Bounty
Warnings: this fic contains suggestions of noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is the next June fic! (It’s late. Sorry)
Geralt of Rivia + “You're so soft... so weak.” (Medieval AU)
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Princess Mercaline closes her eyes and lets the breath flare from her long nose. She is immaculate in every way. Tall, lithe, her blonde hair tinged with ginger, her lips a perfect shade of rose petal. She tips her head back as the sunlight limns her fair complexion. She is young and stubborn.
“Your highness,” you nearly whisper at the clatter below. The holler of men adds to the tension.
“He’s won. Again.” She sneers. “All he had to do was leave me be.” Her eyes glisten as she peers off into the sky. “I am as much our father’s child as he ever was.”
“Your highness,” you repeat again.
She keeps her shoulders straight as she watches the courtyard. They will be upon her soon. The city’s siege has fallen and her brother’s general is on his way to claim victory for his liege. Though you wonder, will the new king declare his sister traitor or merely force her hand on the contract she refused from behind these walls?
“I do not fear it.” She assures you stiffly. “My brother is impertinent and one day, that will be his undoing. Be it marriage or the dungeon, he might even send me to the axe, his fate will be worse. He will not be spared the same cruelty he wields.”
She brings her hands up to cradle the silver cross at the end of her rosary. You dip your head reverently. She sighs.
“Matron, how I envy you. You have not known the plight of a man’s will. Not as many must.” She drones. “No husbands, no sons.”
You stand with her, your own insides torn by the anxiety of what heads your way. You mightn’t be more than an old maid sworn to her service, but it never exempted you the obstinacy of the male race. It was a man who put you there with the princess when she was but a girl and kept you there. And it will not spare you the pillage of this failed battle.
“I will meet him in my coronet and cape. I am still princess, as I will be until my death. Whenever that shall be.” Mercaline declares and spins on her slippered heel.
You follow, as loyal as ever. You saw the princess through the seasons of her life. Through toddling in castle halls, prancing through the gardens, swishing in newly sewn gowns as she grew taller and curvier, and in her womanhood, stoic and willful as ever. You will follow her to this as well.
You help her secure the coronet with pink amethyst and diamonds. You smooth her long sleeves then help her shoulder the velvet lined cape with her sigil of doves and lilies. She does not falter as she stands and waits, undaunted by the clop of horse hooves through the courtyard gates or the blowing of victory horns.
You step back, hiding your shaky hands behind you, fingers toying with the strings of your apron. Your shades of grey linen and wool pale in the pinks and lilacs of the royal sister; as your age and plainness are shadowed in the light of her youthful beauty. She is brave where you are nervous, and regal where you are common.
“You will make certain the general is received with proper care,” she bids. “Send for wine from the cellar and permit only the general into the receiving chamber.”
Her courage lends you enough to obey. You go to bid for the bottle and prepare the receiving chamber. You hide all evidence of the siege’s toll.
Jeb returns with what he can find. You dust off the bottle and ready it next to goblets. You hear the advance through the corridors, echoing closer and closer. Men order others to put down their arms or perish. Those with titles will stand trial, others will be sentenced to die regardless of surrenders, as others will be sent to work until they meet the same end.
Commander du Haute-Bellegarde appears in his ebon armour. His silver hair stands out against the dark iron, his helm firmly cradled under his thick arm. You know him by sight. He was the old king’s best soldier, and certainly, this triumph will make him that of the new king.
“The princess,” he demands.
“She will receive you, my lord. Only you.” You approach, gulping as you steady your hands. His eyes flicker as you hide your trembling fingers behind you once more. “That is her order.”
“Her order? She is conquered and she presumes to bid me as a dog, still?”
“You are not dog, Sir Geralt,” Princess Mercaline states. “You are a wolf. I would permit you but not your pack within my chambers. I remain the king’s sister.”
Sir Geralt considers her. He raises his gauntleted hand and wiggles it. The men behind him retreat. There is no escape for the princess, she needn’t a battalion.
“Your highness,” you clasp your hands in front of you, “would you have me go too?”
“Stay, pour her some wine. She will need it.” Sir Geralt insists. He steps inside and closes the door behind him. “Princess.”
“General.” She strides over, her skirts moving as if she floats on air. “Have you put up your flag? What shall it be? Does my brother have the guts to come himself or does he bid you to do all in his name?” She snipes. “Pray tell, when he married, did he have you consummate as well–”
“Princess, you are not tawdry as so. I know you.” He says. He pauses and glances at you. “Matron, pour the wine.”
You step forward and do as he says. You fill both cups. He approaches and sets down his helm. He pulls off his gauntlets and lays them down as well. His mail brushes against your apron. He takes a goblet and turns to the princess. He goes to her and holds it out.
“A dispensation has been granted to absolve the betrothal. The marquess is shamed by you. He would not have you now.” The general explains. “Your city has fallen but your purpose is met.” He scoffs.
“Be plain about it, sir. I assume I haven’t much time left for your boasting.” She takes the goblet but does not drink.
“I have advised against execution. I know war and I know what stirs it.” He proclaims. “I do not long for battles anon in your name.” He stares her down. “You will be sent to Perily.”
She does not flinch. “I hear the tower is cold.”
“You will know soon enough.”
She grins. “I rather like the cold.” He is quiet. She looks down at the wine and swishes it around the goblet. “And would you bring a message back to my brother since he hasn’t the gall to hear it from me himself? Be a good little hound.”
“Princess?”
She looks up and tosses the wine in his face. He doesn’t move. He runs his hands over his face and pushes back his wet strands.
“Shall I throw wine or piss? Which would be accurate?” The General grits.
She trills with laughter. You admire her boldness though you know it will do her no good. If only you could be as her. If only you weren’t terrified and old.
“Shit, if you have it,” she says flippantly as she throws the goblet and turns away. “Matron, we will need to pack my trunks–”
“Matron,” the General raises his hand. “Matron will come with me.”
For the first, the princess winces. She turns and looks at you. All humour is gone from her.
“Why? She is a maid. Certainly, I would have one in the tower–”
“You would. You have many in this place. I will fetch another and she will go with you to Perily.”
“You cannot–”
“It is the king’s orders.” He says evenly. “You will not retain your conspirators.”
Your heart seizes. You will be as the rest. Punished for loyalty. For doing as you have sworn to do. To serve. Your lip trembles.
The princess scowls. “Good puppy,” she taunts. “Go, be gone from me and wag your tail at the king.”
“Your highness,” you eke. “I… I bid you safe travel. And I bid that you are well kept in the tower and–”
“I bid you silent.” The General snarls as he snaps his fingers. He gathers up his helm and gauntlet. “Princess, you will be kept in solitary. A maid will come to change your pot and bring your bread until your tumbril is ready for transport.”
He tucks his gauntlets into his belt, keeping his helm under his arm. He seizes you with his free hand, squeezing your arm until you wine.
“I will see to this traitor’s punishment–”
“Traitor!” Mercaline sweeps forward, reaching for you. “No, she is not. She has been loyal! You will not harm her–”
“I will do as the law deems,” he shields you with his burly body and elbows away the princess. “Mind, your brother granted me leave to do as I must to detain you. Whatever is needed to keep you prisoner. Do not make me test the extent of his order.”
“Sir, please, she is the princess–” You beg.
“Quiet, Matron, or I will break her in front of you before I do the same of you.” He jerks you towards the door. “Princess, you will not attempt further folly or this matron will feel the consequence.”
He drags you as your soles scuff. You hear Mercaline whimper and her slippers slap on the stone. It’s too late. The door slams behind the General as he shoves you out into the corridor.
Several of his men linger. He orders them to keep watch. He proceeds along the corridor with you in tow. His grip is painful.
“General, we’ve readied a chamber.” A soldier approaches. “At the end of this stretch.”
“Good man. Go, see to your supper.” The general responds tersely.
He ushers you on to the noted doors. He pushes you through the left one. You peer over your shoulder as he swings it shut on the hinges. You’re confused. You expect a dungeon, maybe even a gibbet.
“Do you know the trouble your princess has roused?” He tuts as he paces around the room. “Surely you do. And what have you done but stood and emboldened her, matron.”
He drops his helm on the round wooden table and rips his gauntlets free of his belt. He slaps them down. You stay by the door, uncertain, eyeing the blade sheathed at his waist. He unstraps the sword from his back and puts it flat across the table.
“You serve her so diligently. You will do thus for me.” He faces you and beckons you with two thick fingers. “Come here. I long to be free of this armour.”
You hesitate, then approach. You examine his chest plate. You never dealt with such before. The heavy iron covers his torso, chain mail around his arms, and he wears more armour on his legs. He removes his belt and puts it with the rest.
He lifts his arms and gestures. You find the strap and unbuckle it. There are several. He patiently stands in place as you loosen each.
He lifts the plate over his head and hands it to you. It’s heavy. He laughs as you struggle to carry it to the bench and lay it down.
“You're so soft... so weak.” He taunts. “But you are not stupid. I could have you killed at this very moment.”
You look at him and quickly bow your head.
“You know it so you obey. You will obey. Whatever I bid you.” He snickers. “You are not done. My mail, my greaves, anon.”
You go to him again. He watches you as you avoid returning his gaze. You feel along his thighs as you search for the fasteners. He lets out a long breath as you graze his leggings in your efforts.
You free him of his cuisses and his greaves, and the pieces over his boots. You stand straight and he tugs his mail over his head and dips his head. You help him lift it off. You set it all aside with his chest plate.
He stands in padding, tunic, legging and boots. You remove the padding next. As you near him again, his fingers stroke along the belt of your apron. He pushes until you stop. He frames your thick waist and turns you around. He tugs on the strings until they loose.
He lets go and lifts the apron over your head, letting it fall to your feet. You shudder and step away. He catches you by the back of your neck. He spins you around. He looms over you.
“You served your princess so loyally. You will do the same for me.” He growls in your face. “Or I will be certain you are only ever on your knees for the executioner.”
You whine as your eyes flick up to his golden ones. “Yes, General–”
“Do you know what battle does to a man? Hm? Days, nights, weeks, out there, sleeping in the dirt.” He moves you backward as he pinches your nape, pressing his forehead to yours. “A man is deprived. A man is cold. A man is… tired.”
He walks you across the chamber as you squirm and wince. He stops you as you feel the breeze through the window against your back.
“A man longs for warmth out there.” His other hand paws at your stomach and slips around your hip. “A man longs for softness. Then he finds it waiting for him.”
You quiver as your veins burn with fire. “Sir, I am–”
“You are the bounty I would claim in this war, matron.” He pushes you against the thick frame of the tapered window. “And when I fuck you,” He spins you around and shoves you against the open window. He grabs your neck again and forces you to bend over the frame and stare down at the perilous depth. “You will scream out your new master’s name so that all know who you belong to.”
