gains the significant achievement of playing for the court of Queen Calanthe. This is the moment for him to finally showcase something more in line with the kind of music he actually wants to create, to break away from the diddies of his youth. However, the moment he starts to play, Jaskier is immediately shot down. No one wants to hear his “maudling” and the disappointment on his face is clear. Still, ever the showman, Jaskier refers to the more crowd pleasing “Fishmonger’s Daughter”.   

In S2, Jaskier is at his lowest. He’s alone, heartbroken, and almost entirely indifferent to his courtly reputation and popularity. This is Jaskier at his rawest. He doesn’t care whether or not people like his songs, he’s using them as a way to process through his emotional turmoil. And it produces some strong work. Burn Butcher Burn may not be the thing the farmers will sing while working the fields or by children running in the streets, but it seems people have enough of an appreciation for this candor. Afterall, who hasn't had their heart broken before? It's relatable.   

It’s in S3 that we finally see Jaskier bloom into what is arguably his most authentic artistic self. He's got the popularity to remain relevant and in demand, but he's able to use the weight of that to explore more creative avenues he couldn't as a young man desperately shoving bread down his pants. He’s so secure in himself and his work that he feels safe to turn down a position in court proposed by the prince of Redania himself. Jaskier knows who he is and what he wants to create and he leans into that whole heartedly. 

I'm not the best at articulating my thoughts so I hope this makes enough sense, but I'm having a lot of feelings about it. As a creative myself, there's a specific feeling that comes from watching someone live their best most authentic creative lives 💖

[wren-of-the-woods]

the greatest songs (are made up of unspoken words)

Fandom: The Witcher Relationships: Radovid/Jaskier Rating: G Content Warnings: None Word Count: 2.3k Inspired by the @cake-shop-rarepair-bingo prompt "love before first sight".

Summary: Radovid hears many songs of Jaskier’s over the years. Each one intrigues him more.

Also on AO3!

~

The first time Radovid heard Jaskier sing, he was little more than a boy. 

He was attending one of the many parties that were an inevitable part of life at court, laughing and enjoying the wine. There had been a bard in the corner, one who mostly sang the usual entertaining drivel. Radovid paid him little heed. Then, suddenly, something changed. 

Toss a coin to your witcher, the bard sang, and the tune caught Radovid’s ear. It was catchy. The words, as he listened further, were even more intriguing. He had hardly ever heard songs about witchers before, let alone songs so positive and full of adventure. 

A few other partygoers began to sing along. Radovid smiled, enjoying the fun. 

The song ended soon enough. Radovid applauded with the rest, then returned to the conversation he had been having with a rather dashing young count. The song was soon forgotten amid a joyful haze of wine and good company, and that might have been the end of it. 

But the next morning, as Radovid brushed his hair and tried to choose the best doublet to wear for the day, he found that he was humming a very catchy tune. 

~

Over the next few years, Radovid became rather familiar with the name of Jaskier the bard. 

Radovid heard many minstrels play at assorted parties, balls, and dinners, each with varying levels of skill and talent. They played all sorts of songs, from their own compositions to traditional ballads. Some were of high quality. Others were distinctly lacking. But, as the years went by, one thing became more and more constant: each evening, at least one song written by Jaskier was played.

“Another tale by Jaskier the bard,” the minstrels would proclaim, and without fail a catchy tune accompanied by words of love or derring-do would follow. Radovid began to rather look forward to them — they were, unlike many of the other bards' work, reliably catchy and entertaining. Even those of his songs with little true substance never failed to make a crowd dance.

There was something about his tales of the witcher, too, that intrigued Radovid. There was a familiarity in the lyrics, a sense that this Jaskier really knew the witcher, that Radovid had not heard in many other songs. The adventures were depicted with a familiarity, almost a fondness, that suggested the bard had truly been present and cared about the outcome. Sometimes, it seemed that the songs suggested something even more than friendship between the witcher and the bard.

Radovid began to seek out rumors of the bard, listening for tales of witchers and a man with a sunny disposition and a sharp tongue. He heard rumor after rumor. He was told tales of their friendship and their adventures. Some claimed that the witcher and the bard were in love with each other. Others claimed that Jaskier was everything from a former street urchin to a runaway siren prince. It was, to say the least, intriguing. 

Despite the week Radovid spent with The Fishmonger’s Daughter perpetually stuck in his head, he found himself becoming rather fond of the bard. 

~

When Radovid heard The Golden One, he did not suspect anything had changed. It was another song of Jaskier’s adventures, another catchy tune to which crowds could sing along. It was popular, just like so many other songs Jaskier had written over the decades. The lyrics were rather simple, but the masterful melody more than made up for it. 

Then, a few weeks later, the bard playing for a diplomatic dinner announced that he would be performing Jaskier’s newest song. Radovid expected it to be The Golden One again, but the opening chords were unfamiliar. It was a few moments before he managed to make out the soft lyrics over the prattle of the duchess’ daughter beside him. 

A storm raging on the horizon, Of longing and heartache and lust It’s always bad news She’s always lose-lose So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just

Radovid’s eyes widened. In ways he could not quite pin down, this felt different than anything Jaskier had written before. The lyrics were precise, the words were chosen with great purpose, and the melody was elegant and melancholy. 

I am weak, my love, and I am wanting, sang the bard, and Radovid’s breath caught in his throat. There was pain in the singer’s voice. Radovid could only imagine how it would have sounded from the lips of the author. 

Radovid listened quietly to the whole song. He paid no heed to his surroundings until the bard finished, releasing Radovid from the spell. He realized that he had been completely ignoring the woman beside him.

The song was beautiful. There was no other word to describe it. It spoke of heartbreak and longing with such skill that Radovid could almost feel it himself.

Radovid was somewhat more distracted than usual that evening, spending more time thinking about a certain songwriter than any of the politicians and princesses in the room, but given the circumstances, he felt that was excusable.  

~

It was a few months before Radovid heard another song of Jaskier’s. 

He was in another court, visiting some distant relative of his brothers’ wife. He had not paid much attention to the whole thing, preferring to focus on the very handsome steward who had been making eyes at him across the room all evening. 

The band playing announced a new Jaskier song. Radovid perked up. The steward was forgotten. Given how fascinating the bard’s last song had been, he could only imagine what the man had written next.

Then the bard began to sing, her voice sharp, and Radovid’s heart skipped a beat. 

I hear you’re alive How disappointing I’ve also survived No thanks to you

The words were pointed and emphatic. Radovid spared a moment to wonder what had happened to make Jaskier write something like this, but the thought was quickly swept away as he became enraptured in the music. 

The song only grew more vicious and passionate as it went. The band grew louder and more energetic, a man beginning to harmonize with the woman, and they began the chorus. 

What for to yearn? Watch that butcher burn

The singers spit the words like sparks from the fire they sang about. Radovid once again found himself wondering what it would be like to hear Jaskier himself sing this song, because if his imitators could make this so engrossing, he could only imagine what it would sound like in the voice of the man who wrote it. 

Burn, burn, burn, the bards shouted, then slowly grew quiet until the main singer almost spoke the final line. 

Watch me burn all the memories of you, she said, and the band went quiet. 

Radovid let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as the room around him erupted into applause. Jaskier’s songs were always well-written, but this one was full of so much feeling and vulnerability that it rendered him almost speechless. 

This bard, Radovid began to think, had more talent than any other person he had ever met in all his long years of princely escapades. 

~

Several long months went by. Radovid encountered another song of Jaskier’s, one that was played in rowdy taverns and not in courts: a song about prisons and whoresons that never failed to make an audience laugh. At the same time, Her Sweet Kiss and Burn Butcher Burn were played so often in courts and at parties that Radovid soon knew all the words by heart. 

The witcher, he assumed, was the butcher referred to in the song. He had vague memories of hearing servants talk of a white-haired murderer when he was small. He did not know what had happened between Jaskier and his witcher that could make him write something so vicious, though it likely had to do with the woman who had such a sweet kiss, but he found that he wanted to know. 

If there was a small voice in the back of Radovid’s mind whispering that this meant it was no longer likely that the witcher and the bard were together — that it meant the bard was probably available — that was no one’s business but his own. 

When he slipped away from his entourage to stop at a tavern on his way home from yet another party and heard a bard announce that he would sing a new song of Jaskier’s, Radovid sat down with interest. He expected something new about the bard’s relationship with the witcher or perhaps another well-written breakup song. 

It was not a breakup song.

The bard began to sing words of history, oppression, and hope. It sounded strangely grim for the first verse, leaving Radovid just enough time to wonder if Jaskier had been jaded by his heartbreak when the second verse began. 

Forget all they’ve told you, for history’s fine glow Is tarnished by those who don’t want you to know The power of your stories, your songs, and yourselves To take back the land for the dwarves and the elves

Radovid froze. He listened closely, trying to hear every word over the sound of talking and laughter in the tavern. 

Rise, sang the bard, we will rise.

The tune soared with energy and passion. The words told of people and power. Radovid did not know the story spoken of in the song, but somehow he did not doubt that it was true. 

This was no song of love. This was a song of resistance.

At first, Radovid thought this song was unlike anything Jaskier had written before. Then he remembered all the bard’s songs of noble witchers, remembered Toss a Coin itself, and realized he was wrong. This thread of reputation and resistance had been woven through Jaskier’s career from the beginning, so artfully braided that Radovid had hardly noticed its presence until Jaskier chose to make it plain.

A song like this was bold. A song like this was almost unique in recent times. A song like this, right now, was incredibly dangerous. 

Radovid had not truly realized, until that moment, just how much there was to be known about Jaskier. There was so much to be heard in his songs, so much intrigue and intricacy in his life. There was so much the rumors did not encapsulate. There was so much Radovid did not know. 

When the song reached its conclusion, Radovid’s applause was the loudest in the tavern. 

Without ever having seen him, Radovid knew that Jaskier was different from anyone else he had met. He was truly special. 

And, one day, Radovid desperately hoped to learn why. 

~

Radovid could hardly believe that Philippa expected him to stay behind. 

It was laughably easy to follow her, and any inconveniences he encountered were more than made up for by the fact that Philippa — and, by extension, Radovid — were going to meet Jaskier. Radovid had spent so much time thinking of the bard over the decades that the thought of meeting him in person seemed almost surreal. He could hardly wait.  

When he heard a commotion ahead of him, he knew he had found his mark. He rounded a corner and paused, taking in the scene before him. He blinked. 

A man was standing in the street. He was shouting at a woman on a balcony as she threw various articles of clothing in his direction. Philippa lurked nearby.

Radovid watched as the bard shouted at the woman in the window some more, then was accosted by Phillipa. He looked distinctly disheveled and rather comedic. If Radovid had not been certain of the bard’s identity, he would hardly have believed that this was the same man who had written so many songs of such beauty and bravery. The discrepancy only intrigued Radovid more. 

Jaskier was also, undeniably, very handsome. This was significantly less unexpected.

Radovid approached them. Just as he drew close, the woman on the balcony drew out a lute. Jaskier’s emphatic protests did not dissuade her from tossing it into the street— right into Radovid’s waiting arms. 

Jaskier and Philippa both turned to him. He dismissed Philippa and turned to Jaskier.

“I’ve long wanted to see you in person,” he said, trying to restrain his excitement. “Song of the Seven’s my favorite.”

Jaskier did not spare a moment for thought before speaking. “Slightly ironic, but thank you.” He turned to Philippa. “You see? People like me. I’ve got fans.” 

He faced Radovid again. Radovid ran his thumb nervously along the neck of the lute — Jaskier’s lute — in his hands. Jaskier stepped forward with a grin, his hand outstretched to shake. The bard’s calloused fingers were warm against Radovid’s palm. 

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Radovid.”

“Right.”

“Comma, prince.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and he started to stammer as the realization of whose hand he was holding sunk in. His surprise did nothing to make him less attractive. 

Radovid held back a smile. He was holding the hand of the man he had waited so long to meet. Here, finally, he could look his favorite puzzle in the eye. Jaskier was even more intriguing in person, full of quick wit and humor and cheer that seemed to mask something more serious underneath. 

Radovid did not yet know what made Jaskier tick. He did not know what made him act the way he did, nor what his true motivations were. He did not know what his tells were, his secret cues that would give away where the mask ended and the man began. He did not know what truly made Jaskier and his songs so irresistible. 

There was one thing, though, that he knew without a doubt. It was knowledge that made it hard to focus, that made him want to burst into delighted laughter and grin from ear to ear. 

Radovid knew that now, after all these years of waiting, he finally had the chance to find out.