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Gardis still wasn't used to there being a specific time for supper. He wasn't used to chore rotas or being back in Kaer Morhen or not walking the path alone either, but somehow it was getting to the great hall in time for meals that always tripped him up. It was less than two years since Geralt had come home for the winter more furious than Gardis had ever seen him, ranting about monstrous kings. That was hardly any time at all for a Witcher. Sometimes he still woke up expecting to hear waves crashing on Skelliger's shore and realise that the years since he met an insane Cat who invited him back to winter at his own keep were nothing more than a very weird dream.
All this to say that Gardis was late for supper.
Which was why he happened to be hurrying across the courtyard when the knocking started. It wasn't exactly an expected sound. Even the group who came with tribute from the new King of Kaedwen had parked up at the bottom of the trail and sent a messenger bird up. It may have been summer but the trail still wasn't for the faint of heart.
Gardis shrugged to himself and headed towards the gate. Glancing back at the sound of the main doors opening, Gardis saw Coën look out, head titled to the side in a question. Gardis just made a face back.
Leaning in towards the thick wood, Gardis focused on listening through it. Two heartbeats; one fear fast, the other slow with fatigue. Shuffling of feet and the rustling of clothes. Nothing else.
The knocking came again and Gardis jerked back as it nearly deafened him.
Coën's chuckle came from right next to him and Gardis whacked him on the arm without looking.
“We will not find out by simply staring at the gate, my friend.”
“Fine.” Gardis snapped back and reached for the handle with bad grace.
He hadn't really had any expectations of the people at their gate but if he had it certainly wouldn't have been this.
One, a man in a fancy teal doublet and a lute on his back. Brown hair and blue eyes and smelling tired and hungry and stressed. The other in a full cloak with the hood drawn up. He couldn't see much of their face but they smelled young and probably female, it was sometimes hard to tell with children. Her heartbeat had jumped even faster as he opened the gate but her scent was spiking anxiety and nerves rather than actual fear.
“Good evening, Master Witcher.” The man gave them an extravagant bow that sent Gardis’ eyebrows climbing his forehead. “I am Jaskier the Bard. Could my companion and I trouble you for an audience with your comrade, the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, if he is at home?”
Gardis’ eyebrows were now well into his hairline. Certainly an interesting request. Geralt's reputation wasn't exactly shining right now, since the Witchers had banded together under his name to depose the bastard that had been the previous king of Kaedwen. He'd even heard rumours going around that people had started calling Geralt the Warlord of the North. But here was a bard asking to see him without a trace of fear in his scent. If anything, the bard’s scent had gotten sweeter when he said Geralt’s name.
A sideways glance at Coën just had the big Griffin shrugging. Lot of help that was. Up to him to make a decision then. Well, they didn't seem dangerous. The girl’s hood was a bit concerning, as was the faint magic smell around her, but neither were armed beyond a dagger each. It seemed safe enough to let them into the keep, if nothing else. After that he could throw them at Geralt and they'd be his problem.
“Sure. Come on then. They'll all be at dinner.” Gardis gestured for them to follow him, leaving Coën to shut the gate and bring up the rear.
They followed in obediant silence right up until Gardis was opening the doors to the main hall. At which point the bard’s scent spiked straight from weariness into a weird mix of joy and indignation and he shoved past Gardis to finish opening the doors himself.
“Geralt! You have some explaining to do!” Gardis winced as the bard yelled right next to his ear but he was too amused by the ridiculously flamboyant way Jaskier flung open the double doors and stormed into the room to actually be pissed about it. “I leave you alone for three years and you go and conquer a kingdom!?”
---
Geralt blamed absolutely all of this Liege Lord of Kaedwen nonsense on the sleep deprivation. He was perfectly aware that there was a whole chain of coincidences, arguments and decisions between then and now but that was definitely where it all started to go wrong.
Even the sleep deprivation wouldn't necessarily have done it if it hadn't hit so late in the season…
By the time Geralt was running on about five hours of sleep in the last two weeks he was desperate enough to try pretty much anything. And would’ve tried, if he wasn’t about a week, maybe two, away from both Kaer Morhen and the first snow storms of winter.
If he was a lot further south he could have sought out the Hedgewitch he'd bought sleeping potions from last time. They’d worked surprisingly well and all she’d asked of him was retrieving a selection of frankly bizarre and dangerous ingredients for her future experiments. Unfortunately, he’d used the last of them about five years ago while Jaskier was away in Oxenfurt for a Bardic competition and he hadn’t been close enough since to get more.
If he was over to the West he could have gone fishing for that Djinn he'd heard rumours of. Generally a bad idea to mess with wishes, but he was in a state to try pretty much anything. Hell, if he knew where Jaskier had disappeared off to this year he was probably desperate enough to track him down and ask the bard to play him a lullaby. If his chatter alone wasn’t enough to send Geralt off first.
But he wasn’t in any of those places. He was in Kaedwen.
Specifically, he was in a town recovering from a recent visit from the King of Kaedwen and his entourage. A very recent visit.
More than half the town seemed to be in mourning.
Geralt was currently cutting wood for an old lady on the outskirts of town. Not usually the sort of thing he did or would be able to do, but the scale of the devastation in the king’s wake had left the town both in need of help and seemingly completely numb to his presence, swords and eyes and all.
There was even a small child peering around the building at him and all her grandmother did was smile at the child as she passed, making her way slowly over to Geralt.
“Here, lad.” The old lady, Geralt thought her name might be Martha, placed a mug of something on a nearby stump. “Make sure you drink something. It’s a good thing you’re doing here. Can’t have you exhausting yourself.”
Geralt just gave her a perplexed look. This really wasn’t a normal reaction to a Witcher, especially without Jaskier there to smooth down his sharp edges.
“Thank you.” Geralt finally forced himself to rasp out, expecting her to leave again and take her granddaughter with her.
Instead, she looked back at where the little girl was gradually inching her way around the corner and smiled sadly.
“Her parents are both gone now. Her mother, so pretty she was, she was one of the first taken. And my boy, I told him not to make a fuss. Nothing we can do about it, when the one taking her is a king, but he wouldn’t listen. Went and got himself killed, he did and left me and Flora alone. Who would have chopped us enough wood for winter then, if you hadn’t come along?” She sighed, still watching Flora sadly.
Geralt knew all this already, of course. He’d heard the same story multiple times since arriving in this town. In the quieter whispers, Geralt had also heard about the young boys who hadn't escaped the attentions of some of the king's retinue.
It was monstrous. It was also nothing new. Geralt, sometimes with Jaskier and sometimes without, had spent a lot of time in Kaedwen over the last fifteen years. He’d heard all the rumours and horror stories the country had to tell about its ruling class.
Wasn’t usually on quite this scale, but he might just have never arrived so soon after the devastation before.
Before he could return to his chopping, Martha drew herself up straight and turned shockingly sharp eyes on him. “You’ve been good to us, Witcher. I saw the deer you brought in for the stores and the way you helped old Tom with his cart. We might’ve all heard the stories about your kind but we put more stock in deeds round these parts. You’ve been good to us, so we’ll be good to you. You need anything we’ve still got, you ask, you hear?”
All Geralt could do was nod at her, baffled.
She smiled at him and turned to walk away, leaving her granddaughter to watch him chop wood.
Running on little sleep and even less patience, her kindness stoked the fury stewing in his gut to an inferno. The King of Kaedwen was more of a monster than any creature that he had ever hunted and Geralt was getting increasingly vicious ideas about what he'd do to the bastard, were they ever to meet.
He left the town a few days later, not much richer in coin but with friendly voices waving him off.
By the time he reached Kaer Morhen, well into the fourth week of sleep deprivation, Geralt was both furious and delirious enough to put his thoughts about the bastard king before the surprisingly large number of Witchers who were wintering there this year. Later, he honestly didn't remember exactly what he said. He had a horrible feeling there'd been at least one rant about Letho having the right idea (Luckily not to Letho, none of the Vipers had come until later). Possibly there'd also been a diatribe on monstrous men just being another class of monster? Eskel just laughed at him when he asked.
Whatever he said, it seemed to strike a chord.
Afterwards, Geralt sacked out in his room, finally in one of the two places he knew he could sleep peacefully (the other was next to Jaskier and he was never telling the bard that) and slept for a good 20 hours straight.
By the time he woke up, groggy and muzzy headed, the others in the keep had decided to put it to vote. Roughly 30 Witchers all told, representing five of the seven schools; Vesemir’s efforts at drawing the schools back together more successful than any of them could have imagined. They all came together to decide if they should set aside their neutrality to kill a monstrous man. It was confusing, to say the least, and the rest of the winter wasn't much better.
When spring came, Geralt had an army of 30 Witchers at his back and a plan to kill a king.
Sleep deprivation had a lot to answer for.
---
Vesemir was half waiting for Coën to come back and explain what the knocking had been and half focused on his supper when the doors of the hall were flung open. A man he’d never seen before stormed in shouting, trailed by Gardis, Coën and a short figure in a hooded cloak. The outburst from the extravagantly dressed stranger had him immediately looking to where Geralt was sat, two places to his right.
What he saw was… interesting.
Many would assume it was impossible to read Geralt's moods from his stony expression, but those people had not known him most of his life. Vesemir could tell that he was both startled and… happy, almost joyous at the strange man's entrance. It made some sort of sense, from the man's declaration it seemed they knew each other, but it was not an expression Vesemir was used to seeing.
“Jaskier.” Geralt rasped out and there was the happiness in his voice too, for those who knew him to hear. Most strange.
“Yes, yes, I missed you too.” The man who must be Jaskier waved a hand dismissively, as if it was normal to read a whole sentence in Geralt just saying his name. “That’s not the point, what have you been doing - is that a throne? Do you have a throne? Oh, I am going to have to write you so many more songs.”
As Jaskier stared in consternation past their heads to the throne behind them, Vesemir realised who he must be and chastised himself for not realising sooner. The man had a lute strapped to his back for pity's sake, of course this was Geralt’s bard. The name did sound familiar now he was thinking on it but he hadn’t been aware they were quite that close. Geralt hardly ever spoke about the bard who wrote songs about him and he’d never brought him to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Vesemir had assumed, wrongly it appeared, that they were casual acquaintances at best.
“Jaskier.” Geralt repeated the bard’s name, this time with a slight growl in his voice, drawing Jaskier’s attention away from the incongruous throne (it had been Lambert and Aiden’s idea of a joke, Vesemir was pretty sure Geralt still hadn’t forgiven them for it).
“Oh shh,” Jaskier wagged a finger in Geralt’s direction, “You brought this on yourself. You’ve ruined all of my good work rehabilitating your reputation. It was going so well and now I’m going to have to do it all over again. Now where do I start..?” Jaskier trailed off, tapping his chin, seemingly getting lost in thought while still standing, centre of attention, in a room full of Witchers. It was a lack of fear that was frankly baffling, even from someone who associated with Geralt.
Geralt himself sighed, all fond exasperation and familiarity, and stood to make his way around the high table. While he did that Vesemir switched his focus to the other visitor, standing silently between Gardis and Coën. She had not lowered her hood, which was concerning, but the nervous anxiety seemed to be fading the longer Jaskier and Geralt interacted. Though when Geralt stopped directly in front of Jaskier and reached for him, Vesemir saw her twitch as if to pull the bard back before forcibly stilling herself.
She seemed to relax again when all Geralt did was flick Jaskier sharply on the forehead.
“Ow,” Jaskier shook himself out of his reverie, “Sorry, where was I?”
“Composing,” And the smile was back in Geralt’s voice.
“Other than that, you ass!” Jaskier flung his hands up in the air, exasperation in his gestures but fond amusement and honey sweetness in his scent. Vesemir took a glance around the hall and saw his own bemused fascination reflected in many of the faces witnessing this conversation.
And somehow it was a conversation, even with Geralt saying all of three words, two which were the bard’s name.
As if to prove Vesemir’s point, Geralt's only response was a questioning hum and a tilt of his head in the direction of the still hooded girl. Jaskier’s scent flashed nervous for the first time since he entered the hall and he clasped his hands together in front of his chest before he spoke.
“Right, yes.” Jaskier glanced around as if noticing his rapt audience for the first time, “Is there possibly somewhere more private we could have this conversation? I’m sure it will be fine but I have some rather politically delicate information to impart.”
Vesemir immediately stood, along with Eskel, gesturing to Coën, Guxart and Junod to follow. Political meant a council meeting, for all that they were still figuring out how a council of Witchers worked. Might as well start as they meant to go on.
Geralt glanced back at them, nodded once and then grabbed the sleeve of the bard’s doublet. Turning towards the store room they had converted to a meeting room he began to walk off, dragging the protesting Jaskier behind.
“Oh, oh, we’re doing this again are we!? You are why my clothes are always stretched out of shape, you know!” The girl behind him giggled before fully snorting with laughter when Jaskier reached out and grabbed her cloak in turn.
A good chunk of the Witchers in the hall were now laughing along with her.
Vesemir just sighed and followed his pseudo-son out of the room.
---
Jaskier hadn’t gone to Cintra intending to sort of semi-adopt Geralt’s Child Surprise, okay? It just sort of happened that way. Yes, he’d wandered over that direction with the vague plan of checking up on them, make sure they were still alive, maybe find out their name. But that was it! They’d be six years old by now, he’d thought, old enough to have been introduced to their future kingdom...
He probably should have expected the messenger that arrived at the, rather nice, inn he was staying and playing at, with a demand for a royal command performance. He was very much expecting to be interrogated about Geralt’s whereabouts and his own presence. What he hadn’t ever expected was that they wouldn’t remember him.
It was hurtful, was what it was. It was a huge relief, of course, but still hurtful. He thought he’d given a great performance at that banquet.
Geralt had given a much more memorable one, to be fair.
So Jaskier gave his royal command performance, met the adorable Princess Cirilla and then completely failed at leaving. He’d wintered at courts before. Sure, they hadn’t been quite so constantly threatening to his life as this one, but it’d be fine. He just had to be careful.
He really was planning on leaving once spring came, to re-join Geralt on the Path (not that he mentioned that to anyone in Cintra). It was just that then Cirilla was demanding he stay long enough to play at her birthday party at Beltane and what kind monster said no to a six year old? Not Jaskier.
A few more months wouldn’t hurt, surely?
But then the Princess’ tutor had decided she was old enough to start learning an instrument. And wouldn’t you know it, one of Cintra’s current Court bards just happened to have both a degree from Oxenfurt in the seven liberal arts and experience with teaching. Never mind that Jaskier had only ever taught adults, or almost adults. He was almost tempted to say no just to see the look on the tutors’ face.
Then Ciri made puppy dog eyes at him.
Guess he wasn’t seeing Geralt this year.
Teaching Ciri actually turned out to be tremendous fun. She was a little hellion, which was frankly inevitable as both Calanthe’s granddaughter and Geralt’s Child Surprise, but she was also intelligent, sweet natured and fairly down-to-earth. For a Princess. Jaskier ended up teaching her more than just music in the end, though she did take fairly well to the flute. She was best at history and botany. To the point that Jaskier was pretty sure they’d advanced onto material she wasn’t supposed to be learning yet. Oh well, her tutor’s fault for leaving Jaskier in charge.
Her best friend was one of the stable boys. Well, her best friend who wasn’t a horse.
So of course they were in the stables when Jaskier finally slipped up. Almost a year of constantly watching his words down the drain. She was cooing at one of the dusty brown mares and it just slipped out.
“You get this from Geralt, I swear.”
Luckily they were pretty much alone, a couple of grooms on the other side of the stables but no-one else. He might have ended up executed otherwise.
Jaskier did eventually convince Ciri that she couldn’t let anyone know she’d ever even heard that name, let alone where she might have heard it from. It took a while. Especially impressing on her that the vow of secrecy most definitely included her Grandmother. In fact, she didn’t let up at all until he promised that he’d tell her why the name was so secret.
He told her he'd tell her on her eighth birthday.
Jaskier’s feet were itching to be back on the Path and he was missing Geralt like a missing limb. He’d definitely be gone by then. He wasn’t staying here another winter.
…Jaskier stayed there another winter.
And it was a bloody good thing he had, wasn’t it? Because the spring of Ciri’s eighth birthday was when Cintra got the news that an army of Witchers had marched on Kaedwen, deposed the king and his council and put a new king on the throne.
An army of Witchers led by none other than the White Wolf, Geralt of fucking Rivia.
What the fuck, Geralt.
The look Ciri sent him across the throne room, pale faced and scared, let Jaskier know that his time had just run out. He either told her tonight, and convinced her Geralt was a good man, or he packed his bags and ran for Kaer Morhen.
Not every country was Cintra, with its moratorium on everything Witcher. Jaskier wouldn’t be stroking his own ego to say that most kingdoms in the North remembered exactly where all the songs about the White Wolf came from. If Geralt was going around with a Witcher army conquering kingdoms, no matter the reason, Jaskier had just had a price put on his head.
Frankly, as long as they stayed ignorant, Cintra’s court was probably the safest place on the continent for him after Kaer Morhen. And he could admit he didn’t want to leave Ciri. Especially not like this.
He’d grown to love her, his friend’s Child Surprise, and he was pretty sure she cared for him too. He’d try explaining it to her first. Hopefully, if she didn’t trust him, she’d at least give him time to run.
Ciri was scared when he pulled her aside for her lessons with a platitude to her governess about keeping routine and he hated that he was partly the cause.
He did his best to explain. He wasn’t sure how well he did, especially as he couldn’t explain Kaedwen, but she at least seemed relieved by his assurances that Geralt would never, ever hurt her. Jaskier supposed he was lucky she was young enough and trusted him enough to believe him, but it just left him worried. Especially as he might have accidentally made her distrustful of her Grandmother for banning Geralt from the kingdom and never telling her about him herself.
Jaskier, from Cintra’s point of view, was absolutely not someone who should be anywhere near the Princess, let alone in charge of most of her lessons. Who was vetting her tutors? He’d have to look into the rest of them.
Not the point right now, he’d bought himself time to see what Geralt would do next. There was still the possibility he’d have to make a run for the protection of his Witcher.
Almost a year on from that nerve-wracking day, Jaskier was standing in the small receiving room with Calanthe, Eist, Ciri, Mousesack and a non-descript man who Jaskier knew to be one of Calanthe’s spies. He really, really shouldn’t be there but Mousesack had come to retrieve Ciri from her lessons and had insisted Jaskier needed to come along. So now there he was, hands comfortingly on Ciri’s shoulders as the spy informed them that Nilfgaard was very interested in Princess Cirilla. So interested, in fact, that there were rumours of an invasion on the horizon.
It was during a rant from Calanthe about Nilfgaard’s temerity to even threaten her kingdom and her granddaughter, that Mousesack said the words that sent ice down Jaskier’s spine.
“There is another Kingdom Ciri could be safe at, far enough north to be out of their reach.”
“Do not tell me you’re really suggesting sending her off to that interfering bastard of a Witcher!” Calanthe’s face went so red with anger that Jaskier thought she might burst a blood vessel. Jaskier squeezed Ciri’s shoulders when he felt her breath hitch and tried to wish himself invisible.
“If Nilfgaard really are… interested in her, Kaer Morhen would be safer than anywhere within Cintra’s borders. Or anywhere else without.”
“And how would she get there, hmm? I suppose you would take her. Or are you expecting me to write to that bastard and request an escort.” Calanthe spat the final word straight into Mousesack’s face. Jaskier was very impressed with the mage’s poker face, or would have been if not for the looming, overwhelming dread that he knew where this conversation was going.
Mousesack smiled. “Why would we need to write for an escort, when we have the perfect one right here?”
And there it was. Mousesack’s eyes went right to Jaskier, quickly followed by everyone else’s and if Jaskier survived this he was going to murder the druid in his sleep.
Jaskier could tell the moment that Calanthe finally recognised him, as he had expected her to years ago. Her face went white, her eyes narrowed and she took an aborted step towards him. Jaskier had to suppress the urge to pull Ciri behind him.
“You!” He could feel Ciri pushing back against him as Calanthe shouted. “You’ve been skulking around my court, teaching my granddaughter, when you were there that night! I should have you executed.”
“That would be a waste of a perfectly good asset.” Mousesack interjected, calmly, “You know this as well as I do.”
As Calenthe turned back to Mousesack and resumed arguing with her court mage at her more normal level of grouch, Jaskier let out a shaky breath against the top of Ciri’s hair.
Maybe he wouldn’t kill the druid in his sleep, but if Jaskier survived this he was absolutely telling on him to Geralt.
---
Ciri followed Jaskier as he was dragged along by the Witcher who was apparently her father by the Law of Surprise. She still wasn’t sure if she should be nervous or excited to finally be meeting the man that Jas had told her so much about, but she’d been see-sawing back and forth on that since they’d left Cintra.
His scowls were scary, but he seemed pleased to see Jaskier. Maybe he wouldn’t be angry they were here? She really hoped he let them stay, she wasn’t sure where they’d go if he didn’t. She missed Cintra, but they couldn’t go back. Even Grandmother had agreed, after a lot of very loud shouting, that Ciri would be safer in Kaer Morhen.
Some of the other Witchers who were following them into the small room off the hall were much scarier than Geralt. The big one with the bear medallion had such a big beard she couldn’t read his face at all and one of the older looking ones was frowning.
Ciri hugged herself under her cloak and made sure she stayed near the polite one, who had introduced himself as Coën, as they all stopped before a large table surrounded by chairs. As she was debating whether going and standing near Jas and Geralt would be less scary than Coën, Jaskier started complaining to Geralt again. It relaxed her instantly. The way they spoke to each other reminded her of her Grandmother and Eist somehow. She felt herself slowly inching towards the familiar bickering.
“You can let go of me now, Geralt.” Jaskier waved the arm Geralt was still holding onto and then seemed to change his mind even as Geralt was pulling his hand away. “Actually, no, no you can’t.” Ciri startled as Jas flung himself at Geralt and wrapped his arms around him. “I haven’t seen you in three years and I almost got executed so many times! So you can make yourself useful and hug me until I feel better about it.”
“Executed?!” The older Witcher and the one with scars on his face were the ones that spoke but all of the Witchers suddenly seemed tense. Geralt was staring worriedly at the top of Jaskier’s head, even as his arms came up around him.
Ciri just stifled her giggles in her palm, Jas was so silly. Grandmother hadn’t threatened to execute him more than two or three times and she hadn’t ever meant it! Except possibly that last time. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Grandmother quite that angry.
Jaskier’s voice was muffled when he replied, face still buried in Geralt’s shoulder. “Well, not really. But I could have been at any moment if I’d been caught earlier!”
Geralt pulled Jas away from himself, hands firmly on Jaskier’s shoulders. “Caught where?” He growled.
“Cintra.”
Ciri could see Geralt’s fingers tightening on Jaskier’s shoulders as he stared at him. She flinched when that golden gaze snapped to her instead, searching. Ciri caught her breath and prayed that he would like her. Jaskier had told her so much about her Father of Surprise; she knew he was good and kind and not very good at talking sometimes. Jaskier had asked her to try not to be sad if Geralt didn’t welcome her immediately or seemed to be mad at Jaskier.
But…
Ciri had never really had parents. She had Grandmother and Eist of course, and apparently she’d had a nanny when she was very young, but none of her Governesses had ever acted the way Ciri thought a parent probably should. The only one who’d ever even tried was Jaskier. Sometimes Ciri secretly pretended he actually was her dad, though she’d never tell anyone else that!
It would be nice to have someone else care about her that way.
“Why would Cintra execute you?” The scarred Witcher asked while Ciri tried very hard not to feel like a rabbit who’d just stepped into a wolf’s den.
“That is a very long and complicated story.” Jaskier replied, “But I suppose we should start with the elephant in the room.” He finally pulled away from Geralt’s hold and held out a hand towards Ciri. “Come here, darling.”
Ciri very slowly moved into the circle of Jas’ arm, still so very aware of Geralt’s eyes on her the whole time. She barely felt it when Jaskier reached up and finally pulled down her hood.
“Ciri, may I introduce to you the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, apparently the new Warlord of the North.” The face Geralt pulled at the title was almost enough to break through Ciri’s nerves for a second, but then Jaskier moved on to the other half of the introduction. “Geralt, this is Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, heir to the throne of Cinta and your Child Surprise.”
There was a commotion from the other Witchers at Jaskier’s announcement but Ciri was too focused on Geralt, whose face had gone blank again. She took a deep breath and gathered her courage before opening her mouth to speak for the first time inside the Witchers’ keep.
“Hi.”
Geralt seemed to startle at her voice, before slowly dipping his head towards her. “Well met.”
Their exchange seemed to silence the rest of the room. When Geralt turned back towards Jaskier, leaving Ciri to breathe out hard as his attention left her, his question dropped into the strained atmosphere like a pebble in a pond. “Why?”
“Well,” Jaskier gestured with the arm not currently squeezing Ciri’s shoulders. “How much have you heard about the current situation between Cintra and Nilfgaard?”
“We’ve had reports that Nilfgaard is readying troops,” The scarred Witcher was the one who answered, “But nothing on who their target might be.”
Ciri tuned the conversation out as Jaskier started explaining why they’d just spent months running away from her home to claim sanctuary at a foreign court. She’d heard all the politics and explanations before. Her Grandmother had made sure she knew why she was being sent away, that it wasn’t because she wasn’t loved.
Ciri was more concerned with examining the Witchers who would be helping to decide her fate. From the safety of Jaskier’s arm she finally looked at them properly, trying to read them the way Jaskier had taught her.
The scarred witcher, even though he seemed one of the youngest, was leading the conversation. He was important and well informed. And he had kind eyes.
The older man with the wolf medallion was watching Geralt, Jaskier and Ciri herself with a thoughtful look in his eyes. He occasionally interrupted the discussion, usually when the other older witcher, the one with a medallion of a cat, was going off on a tangent. The two of them reminded her of her friend Piotr and his brother; much wiser and more dignified but still annoying each other like siblings. Though maybe annoying each other like a cat and a dog would be more accurate, considering their medallions.
Coën was staying mostly silent, deferring to the others, but everytime he needed to say something he looked over to her and smiled. He was nice and Ciri hoped if they got to stay he could be her friend.
The big witcher with the big beard, she still couldn’t read at all. But he hadn’t said anything at all since they’d come in here so maybe she didn’t need to.
Taking a deep breath, Ciri finally turned her attention to her new Father of Surprise. Geralt was watching Jaskier talk with a weirdly familiar expression on his face that she couldn't quite decipher at first. It was only when she remembered her earlier thought about who they reminded her of that she got it. The look on Geralt’s face was almost exactly the same as the one on her Grandmother’s every time she watched Eist talk circles around visiting diplomats. Ciri had seen that look a lot. Jas was even doing the same thing that Eist did, looking back at Geralt every few moments to check that he was paying attention.
Oh.
Ciri relaxed in Jas’ hold as all the clues seemed to slip into place and she realised there was never any chance that Geralt wouldn’t let them stay. He didn’t know her yet, but it didn’t matter.
Her almost-parents were in love. Everything would be fine.