#dark!geralt of rivia
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Winter's King 1
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)
Characters: Geralt of Rivia
Note: this one came out of no where.
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It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands.
Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely.
A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach.
The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place.
You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within.
You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin.
“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes.
“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit.
“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.”
“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp.
“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.”
“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads.
There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’
“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!”
“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.”
You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching.
Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?”
You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.”
“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?”
Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.”
“I do not know, lady,” you answer.
“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.”
“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.”
Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.”
You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded.
The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies.
“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!”
The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings.
“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.”
“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--”
“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.”
“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--”
“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!”
“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries.
“Father, please, is it a husband?”
“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.”
“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.”
“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.”
The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa.
“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?”
“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.”
“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.”
“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.”
“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.”
“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.”
⚔️
Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner.
You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers.
The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment.
Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s.
“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt.
You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost?
The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow.
“One of ya,” he grits.
Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women.
The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate.
Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows.
The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance.
His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia.
You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top.
“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces.
The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it.
“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...”
“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--”
The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you.
“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.”
“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.”
The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight.
“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?”
Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor.
A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down.
You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch.
#geralt of rivia#dark geralt of rivia#dark!geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x reader#the witcher#winter's king#au#medieval au#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series
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Broken Rose (Prologue)
Summary: He may have stolen your kingdom and freedom – but he’ll never own your heart. Right?
Pairing: Alpha!Geralt of Rivia x Queen(Omega)!Reader
Warnings: heavy angst, mentions of death/fighting/blood, mentions of forced/arranged marriage trope, friends to enemies to ???, a/b/o, magic
Broken Rose masterlist
A broken rose. That’s what he called you the day he forced you to share his life and bed. Right after he defeated your brave knights, the undefeatable master of darkness, the monster with yellow eyes claimed you as his bride and mate.
Cries. The smell of blood, death, and despair still lingered in the back of your mind when he claimed not only your kingdom but your body too.
The lost battle still tasted bittersweet on your tongue when he stole the first kiss and promised to make you his obedient queen.
He believed that you’ll bow your head and fulfill his every wish.
What he didn’t get was that roses have thorns, and they can cut deep into the flesh of someone who tries to pick them…
“Watch the left flank!” You yelled at your knights while holding your ground. A queen fighting alongside her knights and commoners to defend their homelands from the enemy.
“He’s merciless,” Adekin, one of your most trusted knights said. “We should retreat, my queen. You cannot die out here among us. Go back to the castle.”
“If I die, I’ll do it next to you and my knights,” you threw yourself into another fight, slicing the enemies invading your homeland open with the sword your father gifted to you. “This is my kingdom and my people. I will not back down!”
“He’s the black magician, the Witcher enchanting even beasts,” he cut the next enemy's head off. “We cannot withstand much longer, my queen. Please head back to the castle.”
“No!” You refused to fall back and run away like a coward. If your life ended tonight, it would end on your conditions. “This is my fight as much as yours. It’s my birthright to defend this country and feed the earth with my blood.”
“My queen,” Adekin protected you with his shield and struck another enemy down. “It’s an honor to fight alongside you. It will be an ever greater honor to die for you.”
“No one will die tonight,” you rammed your dagger into an attacker’s side. “He will not win.” You gritted your teeth. “This is our kingdom. The Witcher cannot have it.”
“Y/N, queen of Rosethra,” the ground shook when his voice cut through the night. The monsters attacking you stopped in their tracks, and your knights dropped their swords to the ground. “I came here to ask for your hand.”
“Go back to where you came from,” even now, he couldn’t enchant you with his magic. “Here is nothing for you, Geralt of Rivia. I will never bow for you. Kill me now if you are man enough.”
His laughter made you even angrier. You gripped your sword tighter and prepared for the final battle. “My sweet rose,” he stepped out of the darkness, smirking darkly because you were the last one standing.
Your knights fell to their knees, defeated by an invisible power holding them down.
“What are you doing to them?” You screamed as Adekin looked back at you with black eyes. “No…stop this!”
“Queen of Rosethra, I came here to unite our kingdoms,” he stepped toward you, his hands raised in surrender, but not defeated at all. “Give yourself to me, and your people will live. Your knights will live. No one must die tonight if you agree to become mine.”
You looked at Adekin, your fallen knight. He didn’t deserve to turn into one of the monsters following Geralt. You knew his magic could enslave your beloved people, and couldn't let them suffer because of your dignity and pride.
You gritted your teeth but kneeled in front of him.
For now, the battle was lost. So, you chose to save your people and give up on your freedom. You placed your sword in front of you and tilted your head in submission.
“If you shelter their lives and don’t turn them into monsters,” you glared up at Geralt, the man who used to be your confidant and friend, “I’m yours...”
Part 2
Tags in reblog.
#geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x reader#alpha!geralt of rivia x omega!reader#a/b/o#Broken Rose (Prologue)#geralt of rivia x you#dark!geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x y/n
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Title: Tonality [4]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: a little more story, a little more tension, a little mor everything! what do you guys always, please mind the warnings, and enjoy!😊🥰 divider by @firefly-graphics
The Nilfgaardian banner snaps in the sharp, salt-laden breeze, the dark fabric bearing the crest of its namesake. The bright yellow sun mirrors the one in the cloudless sky above the keep. From your room, you can see their approach long before they reach the gates, a thin vein of black weaving through the countryside like a snake. The garrison pauses only briefly in the city, winding through the crowded streets in their pitch colored armor like a long satin ribbon. You grimace at the sight of them, swallowing against the sourness you feel growing at the back of your throat.
You do not know why the sight of them fills you with a dark foreboding, a shadow that looms in the space behind your thoughts. Perhaps it is the knowledge that you are expected to greet the Nilfgaardian envoy alongside your mother, the king, and the prince that makes your stomach curdle.
“My Lady, should we not join their Majesties?” Kassandra’s voice draws you from your churning thoughts. “Her Highness would not be pleased if we were late.” You swallow the dry retort that your mother would not be pleased no matter what you did, and automatically feel guilt over the bitter thought. You grimace before nodding at Kassandra over your shoulder.
Nothing good will come of this. The feeling—no, the knowledge—is as familiar to you as your own name, appearing among your thoughts as if it had always been there. Only sorrow will come of this day.
“Are you alright, Your Grace?”
Your throat tight, you smile. “Y-yes.” I am grim without cause. You shake yourself, smoothing your hands down the stiff, unfamiliar dress. It’s new, gifted to you only this morning as your mother had informed you of her expectations.
“You’ll look lovely in this,” she had bade the servants to lay out the massive thing, a veritable ocean of fabric, with so many skirts and stays you find yourself amazed you can even move at all. You detest the restriction and corsetry of it all, fidgeting with a frustrated grimace as Kassandra opens the door. Your thoughts must be plain on your face, for she is quick to reassure you as you pass.
“You are a vision, Your Grace,” she says, hurrying to your side as she closes the heavy door behind you. Despite your displeasure, her words do comfort you, and you offer Kassandra a watery smile in thanks. “I daresay you shall be the envy of every Lady in attendance.”
You laugh dryly. “Even you?” Kassandra’s response is unexpected—she shakes her head, pressing her lips together into a thin, apologetic smile.
“No, my Lady.” She says softly. There is true pity in her eyes, which stings all the more. “Though there are many in His Majesty’s keep who would treat with the Gods themselves to take your place—and, exalted though it may be, I am not among them.” The words pass unspoken between you, true honesty masked only slightly by propriety. “I would not wish that for all the world.”
The throne room is as packed with bodies as it was at your mother’s coronation only a few scant weeks prior, servants weaving deftly in and out of the crowd. It parts easily for you, people scrambling out of your path as you make your way toward the throne. Geralt stands to the king’s left, and you feel the weight of his gaze upon you so heavily it is as though he has touched you with his hand.
“My King. I trust you are well this morning?” He heaves a heavy sigh at your question, massaging the graying hair at his temple.
“As well as can be expected, given the circumstances.” King Vesemir graces you with a tired smile. “But I am glad these worries are mine. Would that they fall on mine own shoulders and save yours.” Of these troubles, you know only what little you have managed to glean from casual conversation and your own observations—the Lord of Nilfgaard has sent his envoy, along with a garrison of troops, to treat with the king.
Your mother scoffs. “You are a King, my love,” she says, tilting her regal head at him. “You can do nothing without rousing at least a little of the rabble.”
You take your place next to her, skirting around the prince with a wide berth. Your mother reaches for your hand, patting it as she nods approvingly at you.
“You look as lovely as I thought you would.” Somehow, her complement makes you like your clothing even less. The dress is heavy and cumbersome, the corset laced so tight a deep breath makes the seams groan.
“It is the color.” Geralt’s interjection makes your mother’s smile thin and tighten, until the edges seem brittle like paper. “It suits you, sister.” Is there no line he will not cross? From behind his wide shield of plausible deniability he mocks you, his mouth quirking innocently as if he is unaware of the boundary he dances upon. Gracious acceptance is the only play you have, and he knows it as well.
“You are too kind, my Prince.” You clasp your hands together and face forward. It is surreal, almost, to see the calm with which he regards you now, when only a week ago he had raged at your door like a madman. Had you not seen it yourself, you would not think it possible. Though you would blame him for it, the nervous twisting of your stomach is not Geralt’s fault alone. The ill feeling that had taken root in your belly at the sight of the Nilfgaardian envoy still left you with a sour taste on your tongue, one that did not seem to wash away.
And the dreams…
You shudder to think of them, the dark, creeping things that keep you awake long after the halls of the king’s keep have fallen silent. You have not wandered from your rooms again to your knowledge, but you’ve slept so little in the past week that you suspect it is less a matter of your self control and more the lack of opportunity. The nails on your fingers, hidden by the cumbersomely long sleeves of your dress, are bitten down to the quick. It is a new habit you’ve developed sitting in the crushing dark as you wait for the dreams to come.
Your father’s rotting face swims before you again.
Sugar sweet—
You twist the heavy fabric of your sleeves in your nervous hands as you stare hard at the stone floor between your feet.
“What troubles you, Little Doe?” Geralt’s voice is as much of a surprise as his proximity, his side lightly pressing against your own as he leans down. You drop your hands to your sides like deadweight, suddenly aware of his eye.
“And why would you think me troubled?” You ask curtly. The prince’s wolfish grin sends a strange, hot pulse straight to your core, one you vehemently try to ignore. You are under no pretense, you know what the prince is, who he is. He has gone out of his way to show you, and yet—
“I am apt to know trouble when I see it.”
The throne room doors slam open, leaving you no time to respond as every eye is drawn to the entrance. The instant hush that falls over the room is so deep that the herald’s voice is like a crack of thunder. At the same time, your stomach tightens. The dark warning in your heart rings again like a bell, clear and true. Though you still do not quite grasp its meaning, the message is clear—whatever you’d been meant to avoid had now come to pass, leaving no room for escape or denial.
“Presenting His Lordship, Duke Emhyr of Nilfgaard!” The duke sweeps into the throne room, his ink-black cloak billowing behind him. There are two of his own guards flanking him in their telltale black armor, like pools of animated shadow. Their faces are hidden by their helms, the sides carved like griffin wings.
The duke stops before the throne, dropping down to one knee.
“My King.” His accented common turns the words up at the edges, almost like a question. “Hail.” His face is handsome but severe, high cheekbones, fierce, beady eyes, and a thin mouth that curls up at the corners, just like his words. There is a scar on his face, long and thin and jagged, stretching from his left temple to the right side of his chin. His already wan smile thins further as he turns to your mother.
“My Queen.”
“Lord Emhyr.” The duke’s smile is wan as he dips his head again. “I bid thee welcome. I trust you found the journey pleasant enough.” The words are empty pleasantries, merely frivolous formalities exchanged before the truth is allowed to be addressed.
“Aye, Majesty, as enjoyable as one can find a carriage journey.” He straightens back up. “I would extend my many congratulations on your union. The Gods themselves could not have delivered a more beautiful Queen.”
To your surprise, it is Geralt who speaks next.
“We did miss you at the celebration, my Lord.” The remark is meant to sound like a casual observation—you know it is not. “Quite a pity.”
Emhyr’s jaw tics. “Indeed.” He looks over his left shoulder, and motions the guards forward. “My deepest regrets. As I previously expressed to His Majesty, my presence was required elsewhere. As I am sure you recall, we do share a border with the Elves.” He spits the word like a curse. “Occasionally those savages do need a good reminding of where their lands end, and ours begin, Your Grace.”
You shudder. There are few elves left south of the heavily policed Nilfgaardian border, but you have met some. Savages. The word makes your lip curl. They are rather fond of that word, aren’t they?
“I did bring a—belated—wedding present.” Between the two of them, the guards haul forward a small black chest, the polished wood glinting in the light. He pulls back the lid, and a murmur travels through the gathered courtiers at the sight of the jewels. A small fortune in dark blue sapphires sits within. King Vesemir stands, bidding two of the ivory cloaked kings-guard forward to take the chest.
“A most precious gift.”
“The mines remain prosperous. Perhaps Her Highness might have them made into something befitting her loveliness.” A smile creases your mother’s ruby lips, but it is sharp enough to cut. Neither does it reach her narrowed eyes.
“We cannot thank you enough for your gracious gift, my Lord.” Her voice is delicate, like breaking glass. “But I do not believe you rode for six days to bear witness to my beauty.” You are left to wonder in the brief moments before Duke Emhyr answers. If he will allow the truth to be broached, or if he will flee from it like a rat from a burning ship.
“Indeed my Queen, I have not.” He casts a look around, as if the words he is about to speak are for everyone there, not just the king. “Your Grace, I come before you today with only the deepest respect for your will, authority, and wisdom.” Duke Emhyr chooses his words carefully. He chooses them as carefully as a mason did his stones, stacking each one meticulously on top of the other. “But I do admit my heart longs for clarity on this matter.
Not a season past, when His Majesty announced an end to his long mourning period, and indeed his intent to marry once more, I did put forth my own daughter as prospect.” His accusation takes shape, and you watch your mother’s face tighten, her fingers curling around the polished bone arm of her throne. “And before this very court, His Majesty agreed. I had imagined a shared future of prosperity and happiness between both our great houses. I mean no offense, and so I beg pardon—”
“And yet you have given it.” Your mother’s expression remains placid—her voice less so. You can almost hear the icy words forming on her tongue as her lips part to speak again, but the king silences her, holding up one steady hand.
“I appreciate your candor, my Lord,” he leans forward. “But it is Vesemir who rules here, not Emhyr.” All chatter ceases, and the chamber is as quiet as the crypt beneath it. “The decision as to who it is I marry is mine—and mine alone.” King Vesemir stands, descending the short set of steps until he is level with the duke. “It is I who bears the burden of ensuring the prosperity and stability of this realm. And while I am ever thankful for the service you have provided it… you would do well to remember that fact, my Lord.”
“Of course, my King. I—I mean only for the betterment of the empire.” It is then that his eye falls to you. “I see no reason a match might not still be made—”
“Then we shall speak no more about it.” You watch the duke’s jaw tighten, his lips thinning as he fights not to show his displeasure.
“As you will, Your Grace.” You have not heard the last of this matter, of that you are certain. A sinking feeling rises in your stomach, like you’ve tumbled freely over the edge of a cliff. There is no going back, the feeling seems to whisper, goosebumps erupting across your flesh. A path has been chosen now and you will walk it—
“I thank you again for your generous gift, Lord Emhyr,” the dismissal is obvious in the king’s tone.
“The pleasure is mine, my liege.” The words sound broken in his mouth, like he’s chewed them up. A cold finger traces down your spine as his eyes meet yours again. “I thank you for your counsel.”
—
The sky is dark, angry black clouds roiling above the keep. You’ve not seen much rainfall in Rivia since your arrival, but today the clouds above you seem full to bursting, the smell of the imminent downpour filling your nostrils. Still, you take your time as you stroll through the gardens, stopping every so often to enjoy the sight of flowers in bloom.
“You are enjoying the gardens today, my Lady,” Kassandra’s observance is gently made, though she looks worriedly up at the sky.
“I feel I must,” you reply, leaning down to inspect a half-closed bud. “Summer here is drawing to a close, and I must admit I fear the cold.” You offer her a small smile over your shoulder.
“Have you no winter in Redania?” She asks, wonder coloring her words. “The land of eternal summer indeed.”
“No snow,” you agree, shaking your head. “Tis more like… autumn.” There is a wistfulness to your words you cannot suppress, a longing that brings moisture to your eyes. In truth, you doubt it will matter how many years you spend here at court—Rivia will never feel like home. Kassandra smiles thoughtfully.
“I should like to see it, my Lady,” she says. “Twould not be a chore to accompany you—if you wished it so. The winter here is harsh, even within the city walls.”
“Aye, winter on the continent is no easy task to weather.” The two of you turn at the sound of a new voice to face the speaker. Duke Emhyr bows respectfully, removing his cap as he does so. “I did not mean to intrude—I find the gardens less familiar than I imagined,” he adds, a small smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Might I trouble you for an escort?”
You had not seen the duke since his spectacle at court the day prior, the matter of which had the courtiers aflutter with gossip. You suppose you, like Duke Emhyr, had been equally blindsided in the matter of your mother’s courtship and her subsequent marriage. Nervously, you wonder if his feelings of dissatisfaction—and possible animosity—extend to you by proxy. Kassandra curtsies, and you nod, forcing a small, charitable smile onto your lips.
“O-of course, my Lord.” You reply. “I myself find the task of navigating the keep daunting, despite calling this place home.” Kassandra falls into step just behind you, and you must physically stop yourself from commanding her to walk beside you. Though you’ve little personal regard for the importance of blood and titles, you know here in Rivia those things matter above all else. The duke is more than happy to ignore her, his hawkish eyes weighing heavily on you.
“How long has it been since your arrival at the White Keep, if you will indulge my curiosity?”
“Nearly three months.” Though you have kept count of every passing day since your arrival, to say it aloud makes homesickness rear up in your chest. The duke clucks his tongue pityingly.
“Tis a shame. Redania is quite beautiful this time of year. I have had the pleasure of many a visit.” He clasps his hands behind his back and casts a look at the dreary sky. “Nilfgaard is my home, but I would be a liar if I said I did not envy the beauty of the southern jewel.” The wistfulness in his voice inspires thoughts of warm autumn nights scented with pine and faded sunlight. But a warning echoes in your heart at the false note in it, the one that reminds you of the coy, prying questions of your mother’s ladies in waiting, only cloaked in a cleverer disguise.
“Indeed.” You round the corner of a hedge. “I have never seen snow, now that I think of it. I should much like to, now that I am older.”
“Never seen snow?” The duke echoes your words, replacing your simple desire with shock. “Though I would not speak ill of your late father—Redania has never seen a finer Regent—I do believe he kept you far too sheltered.” It takes effort to keep your smile from going thin at the mention of your father. As if in response, a dull ache throbs in your chest.
“How lucky for us, then, that his death should bring me here.” You flick the words from your tongue like the lashing of a whip. There is a brief moment of dark satisfaction as the duke’s eyes widen, and his confident words falter.
“My sincerest apologies, Princess, I did not mean—”
“No, of course not.” You reply, swallowing against the sudden lump in your throat. “Forgive me, Duke Emhyr. My father I are—were, quite close.” You offer him an apologetic smile. “Might we speak of something else?”
“Of course, of course. My deepest sympathies.” He casts a furtive glance in your direction. “I hope you have been enjoying your time here, despite the… unfortunate circumstances.” You nod primly—for what words do you have to describe the aching emptiness that fills you at the thought that home is a distant thing now, the memory of a place you no longer belong.
“I have found ways to occupy myself.” You feel as thin as your smile. “The White Keep is large, there are many ways to spend ones time.”
“And Her Majesty has certainly taken to her role,” he continues. “She has taken to court as though she were born here.” There is a note of bitterness in his voice. “Has she spent much time in Rivia? Surely during His Majesty’s rather short courtship—”
“I know little of my mother’s courtship,” you say flatly, your eyes narrowed. “If you wish to know about it, perhaps you should ask her.” This time, it is difficult to leash your ire. You grow tired of the duke’s probing, his thinly veiled attempts to pick information from conversation behind the shield of feigned ignorance.
“Highness—”
“I trust you will can your way from here.” There is an unfamiliar coldness that underscores your words, one that uncomfortably reminds you of your mother. It is like hearing her own voice from your mouth, leaving a sour taste on your tongue. “Lady Kassandra, l believe we should take our leave.”
“At once, My Lady.”
You leave him at the entrance to the gardens in the courtyard, sweeping past as his eyes bore into your back.
—
“How does it end?” You are sat before the fire, a book held tenuously in your hands. Your loose, traditional dress is folded beneath you primly as the flames dance in the hearth. “How does it end?” Your father repeats warmly, chuckling as he leans forward to rest a hand on your shoulder. “You stopped reading.”
You can’t quite recall where you were now, the words seeming to shift on the page as you squint at them.
“I… I don’t remember now,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at your father. Though the flames are bright, his face is shadowed, but you get the feeling that he is smiling.
“The princess has just met the wolf,” he replies. “She doesn’t know it yet, but he plans to devour her whole—body, and spirit.” You look down at the page. “She is careful, the princess, and clever, but the wolf is sly, and he is not the only thing she has to fear.” You do not know why, but his words fill you with an incomparable sorrow.
“What else does she have to fear? Is the wolf not enemy enough?” You are crying. You don’t know why, but you are, tears pouring down your face and dripping messily off of your chin to stain the pages with salt.
“Weep not, daughter. She may yet avoid his jaws—and if not that, then perhaps she might at least turn him to her will. But the peacock—she is her true enemy.”
“A bird?”
“Yes, dear girl,” your father’s voice goes strangely quiet as the fire burns low in the hearth, and the sitting room is shrouded in gloom. “For while her pretty feathers distract you, her beak plucks out your eyes.”
You wake blearily, blinking in the darkness as you struggle back to wakefulness. Instead of your bed, you are knelt on the cold, stone floor in front of the half-dead hearth. The embers that still smolder within are not enough to give off true heat, and pins shoot through your legs when you struggle to your feet. It is frigid in here, and you shiver, clutching your thin nightgown tightly around yourself.
You’ve no memory of leaving your bed, nor of kneeling in front of the hearth, and you sniffle as you make your way back beneath the canopy above your bed. There is a familiar ache in your tight throat that feels like you’ve been crying, and when you lift a shaking hand to your cheek.
Your face is wet with tears.
—
Your mother strokes your head as you sob, your tears soaking into her gown.
“I—I fear sleep, I fear waking,” you rasp, wiping at your sore eyes with the back of one trembling hand. “T-there is no respite from them. I close my eyes in one place and open them in another—” A hiccoughing sob cuts the words in half. “Mother I fear I… I fear I shall go mad if I see father again. His face—!” You bury your head in her lap as another round of shuddering sobs wracks your limp body.
It has been years since you have sought your mother’s comfort like this, and in truth you cannot remember the last time it was even offered. She had been surprised to see you at her chamber door at this hour, disheveled and still clad in your nightgown, but she had let you in after you’d tearfully recounted the contents of your dreams.
She strokes your head. “Nightmares, my love. Nothing but terrors spun up by your mind—brought on from stress, no doubt.” Her hand is cool and comforting against your forehead. “I shall have the healer assemble something for you.”
“T-thank you, mother.” You offer her a watery smile.
“Anything for you, my love.” She strokes your cheek affectionately, the bandage wrapped around her index finger rough against your skin. “I do so hate to hear of your suffering, I will do what I can to appease it.” You smile wider, even as you swallow back the inappropriately bitter feeling that says you have been suffering all this time regardless. This was the response you had desired from her all those weeks ago when you’d begged her to send you home—and now, for some reason, it feels… hollow.
“What happened to your finger?” You ask, and she sighs, waving her hand dismissively.
“A hairpin, nothing to worry yourself over.” You dry your eyes, dabbing at them with a handkerchief. Your mother barely acknowledges the timid knock at the door before the chambermaid pokes her head inside.
“Highness? H-His Majesty is here.”
Your mother does not look surprised to hear this. If anything, the corners of her mouth curl up into a sly smile for half an instant before she nods.
“I see. I shall see to him in a moment—” The maid squeals as the King himself pushes past her, his eyes wild.
“Thayet!” He calls your mother’s name with a hoarse, desperate voice. “I have waited over an hour for you—oh.” He seems to note your presence with all of the recognition one would give a fly. His bright, golden eyes are cloudy with confusion—as though he hasn’t the faintest idea who you are, or why you are there. Recognition finally lights in his eyes, and he nods at you.
“Princess. It is… quite late,” he says slowly, as if he is only now realizing that fact himself. “Should you not be abed?” Your face heats with embarrassment.
“Ah, y-yes, my King. I was… troubled.” Your eyes dart between him and your mother. “But mother has allayed my fears.” You gather your shawl about your shoulders, bowing your head respectfully. Of course he would visit her as a husband—that is a fact you suppose you have known since you came to this place, but to catch the King in your mother’s bedchamber was another thing entirely.
The eagerness in his eyes as he looks at her, the way he licks his lips—it reminds you uncomfortably of Geralt, and of the need you see mirrored in his amber eyes. You retreat from the sitting room, though the sound of your mother’s voice makes you glance over your shoulder one last time as the door begins to close.
“I shall send Callista with a sleeping draught,” your mother calls at your retreating back. “For the dreams.”
Your stomach turns uncomfortably as you watch the king latches onto your mother, pulling her close as he trails desperate kisses down her arm. You are too far away to hear the words he growls through his gritted teeth before ripping at the bandage on her thumb and sucking the injured digit into his mouth.
The door closes with a loud bang, leaving you alone in the dark, empty hall.
The peacock, your father whispers in your memory as you shuffle back toward your room in the early hours.
She’ll pluck out your eyes.
to be continued…
Thank you for reading! Please check out my masterlist for other, similar works, and follow my library blog, @box-of-bones-library for updates. ❤️
#henry cavill#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fic#henry cavill x reader#geralt of rivia#geralt of rivia x reader#geralt x reader#geralt of rivia x you#geralt x you#geralt of rivia smut#geralt smut#geralt of rivia imagine#geralt of rivia fanfiction#geralt x y/n#dark fantasy#dark!fic#darkfic#boxofbonesfic#tonality fic
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Winter's King Masterlist
Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)
Status: In Progress
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
#geralt of rivia#dark geralt#dark!geralt#geralt of rivia x reader#dark!fic#fic#series#the witcher#au#medieval au
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How you feel about blind Jaskier au??? 👀
I hadn't thought about it honestly, but...
I think I like it! I pictured Poppy as some kind of samoyed, looks-like-some-kind-of-wolf mix and Jaskier had her since he was 14. Overall it's pretty much the same; I think Geralt speaks and hums and grunts a bit more. (Also Poppy absolutely adores him.)
#jaskier#geralt of rivia#geraskier#the witcher#the witcher netflix#geralt x jaskier#answered asks#artwork#I think Geralt looks out for him more when they are in cities - in his own very subtle ways#(Jaskier knows)#and we will ask Geralt to describe him things or ask him to read stuff aloud#which he does#i think maybe Jaskier can distinguish a bit of light and dark but that's it
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Nothing unusual. Just Dandelion being Dandelion and Geralt being Lambert!
#геральт из ривии#ведьмак#the witcher 3#geralt of rivia#gwynbleidd#the witcher#andrzej sapkowski#henry cavill#geralt#ciri and geralt#dark horse comics#dark horse books#comics#Ofir#the witcher netflix#the witcher fanart#cd projekt red#cd project#Poland#geralt x dandelion#dandelion x geralt#dandelion#jaskier x geralt#geralt x jaskier#witcher geralt#geralt z rivii#lambert x geralt#geralt x lambert#liam hemsworth#anya chalotra
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Winter's King 2
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: we vibing.
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. 💖
Jazlene comes to with a wispy sigh. You back up and stand as her mother helps her to her feet. The king is back at the table, unbothered by the overcome maiden. Lord Dustan hovers between, torn by loyalty to his liege and his family. New liege, that is. Only yesterday, he was toasting to good King Waleran.
“My apologies, your highness,” Jazlene fans herself with her hand, “I was only surprised. I didn’t... How could I expect this? To marry a king?” She reaches down to grip her mother’s arm, shakily stepping forward towards the king who doesn’t even glance up from the table of maps, “I promise to you, your highness, I will be a good wife to you.”
The king tilts his head, tracing a finger along a ridge of mountains, then leans in to examine the riverbeds below. Jazlene looks at her mother, an expression of concern on her pretty features. She is rarely ignored, if at all. She will make sure that she isn’t.
“Lord Dustan, I expect the dowry will be served along with your men and my kingdom,” the king declares, “but now, I find myself fatigued. A hard day’s ride sees me in need of bath and a bed.”
Dustan bows his head, “and so you will have it, your highness. I will send down for water--”
“Have the maid see to it,” the king waves his hand vaguely in your direction, “certainly a servant is a servant.”
“Yes, your highness, how wise,” Dustan simpers, as he often does to men with titles above his own. “You,” the duke turns and snaps his fingers, “you heard the king. He requires hot water in his chamber.”
You keep your head down, “yes, my lord.”
You spin without hesitation. You’re all too happy to be free of the noble intrigue. It is rather easier to be unseen and unthought of. It has ever kept you from envying these ladies and their silks and these lords and their golden signets.
Your flight is fleet. You rush down the corridor and to the wide stairwell. You descend with your mission and pass Merinda as she paces listlessly outside the kitchens. She stops you with an arm across your path.
“There are whispers,” she says lowly, “of who visits. Is it true?”
You look at her. You don’t know if you should say. It isn’t her place and you don’t know what they say. There is rather much gossip in castles.
“It is,” she hisses, “you don’t need to say it. You are a poor liar and when you say nothing, I know that is the reason.”
Your lips pinch and you give her a look, “I have been sent to draw a bath.”
“Oh, is the lady in need of her evening boil?” Merinda snickers.
“Not her.”
Merinda quiets and tilts her head, “...him?”
“The king,” you answer thinly.
She nods and steps closer, “is he... I don’t understand. His soldiers, they mill about with our own, they cavort together. Not as enemies. Are they not invading? Do they not mean to take the castle?”
You tear your eyes away. She’s right, you are a poor liar. You lean in, lips right by her ear, you whisper, “Lord Dustan has new allegiances.”
She claps her hand over her mouth as you back up. She stares at you with wide eyes. She slowly drops her arm and her lip quivers, “he means to get us all killed.”
You push your shoulders up, “think only of today. It’s all we can do. Oh, do you know where the king’s chambers would be?”
“Mm, they took his saddlebags to the ivory room. I think there,” she answers, “do you require assistance?”
“Stay here,” you gird, “he is a brusque man.”
That only seems to worry her more as her face twists. You can’t help but feel the same inside but you do your best not to let it show. You leave her and carry on to your task.
You put the kitchen hands to boiling water and send a few others to find a tub to bring to the king’s chambers. You help where you can and take the first bucket up. You pour it into the large tub in the ivory room and return for second, a third, a forth, and fifth. There will be many more even as your arms ache and your nap slickens with sweat.
Upon the eight, when the tub looks near halfway, the chamber is not empty. You’re surprised by the king’s presence as the door remains ajar. You pour the water with a low apology and diligent ‘your highness.’ He doesn’t respond.
There is much to go still. Back down, up again, hot water splashing on your sleeves, singing beneath, dumping it over the edge as you keep your eyes on your work. Do not be more than a piece of furniture. You are only air.
At the last bucket, you pour slowly, careful not to slosh over the edges. As you right the empty pail, you hear a metal chink. The king growls into a long exhale. You turn towards the door.
“Close it,” he commands, “you will remain.”
You’re happy he cannot see the look on your face. You obey and close the door. You turn back, standing by the pillar of the door frame, as you often do, and begin your vigil. It should not be unexpected that he may require you to fetch something further for him.
Your eyes catch the bottom of his mail as he lifts it over his head. No, don’t look. He undresses, leather creaking, fabric rustling, pacing as he strips away each piece. You grip the rope handle of the bucket. He circles the long tub and nears you. You cower, bracing. You are not noticed, you are not approached, unless it is for rebuke.
He grabs the bucket by the brim and tugs. You let it go. He turns and sets it on the floor away from you. You push your hands together, stilling a tremble. He wears only his breeches and you catch a glimpse of the thatch of hair along his thick stomach. You gulp and twine your fingers through each other.
He turns away and crosses the room. You listen to the fabric fall from around his hips. Your eyes bore into the floorboards. The water shifts as he climbs into the tub and you listen to him groan as he lowers himself into the depths. The steam mingles with the tension of his silence.
He sighs and stirs the water. The lull persists as you wait. He will need wine or food.
“Come,” he bids and your eyes flick up. The tub conceals much of his lower body as his thick shoulders and arms stretch around the brim. “I have a knot.”
You approach hesitantly, unsure where to aim your eyes the closer you get. He gestures around his head, “stand behind me.”
You do as he tells you.
He sits up slightly and bends his head forward, lifting his white hair out of the way, “here.”
He points along the muscle beside his neck. It’s thick, just like all of him. You’ve never seen a man built like that. There are stringy barn boys and tubby cooks.
You stare and raise a hand, hovering it over his muscle. Are you supposed to touch him? He is a king and you are a servant. You are a servant sold out of pig shit into servitude.
His large hand reaches for yours and he guides it down. You shake before he lets you go. You feel the muscle, almost curious, and rub lightly. He makes a noise but you’re unsure of its tenor.
“Harder,” he demands, “squeeze,” he shows his hand, making a kneading motion, “you cannot hurt me.” You do as he says. You squeeze and he rests his hand against the tub, “harder,” he repeats.
You obey.
His head hangs as his long strands touch the water. You bring your other hand up as your efforts make your tendons sore. He lets out shallow breaths and hissing groans. Your chest thumps at the sounds that rise from him.
“Your master has broken his oath and sworn a new one to me. And you, does that make me your master as well? If I am your master’s master?” He asks slyly.
You focus on your hands, “your highness?”
“Answer, don’t be afraid. Liars bore me.”
You sniff and mull your reply. You don’t know. You don’t have much of a choice in the matter.
“Lord Dustan is my master. I am bound to serve him.”
He snorts and lifts his head. You rescind your touch but he reaches back to latch onto your again. He tugs you forward, placing your hand back on his shoulder.
“Softer now,” he instructs. You rub his damp flesh as he bends a leg, his knee poking above the water. “You, a servant, so low, and you are more loyal than any man with a title.”
“Your highness, I must serve.”
“As he must. Did he not swear himself to the old king? Eh? War does muddy the waters,” he muses, “coin does test old ties.”
You say nothing. Your comment isn’t warranted or wanted. You know better. Jazlene taught you only to answer when asked.
“Very well,” he taps your fingers, “I feel better. You have a kind touch.”
You back away and wipe your hands on your apron. He hangs his head back and puffs. He closes his eyes. You watch the white waves made wilder by the humidity of the bath.
“I hate sleeping in strange places,” he says, “you will stay for the eve.”
You tuck your chin down and fold your hands together. Your scalp sweats beneath your cap, your shorn locks itchy with the heat. You wet your lips and force out the air trapped in your chest, “yes, your highness. As my master bid, I will serve you.”
He says nothing more as he leans back against the tub completely. His large arms frame the metal and his hands wrap around the edges. He closes his shining eyes in recline, the water still and steaming. He stays that way until the damp heat dissipates. You stand locked in his thrall.
He sits forward suddenly, the water stirring with his movement. He turns his hand and beckons with his thick fingers.
“A bath sheet,” he demands.
You go to the chest in the corner and open it. You retrieve a folded swath of fabric and bring it to him. He stands as you unfold the length of linen to obscure his form. Your eyes are on the ceiling as the water slakes from his figure and he looms large above you.
He steps out, close to you, and puts his hands over yours. He pulls the sheet around his body, your arms too. He releases you only as he adjusts the fabric around his waist and you retract with humiliation nipping in your cheeks. You lean back on your heel as you shrink in his shadow.
“Your highness, do you require refreshment? Wine? Sweetmeats?”
“I did not ask for it,” he says, “I am tired.”
“Apologies, your highness.”
“Do not apologise for doing your duty. Would be a fairer world if more were so diligent.”
He turns and strides away. There’s a knapsack and bedroll against the wall. He keeps one hand on the sheet and unbuckles the flap, reaching within and tugging out a bed shirt. He drops the sheet away and your eyes flit away from his nakedness. He has no shame but you are merely a servant. He shouldn’t care for your witness.
He swipes the fabric over his head and it falls just to his thighs, concealing just enough to have him decent. His thick legs are trimmed in dark hair and the muscles are taut beneath his skin. He faces the bed and pulls back the quilt and linen. He pauses and looks up at you.
“Will you sleep afoot then?” He wonders.
“Your highness?” You wince. “I must...” you peer around, “empty the bath.”
“Must you? Stagnant water can wait,” he insists. “Come.”
You waver, skirts rippling around your legs. You step forward and stagger.
“The lantern, your highness?” You inquire.
“Douse the light if you will,” he allows. “And come.”
You do as he bids and snuff out the flame. Your vision is left blackened and formless. You reach out blindly, realising your error too late. You can’t see much as you walk warily towards the bed. The heavy curtains are shut and block out the sliver of moonlight.
Your knees hit the bed and you gasp. You catch yourself before you can fall forward, leaning against the mattress. You’re stuck like that, uncertain if you should go forward or back. Something wraps around your wrist, a stolid heat.
“I often sleep with my horse,” the king says as he draws you onto the bed. “I need a warm body close.”
You go rigid as you let him command your body. He guides you to lay down and tugs the bedclothes over you. The damp specks on your dress and apron cling to your skin. He leads your head over his thick arm as he lays on his back neck to you. You stare into the endless void of the canopy.
“The horse smells much worse and snores,” he muses, his arm curling around your shoulders, offering a more comfortable rest for your head and neck. You quiver at being so close. It is an odd request but you daren’t decline it. “Be still,” his other hand comes to touch your sleeve, “and sleep. I only mean to ease my own unrest.”
You close your eyes and exhale. Your heart is pounding and your body is tingling. You don’t think you can sleep with the surge flowing through you. He sighs and shifts slightly. You lay there, in silence, only the noise of his breath and yours to fill the castle walls.
“I am awake,” he says. “Speak to me, maid. Tell me, where do you lay your head on nights where a king does not trouble you?”
You wiggle slightly. Your spine is uncomfortable at the flatness but not worse than your usual fare. You bring your hand over your chest and fist your fingers tight.
“On a bag of hay with Merinda,” you utter smally, pushing your legs together as you arch your back slightly. Your hips are tight.
You’re startled as the bed jostles and he grips your hip. He rolls you onto your side, his touch lingers as he pulls you against him. He is as hot as a hearth.
“Merinda?” He repeats.
“Another handmaid, your highness.”
He hums and drags his hand away from your hip. He blows out a great heavy and grunts. His arm curls around you snugly.
“I hope I am preferable to that bag of hay,” he mutters and the tension seeps away from his form. “Though perhaps just as prickly.”
#geralt of rivia#dark geralt#dark!geralt#geralt of rivia x reader#the witcher#winter's king#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series#au#medieval au
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The Witcher: Fading Memories #2 (Cover art by Evan Cagle)
#the witcher#evan cagle#geralt of rivia#cd projekt red#dark horse comics#dark horse#textless cover art#artwork#illustration
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Grain of Truth, The Witcher
Illustrations for The Witcher, the Last wish
#fantasy#fantasy illustration#fantasy art#the witcher#dark fantasy#geralt of rivia#magic#watercolour illustration#watercolour art#book illustration#illustration#watercolor
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The Witcher by Anato Finnstark
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Title: Tonality [5]
Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader
previous Chapter
Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.
Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!
A/N: OMG I’M SO SORRY. this chapter was so hard to write and it kept getting away from me, because i really wanted to pivot hard into some of the main plot points. i really hope you enjoy it, please drop me a comment and let me know even if you didn’t.
“Come.” Your mother’s voice is firm. Her mourning veil just barely outlines the shape of her face, as her lips move beneath the fabric. It billows behind her as she walks down the darkened line of empty pews toward the front of the little chapel, a flickering candle held steady in her gloved hand.
Your father is to be buried tomorrow.
You know his grave is already dug—a fresh square cut out of the dark earth next to his father’s. The thought of him alone in the dirt is enough to make your throat tighten, though no tears come. You have cried them all already; a veritable ocean. Even so, your dry eyes ache for lack of them.
“W-wait, mother, I—” You do not want to see it, the vacant thing your father’s soul has left behind. At the end, you could barely recognize him in the fragile body decaying in his sick bed. You catch at her sleeve with numb fingers, lowering your head in shame. “I do not want to see—” Her icy fingers wrap around yours, long and thin, her jagged nails digging into your skin.
“We must each place a stitch upon the shroud.” You wince as she presses the long needle into your stiff hands. “It is our duty.” Only when you accept it does she release you, and for a moment, you see her lips quirk cruelly beneath the veil. You tremble as your mother steps aside, your breath catching as you see the shape of the body on the altar.
Just behind her is your father, his shroud dotted with the shapes of dead flowers and bare trees. It does little to quell the horror you feel to behold him, though, his thin outline visible through the shroud, limbs folded and delicate like a baby bird. You remember what he looked like two nights prior, his rheumy eyes dull and deep set into his skull, skin thin and sallow. He looks small now, too, beneath his shroud, and you find it hard to believe this withered corpse had once been a great mountain of a man. A good man, a strong man, now reduced to the barest scraps of skin and bone.
“Stitch.” Her command fills every inch of space, in the chapel and in your head. And though you want nothing more than to close your eyes and be gone from this place, your body will not obey. You raise the needle.
“Please, mother—”
“Stitch.” Her voice is like iron nails in your skull. Blood drips from your nose, and you taste the warm copper of it on your lips. You pinch a corner of thin fabric between your fingers, and push in the needle, pulling it through until the knot at the end of the thread catches. You lower your hand to the shroud as you sew another stitch, and as you do so, your fingers brush your father’s sunken cheek, and you retch.
You cannot stop—
She will not let you.
You look down at your father’s body with tears in your wide eyes, and as you do, a scream builds in your throat. You pinch his lips together between your forefinger and thumb. Delicately; like you would the hem of your gown for a curtsey— and sew another stitch through the meat of them. He is beginning to rot, now, you can smell it over the cloying scent of incense.
“Mother stop!” Your scream is swallowed by the heavy darkness of the empty chapel. Your mother sighs, her breath curling against your ear.
“How else can we make sure the dead don’t speak?” She threads her fingers through yours as she pulls your hand toward his sunken eyelids. You pinch the stiff flesh between your fingers, holding it taut for the needle.
“Now close his eyes.”
You wake with a start, sitting up in bed as you cover your mouth with one hand, fingers searching for the thick black funeral thread—but of course, you find none. The dream clings to the edges of your vision like spider silk, the taste of decaying things still heavy on the panicked air you draw in. A ra sob wrenches its way out of your throat as you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyes.
Perhaps I am mad, after all.
Ain’t supposed t’see the dead ones. Maybe Madge’s old superstitions had borne fruit in your own mind. You recall the symbol she made with one hand, finger on thumb, finger on thumb, before spitting down into the dirt as you left your father’s burial. She’d shaken her head then, some the silver-gray locs piled on top of her head coming loose. Ain’t supposed t’see them. They stay when you see, them, Lady.
They stay.
“No!” You throw the blankets off of yourself, lurching out of bed and stumbling towards the wash-bowl on the dresser. The thought of that day fills you with the same cold dread you have come to know too well. You’ve little choice in your dreams; the specter of his burial hanging over you like overripe fruit. But here, in waking, in the chill autumn daylight, you have the power to turn your thoughts to other things.
At least, you try to.
The water is shockingly cold, but you are grateful for it, staring down into the porcelain bowl. A knock at the door startles you, and you jump.
“W-who is it?”
“Kassandra, Majesty. Might I come in?”
“Yes,” you sigh. “You may.” You pat worriedly at your swollen eyelids, and you frown at your reflection as the door swings open. Your mother has an effortless sort of beauty, one that needs neither rouge nor powders to enhance—a trait you certainly do not share. Your disturbing, sleepless night is written plainly on your face.
Kassandra sets the tray down in the sitting area, before turning to you with a worried expression.
“Her Majesty hopes you are well,” she says, nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with dainty fingers. “As you were not at break-fast this morning.”
“I was… I did not sleep well.” You shake your head. “I trust my mother made her displeasure quite clear.” She stifles a laugh. “She’s good at that.”
“She did.” Kassandra gestures to the tray, porridge and an assortment continental fruit cut into bite size pieces. “You should eat, Lady. While it’s hot.” You pick uninterestedly at the porridge until it is mostly gone, along with the tart green grapes and sweet winter melon. At the very least you do feel better for it, or at least, more present—more grounded in this world, not the dream one.
You clear up the remains of your breakfast, piling the dishes neatly back onto the tray. In the armoire, you note that more Rivian style gowns have been hung, your light Redanian dresses folded neatly and shunted off to the shelves on the side. Your mother’s thin excuse makes you wrinkle your nose in distaste as you finger one of the heavy sleeves. “Much too light for these Rivian winters, Dear,” she’d said, patting the neatly folded dresses.
“You won’t need them.”
The truth remains unspoken, but you know it still—she does not want you to need them. You pull a heavy crimson dress from its place and begin to undo the lacing. Kassandra clucks her tongue at you.
“Highness, please. Allow me at least one task.” You roll your eyes in response.
“I believe you are capable of more than dressing me—and that I am more than capable of dressing myself,” you reply. You change into a fresh shift before shrugging into the dress. You twist around to reach for the lacings, but Kassandra shoos your hands away to do them herself.
“You’re doing them wrong.” She chides you gently. “Up for lift, down for compression, my Lady.” Kassandra nods at you in the mirror and then positions your body so that if you crane your neck just a little, you can see her hands as she easily threads the thick ribbon through the eyelets. “Opposing sides. Like this.”
You purse your lips. “We don’t wear these dreadful things in Redania,” you mutter, your breath hitching as the corset tightens. She laughs before stepping away, brushing loose lint from the folds of the heavy fabric.
“Even so, our fashion does suit you.” You can tell she wants to say something else, the way her mouth opens and then closes, her lips pressing into a thin line.
“You’ve another correction?” You ask, gesturing at yourself with a chuckle, but she shakes her head. She glances at the door, as though reassuring herself that it was still shut.
“No, no, I—I do not mean to be insolent, Highness,” Kassandra begins, “but I do not think I have ever heard you say you have rested well within these walls.” Your smile turns brittle and tired.
“No. I have not. And your concern is not insolence. I am grateful for it.”
“Healer Janna—her draughts have not availed you?” You hesitate, wondering if you should describe the shape of your demon, give it form and substance outside of your mind. You shake your head, steepling your fingers together to stop them from trembling.
“It seems the dreams that plague me require more than nightroot and dried frogspawn to satisfy them.” I see my father. I see him dead a thousand ways.
“Healer Janna’s draughts for sleep and pain are as close to magic as they’ll allow in the White Keep, you know that.” Bastard’s magic. You do. You think of Father Rame’s disgusted expression. He does not seem the type to suffer a witch to live. “But I have… there is another. A woman—they call her The Dock Hag.” Her voice is a low whisper, as if she fears the good Father ears will ring with her heresy, even here.
“And she can… she can rid me of these dreams?” The prospect is a tantalizing one. “You know her? You have visited this woman?”
“I—yes. I met her. Once.” Her smile is sad. “When I was small, and the older Ladies had need of her.” Kassandra’s words are aged, heavy with the weight of years that both do and do not belong to her in equal measure. “And then again, for the memories.”
“She…” You cannot bring yourself to say it. Kassandra nods, the smile going brittle and crumbling from her face.
“Not many Lords will claim their bastards, Highness, if you will forgive my candor.”
In your mind’s eye you see a small Kassandra, attending her own mother, most likely, or perhaps even an older sister or cousin who… had need of this woman. The witch who had taken their babies—
And then burnt their dreams out.
“What did it cost?”
“Nothing special. Gold.” You let out a relieved sigh at her words. That, at least, is an easy enough problem to solve. Kassandra cuts her eyes at you. “Are you going to go? To see her?”
Perhaps Madge was a superstitious old northern goat—But maybe she was right too: the living are not meant to mingle with the dead. Perhaps it is some guilt that drives your father’s image to the forefront of your mind, some secret thing that the specter of his death clings to—you cannot know.
But the witch might.
—
The east stair is narrow, cut roughly out of the stone as if it were an afterthought. The iron railing is pitted and mottled from the salt in the air, and it rattles dangerously as you grip it. The stairs themselves are uneven, still slick from the inconsistent rain that had stopped only hours before. Every step feels as though you are lurching forward, being pulled down the long winding stair to the paving below.
There are more ways to enter and exit this keep than the main gate, Majesty.
The east stair wound around the back of the White Keep like a snake, the steps hidden in the stone like a secret. As you take another cautious step down, your foot slips and you gasp, the railing shaking as you cling to it. You steady yourself, locking your trembling knees tightly as you recite Kassandra’s instructions.
You will take the east stair down from the parapets over the chapel. Through the gap in the wall is the city. Go straight to the docks, ask for the Hag.” She had not wanted to stay behind, though you had convinced her with a stern look and an order to send away any who came knocking at your door till you returned. You would need her to provide a believable excuse in the event that anyone came looking—and an empty room would be cause for alarm, especially with you… “ill.”
Below you, the city glitters with light even as the dark begins to deepen. Beyond it, the sun sinks into the sea, lingering on the horizon before disappearing completely. Like Kassandra had said, near the foot of the stairs—twenty feet back, and behind a column, but near enough—is the gap in the wall. It is overgrown thick with dying ivy, the orange leaves already turning spotty brown at the edges.
Crushed leaves litter the hood and shoulders of your cloak as you start to squeeze inside, the stone catching at your clothes. You push your way through the narrow passage, panic coiling in your gut at the feel of the unyielding pressure at your chest and back. Your fingers meet open air at the next push, and you practically drag yourself out into the streetlight, fingers digging into the stone.
The misty street that greets you is practically empty, and what few people there are do not seem to have noticed that you have joined them from nowhere on the wet cobbled street. Hurriedly, you brush dirt and discarded leaves from your cloak before you adjust your hood, angling it down over your eyes. You keep your head down, your hands clenched into trembling, nervous fists. Every heavy step you take away from the keep sets the warning bells in your skull to ringing, as gooseflesh rises on your arms.
It isn’t too late to go back. It isn’t. Not too late to turn around, slip back between the ivy covered crack in the east wall and seek your mother’s counsel once more—and go to sleep, knowing that you will see beyond the veil again.
The thought spurs you onward.
The streets are even more unfamiliar in the growing dark, and as you watch the lanterns flare to life to chase it away, you swallow nervously. There is so much to see, here—too much. As you approach the city centre the market is still bustling with activity, the shops open and windows bright.
You spare yourself a few moments to watch the people. A woman buys bread, her son playing in her skirts, a man pulls shut the door of the tavern across the way, a blacksmith’s hammer falls rhythmically like a drum, the chapel’s bell rings for evening prayer—there is so much here, the sheer amount of everything almost dizzies you. A woman bumps your shoulder as she passes by, and it stirs you out of your reverie. By the time she turns to apologize, you are already gone, hurrying off through the square.
The air turns salt with brine the closer you get, and you lick your dry lips, tasting it. The night had been thick with sounds in the city center, but the further you travel from it, the more quiet the streets become. It is eerie, the stark difference between these silent, empty streets and the lively square only moments ago.
The last time you had been to the docks was when you’d stepped off of the ship, in the scant few days before your mother’s wedding. Now, the narrow streets look different, unrecognizable from the snatches you remember through the carriage windows. You look in one direction, and then another, frowning.
“You’re lost, Sweet.” There is no question in the old woman’s voice. You see her then, standing beneath the street lantern in a pool of pale light.
“I—I am looking for—”
“Me, Sweet. You’re looking for me.” The shadows fall away from her face without her moving, like the light has only just decided to accept her. The Witch’s white hair is wild about her face. And her face… she is a severe beauty, like wind whipped ocean waves. The years define her jaw, sloping in gentle strokes down around her eyes, and her ears slope upward into gentle points. She is older than your mother, though you know this not by sight but because you simply… know it. An uncanny feeling that has grown in the back of your mind that she is like you, but… un-like you, too.
She is an elf.
It is not just the ears, but the air about her, an ethereal quality that surrounds her as thickly as the shawl about her shoulders. It is in the delicate set of her jaw, perhaps, or the distinct lack of canine teeth in her amused grin. You take a halting step forward, and then stop, wary.
“You are the W—you can help me?” The Witch wraps her shawl tighter about her shoulders, and fixes you with a hawkish look.
“Don’t know that yet.” She purses her lips. “Shall we do this in the street? Or will you oblige me my own roof?” You nod hurriedly, and follow her as she turns quickly on her heel down the street. You are close enough to the docks to hear the water as she approaches a small house, pushing open the door. You follow her inside, halting briefly at the doorway. There is dried heather inside, hanging in a braided bushel on the arch. She watches you step inside, her dark eyes narrowed.
“Shut the door behind you,” she snaps, flicking the edge of her shawl over her shoulder. “Never met a Princess raised in a bloody barn.” You brush aside the bushels of dried herbs hanging from the low ceiling as you make your way inside.
The Witch rounds the other side of the table, where you see the evidence of her unfinished work. A grindstone, laying on its side, with half-ground herbs lying in the bowl.
“How did you know?” You ask as she picks it back up, the sound of stone on stone filling the room as she resumes. “That I was looking… for you.”
“I always know,” she replies, somewhat exasperated. “Like a rabbit knows a fox.” Her sharp eyes find yours once more. “What ails you, sweet Princess?” There is mockery in her tone, though you dare not take umbrage at its presence. “A suitor you wish to beguile? A fair maiden you wish to remove from his eye?” Her gaze drops down, and then darts back up again.
“Or perhaps an unseen consequence?”
Your throat tightens.
“No, I—my dreams.” You say. “I dream the most terrible things, and I—I want you to take them away.”
The stone stops.
“Come here, child. Into the light.” The Witch holds out her hand, beckoning you forward. “And take down that stupid hood, you’re not hiding from anyone here.” She clucks her tongue at you as you approach, fingering the edge of your hood reluctantly. She already knows who you are—though you are not quite sure how she knows. With one hand, she reaches for your face. You do not flinch away from her—you do not fear her, though perhaps if you were smarter, you suppose you would. Her touch is gentle as she tilts your chin up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
The fire crackles in the hearth, louder for the silence.
“And what do you dream?”
“I see…” You swallow. “I see dead things.” She peers into your eyes, her pupils wide. “I see my father.” You tremble as she steps away, your mouth suddenly dry. “These dreams, these-these nightmares, you can stop them, can you not? You can—”
“I’ll not hear more about what I can and cannot do from the maid in the high castle,” she snaps. “And they are not dreams, though you walk through them in yours.” With her other hand, she reaches beneath her collar, producing a thin leather cord. There are all manner of things tied to it—feathers, beads, and small, clean animal skills that shine dimly in the firelight. There is a long black needle there, too, hanging by its’ eye.
“There is a spirit tethered to you.” She turns your hand over, stroking her fingers over the lines in your palm. She snaps her fingers, motioning for you to give her your other hand. “By great sorrow—” The Witch squints, bringing your hands closer to her face. “Or rage.” She drops your left hand, holding onto your right. “I can no more remove it than I could your shadow.”
“Tethered?” You repeat. “These are—they are dreams, they are not real—” You sputter in protest, but the Witch merely looks at you, orange firelight dancing in her dark eyes.
“If they are only dreams, why do you fear them so?” You cannot answer. “They are messages. You should be grateful for them, there are few feats quite as great as bridging the divide between us and those who have gone before, Little Queen. Your father cannot watch over you forever.”
“I am a Princess.” The Witch smiles.
“Is that right?” She grasps your hand, gripping your index finger hard and watching as the tip reddens. You flinch as she pinches the needle between two thin fingers. “Come now, Sweet. Mustn’t be afeared of a little pain.” She jabs it into the meat of your finger, and you yelp, tugging uselessly at your hand, but her grip is iron.
“Ouch!” With a twist of her hand she swipes the fat drop of blood from your fingertip and flicks it into the fireplace. It does not fizzle out, but instead lands on the topmost log, bubbling until it turns black. It smells like ozone—not copper. You do not know why, but you tremble a the sight of it. You have come here to have something taken away, but as you watch your blood crack and burn, you feel as if perhaps something is being given instead.
“What does this mean?” You turn to her. The Witch rubs your blood between her fingers, sniffing the residue for a moment before wiping them clean on a rag. She does not answer you right away, staring thoughtfully at the thin line of black smoke curling from the fireplace.
“Please, I—”
“It means, Princess, that we are kin, you and I.” She tilts your chin back as you stare at her, wide eyed. She runs the tips of her fingers over the narrow curve of your left ear—not pointed, not like hers, but… You push her away before you can stop yourself, clutching at your chest with your other hand as if to calm your racing heart.
“This cannot be true, it—it cannot!”
“Less than half,” she continues as if your sputtered refusal had never been spoken at all. “Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still.” The Witch looks you up and down, and this time, there is pity in her gaze. “I cannot take your dreams.” Cold spreads through your trembling limbs. “You must release them yourself.”
“Release them? How?” She cups your face, and the movement of her thumb over the swell of your cheek is almost affectionate, though the words she speaks next send a cold chill down your spine.
“No fear, Little Princess. No fear.” For a moment, you swear her eyes go gold, and Geralt’s voice echoes again in the space between you. Before the Witch can say more, you quickly dig the gold out of your pocket, tossing the coins down onto the table as you flee. You do not register her cries to stop, to wait as you barrel through the door, throwing it shut behind you.
It is raining again, hard sheets of cold water pouring down from the dark, angry sky. You can hear the sea raging against the docks, water crashing in thunderous waves up against the harbor’s weathered stone. Your head is spinning, full to bursting. You are elf-kin—perhaps? Maybe?
Your mother had never seen fit to mention that minor detail—and for that matter, neither had your father. You tug your hood up roughly over your head and turn your face down, away from the cold rain pelting against your skin. Had he even known?
Would he have even wanted to?
Perhaps I can just ask him myself.
The thought makes you shiver, wrapping your cloak tighter around your shoulders. I can no more remove it than I could your shadow. You do not know which is worse—having left your father behind alone in the dirt, or the restless specter of him living in your dreams. Your finger aches from the point of the dock witch’s iron needle, and you clutch your hand to your chest as you make your way back towards the White Keep. Above you, a white hot arc of lightning splits the sky, throwing up stark shadows against the row of dark houses.
It is by that grace alone that you see the man.
You stop short, your heart leaping into your throat. He stands in the shadows beneath the sagging eaves, his stony face surprised as your eyes meet. He steps forward with a heavy sigh, a gloved hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his hip.
“Highness.” Your throat tightens, and you take a cautious step back as he comes into the meagre light offered by the street lantern above you. “Please don’t make this difficult.” His cloak is drawn over his chest, but you can see the shape of the armor underneath, jet black.
Nilfgaardian.
You turn—and run straight into a hard, armored chest.
“Good evening, Your Highness.” Duke Emhyr’s long fingers dig hard into your shoulders, hard enough to bruise. His black hair is slick with rain. He was waiting here… waiting for me. “I shall have to inform Lady Kassandra of your whereabouts,” he sneers. “She seems to think you are asleep in your bed.” You lift your heel and grind it hard into the top of his foot, and the Duke curses, his grip loosening. You pull away, but he manages to catch the edge of your cloak, pulling hard until you fall backwards.
The impact knocks the wind out of you, leaving you gasping and dizzy, staring up at the dark sky.
“We did not get to finish our little chat, in the garden.” He says, squatting down over you as you struggle up to your knees on the wet street. “I think we should do that now, Princess.”
Your heart pounds heavily against your ribcage as you stagger to your feet.
“No.”
“It is not a request.” He motions to the guard behind you, and he grabs you as you struggle, wrenching your arms behind you.
“Filthy witch,” he hisses, and you flinch. “You and your whore mother.”
“Gavin, your manners.” He tuts mockingly. “I would be honored, Majesty, if you would accompany me for tea.” You stare at him in silence, the rain soaking through your cloak. “If you would, Ser Gavin.” He forces you forward, and you stumble.
“It is late for tea, Lord Emhyr,” you snap, dragging your feet against the paving stones. “Perhaps a discussion with Her Majesty herself—” Ser Gavin grunts with irritation at your resistance and shoves you, hard. You stumble as the Duke makes an angry noise deep in his throat.
“I’ve little stomach for lies.”
A cold shiver winds its way up your back. You hear the threat though the words remain unspoken. The streets are deserted, and you cannot tell if it is the weather or the hour. Behind you, clears his throat.
“Here, my Lord.”
The faded, splintering sign hanging above the door reads Madam’s Tea House, though by the riotous noise coming from inside, you suspect they serve a few things little stronger than tea. Ser Gavin places a rough hand on the back of your head, forcing it down as he steers you through the doorway. Your stomach drops as your eyes adjust to the dim lighting.
The air stinks of ale, sweaty skin and something more pungent and sour that you cannot identify. There are people everywhere, draped across tables, lounging on pillows and pinned against walls in various states of undress. Your throat goes dry, at the sight of the bare-breasted women sprawled over the tables, their dresses rucked up around their waists. A woman with white painted cheeks and cherry red lips steps quickly out of the way as you are shuffled through, her eyes lowered and lips pressed into a thin line. You understand their choice of venue now—
No one will even remember you were here— and no one will remember when you are not.
As if sensing your rising panic, Ser Gavin’s hand tightens on the scruff of your neck, and with the other hand, he grasps your shoulder. On the raised dais in the center of the dim room, a woman twists lithely, scarves gripped in each of her dainty hands. Gold rings dangle from her bared nipples, matching the one in her nose. Your eyes meet and for a single moment, for a single step, she falters.
The crowd at her feet turns on her in an instant, jeering and spitting. The same men who had watched her dance with silent awe now mock her openly, insults dripping from their lips along with stray drops of ale.
“Let’s get a new girl up here. One who can remember her bloody steps!” There is no end to the praises of men when one is perfect—nor an end to their venom when you are not. The truth of it is as plain as the room Duke Emhyr and Ser Gavin force you into. There is a bed with a bare, stained mattress upon its dilapidated frame, and a wooden chair stands between it and the weak fire in the hearth.
“Sit.” Emhyr instructs you with a bored gesture, and when you do not comply, Ser Gavin squeezes your shoulder hard until you gasp from the pain of it. You lower yourself reluctantly to the chair as the Duke watches, and you get the feeling that he enjoys it, watching you be forced to heel. If not my mother, then me. Through the silence, you can hear the muted noise of the brothel outside. As uncomfortable as it is for you, you hope it is doubly so for them.
The Duke stares at you, his eyes narrowed.
“You wouldn’t see it, not at first,” he says. The disgust drips from every syllable, like he is speaking of something unsavory. “The way you favor them.”
Your heart pounds even as you feign ignorance, schooling your features into shocked offense at his words. He cannot know that this is the second time you have heard them this evening, that you are already itching to get to a mirror to confirm these revelations for yourself, because you do not even know if they are true. The memory of black blood curdling in the hearth is enough to set the uncertainty in your lead filled stomach rolling.
“I know not of what you speak, my Lord.” The words feel fragile, like they are made of glass. “There—there is still time to let this be nothing but an unpleasant misunderstanding—”
The duke stands in front of the hearth, his hand resting on the mantle. The curve of his back speaks to his weariness, and you wonder if he has been looking for you all night.
“You and your whore mother have upset the order of things quite a bit, here. Whatever other things you may be, you are not unintelligent enough not to have seen so.” He turns, the fire reddening his cheeks and setting the whit es of his beady eyes ablaze. “Two seasons of talk and courtships undone in a month—and for a woman who is too old to bear a new heir.”
“His Majesty has an heir,” you remind him. “Or have you forgotten? If you disagree with your king’s decision, you are more than welcome to challenge it before the court a second time, though Their Majesties might not be so prone to leniency given the circumstance.” His jaw tics at the reminder of his position—and yours—but the sly upturn at the corners of his mouth do not disappear.
“So the Witch does inspire loyalty in you.” He squats in front of you. “Do you know what we do to witches, in the North?” He asks, fingering the dagger at his belt. “Father Wolf is the devourer of all things. Even savages.”
“Ever since I stepped from boat to shore I have heard that word, and I cannot help but wonder,” the words pour through the gaps in your gritted teeth, and you hope he chokes on the broken glass of them—“if you have ever uttered them looking in a mirror.”
He raises his hand, as if to backhand you across your face, and you duck down hunching your shoulders to prepare for the blow. It does not land, however, and when you look cautiously up at the duke, he is staring behind you, locked above your head. There is a fourth presence in the room now, one you feel pricking at the back of your neck.
“No, no, continue.” The drawl that fills the empty room is both shocking and achingly familiar. “I would see the treason with my own eyes.” Geralt stands in the doorway, filling it to the brim with the width of his shoulders. Water drips from his sodden silver hair, though he makes no move to push it back from his face. His hand rests openly upon the sword hanging at his hip.
“That way it passes fewer lips on its way to the king.”
Duke Emhyr’s eyes go wide, and then angry.
“I protect the crown, and you call it treason,” slowly,—almost regretfully —the duke lowers his hand. “Can you not see? Can you not see how they twist—” Geralt turns his gaze to you, and somehow his golden eyes seem darker. Harder.
He came for me.
Ser Gavin fingers the pommel of his sword nervously, playing at the thought of unsheathing it, but too craven to commit. Still, he stands between you and the prince, and does not move. The duke’s rambling of treason and bewitchery continues behind you, rising to a fever pitch as you approach the door. Briefly as you turn, you see him, his face red and lips flecked with frothy spittle as he flings a long, accusing finger towards you.
“They will poison this empire, it’s people! You cannot allow them to sit the throne, it is treason to do it knowingly, you must act!” The fire burns bright in his wide eyes, and you see reflected in them the same vicious zealotry that burned in Father Rame’s. “That which is rooted in rotten soil cannot grow! I will not stand idle while we are destroyed from within.”
In the spaces between his words you can see the calculation. He’s chosen death, you realize. You taste it in the air before he speaks, the power of his decision already shaping the world around it, like chaos—but not the kind they shunned. It tastes like the air inside the chapel; the still, thick air, perfumed so that the smell of his body would not leak further than a few feet beyond his corpse.
“You know the truth of what I speak, Majesty, you must see that His Highness is not himself! He pants after the elf-bitch, like a man possessed! It is unnatural, you must—you must see it!”
Geralt’s mouth creases with anger. “I see your distrust in your King has bred treasonous discontent. I see your desire to rise above your station would have you slavering after my father’s throne like the dog you are.” He steps into the room then, and you watch as the Duke’s hand closes about the grip of the dagger strapped to his waist. “Your dedication to this fiction will cost you.”
You had not been able to see Geralt’s other hand, positioned behind him, his arm taut as though he were dragging something heavy. He steps aside, and your heart leaps into your throat as you see why—
A dead Nilfgaardian soldier lies behind him, dark liquid pooling thickly underneath his armor. The duke sees it too, his body tensing.
“If you will not serve your people, if your father will not protect them, what choice have you left me?” The duke murmurs, the words underscored by the quiet ring of steel as he unsheathes his blade. You jump up, knocking the chair over in your haste to get away from him. You trip over your skirts, stumbling forward as Ser Gavin grabs for you, his hand knotting in your cloak.
“You will let her go.” Geralt delivers the instructions as truth—no ultimatums.
“Oh, aye,” Emhyr, nods, forcing the words out through clenched teeth. “On that we agree.” You expect him to lunge for the prince, to hear the sharp clash of steel on steel, but you do not. Instead, his face fills your vision. “You may go wherever you wish, now, Lady.”
You taste death on his words and in the air, and when he steps away, his hands are empty. There is a strange coldness in your belly, and slowly, your hand drifts up to investigate. The leather grip of the dagger is warm, but the steel is cold, so cold you can feel it all the way inside. It’s strange, the way it doesn’t hurt, the way the blood does not feel hot on your trembling hands but cold—
The death Emhyr had chosen was neither his own, nor Geralt’s—but yours.
Dimly, you are aware of Geralt, of your body tucked tightly against his, the sound of steel on steel, the feel of cold rain on your face. Weakly, you lift a hand to your belly, your fingers slipping on the handle. Geralts hand closes over yours.
“You must leave it, Doe, you must. I know it hurts.” It doesn’t. You want to tell him, but you cannot find the will to move your lips. You feel your grip slacken on his cloak, your fingers releasing themselves without your permission as your vision tunnels. Geralt tells you not to close your eyes, and the words echo far off in the encroaching dark.
I have to, you think that perhaps the words escape your slack lips in a low mumble, but you cannot be sure.
Just for a little while.
to be continued…
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