Geralt finds ye olde romantic fanfiction of “the White Wolf and his loyal bard” being published when he goes back on the Path after winter one year. Immediately he assumes Jaskier’s done it and storms straight to Oxenfurt to confront him.
Except—it turns out Jaskier didn’t write it and has no idea who did. The author is a mystery. And people everywhere now believe they’re together.
This causes multiple problems.
One. Both men’s prospects of romantic flings dry up immediately because no one is willing to risk either a Witcher’s wrath or a bard writing defamatory songs in retaliation.
Two. Geralt knows his brothers will inevitably get a hold of these books and mock him to death next Winter.
Three. Geralt secretly wants the books to be true.
“Alright,” Jaskier said, tapping the parchment with a dramatic sigh. “So far we’ve ruled out Yennefer, Ciri, and every other witcher with enough literacy to hold a quill. Which leaves us with one pressing question—who in the world wrote a love story about us?”
Geralt frowned. “One of your fellow bards?
Jaskier shook his head immediately. “Impossible. Bards would never pass up the chance to sign their name in letters twice the size of the poem itself.”
They stared at the pages again, equally baffled. It was, undeniably, a mystery—one neither of them had the slightest idea how to solve.
Meanwhile, in the stables, Roach calmly gripped one of Jaskier’s discarded quills between her teeth. She tugged a quilt closer, flattened it with a hoof, and began scratching out the next installment of The White Wolf and His Loyal Bard.
