After the mountain, Jaskier doesn't stop travelling with witchers.
He simply stops travelling with Geralt.
Over the years, he falls into step with one witcher after another. They are kinder than Geralt ever was—less guarded with their gratitude, quicker with a smile, more willing to admit they enjoy the company of a bard. They laugh at his jokes, make room for him by the fire, and ask about his songs instead of merely tolerating them.
They are, by every measure, easier to love.
And yet, somehow, Jaskier never does.
Instead, against all reason and every ounce of self-preservation, he finds that his heart still belongs to the White Wolf.
Meanwhile, each winter at Kaer Morhen, Geralt hears stories about his bard from whichever brother Jaskier had been travelling with that year.
It is strange, listening to witchers speak so fondly of someone Geralt had always assumed he knew.
Because, as it turns out, there is a great deal Geralt never knew.
A great deal he never thought to ask.
He never knew Jaskier was part elf.
He never knew the bard had three siblings, or that family was a subject Jaskier carefully stepped around whenever anyone grew too curious.
He never knew what Jaskier taught at Oxenfurt Academy. Never knew how many instruments he could play with effortless mastery, or how many languages he spoke.
He didn't even know that "Jaskier" wasn't his real name.
Geralt had spent years with the man at his side.
And somehow, he had never truly met him
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