#noble jaskier

[geraskierfanficprompts]

(mostly game characterization)

geralt has zero respect for nobility. some nobles are respectable as people, sure, but that has nothing to do with their titles. he's always agreed with dandelion that titles are unimportant.

which is why he's so confused with how his mind fixates on dandelion's nobility. every time dandelion pulls his rank on someone who'd value a noble's word over a witcher's, geralt's struck with the idea of dandelion trying to pull rank on him. or, when the Path takes them near kerack, and dandelion blanches and suggests they change course, geralt wonders about what it would be like to visit someplace where dandelion is valued highly.

he's glad that his bard isn't as arrogant as any other noble he's ever met (even lesser nobles like him), and only values himself for his skills and talents, not his birthright. still, the idea sticks in his head. he's acted as a pet witcher to a few kings and rulers before, for political reasons... in his weaker moments, he thinks that dandelion's the only noble he'd choose to do that for.

If Geralt has to listen to this baron whatshisname of whoevencares for one minute longer, he's going to throw himself on his own swords. Not only is the Baron not discussing the details of the contract, but he's also covering things up, throwing in a few odd shots at women in general, and of course, being incredibly hateful towards Witchers and anything even having to do with them. "My wife must've made the contract for you... witcher... But we have no needs of you in this village, so if you don't mind, please vacate the township before you track all your, aheh, filth in." Geralt doesn't even have any filth this time! He is freshly bathed! Jaskier even made him use a fruit scented soap! Geralt drew the line at ribbons in his hair. "Then get your wife, so she can pay me. I did the job. Where's my coin?" Geralt grits out, muscles tensing. "It was a misunderstanding! You did the contract without first checking with me to see if my wife's wishes were suitable, and you have no excuse for snarling at me like someone's unruly hound!" Geralt is about to get violent when the doors bust open, and Jaskier marches over to where they're bickering. He's dressed in some of his finer clothes, things he usually reserves for court visits. Playing at galas and the likes. Not for talking to some Baron who is backpedaling a contract. "My hound is quite deferential, thank you." "And who might you be?" The baron asks with repeated glances between the overdressed bard and him. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove. I must say, It's been a long while since I've had such a churlish greeting." And like a lever being switched, the Baron is apologizing profusely and babbling nonsense praise at Jaskier, who scowls the entire time. "No amount of complimentary tea will just erase you insulting My Witcher!" "W- Well, Sir Pankratz, it's-" "I do outrank you, Baron Voldergaas-" So that was his name. "-And it'd do plenty good to remember that when next you think of insulting me or my things." "I wasn't aware you owned this witcher, Viscount! I was-" "Did you ask? Did you give him the time of day? This is a disgusting overlook on your part, and he will be paid thrice what you've promised or I am going directly to the higher courts with this! I have owned this witcher for many years and he is an efficacious and honest creature, and I know that if you asked him right from the start he would've told you he belonged to me! Get him his coin before I sic him on you!" And the baron races off with his metaphorical tail tucked. Jaskier turns back to Geralt and lets out a deep exhale. "I'm sorry, Geralt! I didn't know any other way to deal with him. I deeply apologize for speaking of you like that. It was all fake! I would never call myself your owner-" "Bard. If it gets me triple pay, You can call me your footstool." "Mm. Better not. Much easier for you to move about as my loyal hound. Now you just need a collar and chain!" Julian laughs at the innocent and well-meaning joke. Geralt arduously tries to soften his stiffening cock with pure force of will. Thankfully, the mental image of being leashed to his Jask quickly flees his mind when he must once again bear presence to the Baron. He needs no help softening when the Baron begins blabbering again. At least he and his Bard got paid for their troubles. ...Perhaps they have enough coin for a custom collar

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

Might goof around and write a part 2, idk. thoughts? opinions? leave some comments and tags so I know whether or not you’d like more.

Jaskier paced the length of his room once. Twice. Three times.

“Sit down, boy, or you’ll wrinkle your finery,” his nurse demanded. “You haven’t even met him yet!”

“I don’t need to,” Jaskier grinned. The old woman rolled her eyes as her rambunctious charge finally took a seat next to her on the settee, his leg bouncing automatically once the rest of him was still. The boy gesticulated wildly, hands flailing: “I know he’ll be wonderful, Marva! The Matchmaker said I’d be taken care of.”

“What did she tell you about him other than that?”

“He’s older than me, and taller. He doesn’t have a title but he comes from good stock, whatever that means. His profession was kept a secret, but I’m told he’s quite strong. Perhaps he’s a knight! Or a soldier!”

“Hush, child,” the nurse demanded. They could both hear footsteps coming towards the door. Jaskier’s spine straightened and it took every ounce of willpower not to bite his lip bloody from nerves alone as his future husband drew ever closer. 

With a sweeping whoosh the door to his private antechamber opened and a tall, dark-cloaked figure stepped inside along with Jaskier’s father, a priest, and two attendants. As soon as the door closed behind the small group, the stranger removed his hood. Golden irises bore into Jaskier’s and the noble ached to run his fingers through his future husband’s long white hair; did it feel as silky as it looked?

“Julian,” the young Viscount heard his father say, “This is your betrothed, Geralt of Rivia.”

Jaskier rose from the couch and bowed as he’d been taught. “Milord, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His betrothed looked startled and turned to face his father, “You said your son was old enough for travel. He’s no more than a boy!”

Jaskier scoffed. “I’m perfectly capable of traveling.”

“Not the kind our married life would subject you to. I’m sorry, Milord, but the wedding is off.”

Two of the attendants drew daggers and Jaskier’s own father drew his (usually ornamental) sword. “You’ll marry the boy now, this minute, and then you’ll both get out of my sight.”

Geralt frowned, eyes twitching between the blades at his throat, the glaring Viscount, and his doe-eyed fiancé, who stank of nothing but fear and confusion as slowly worked on biting a hole through his lip. The witcher sighed, turning and reaching out for the younger man’s hand. “Well then, young Lord Julian, it seems we are to be wed.”

“This instant?” Jaskier breathed. His father, who’d never been particularly interested in his existence but up until this point had seemed kind enough, snarled low in his throat. 

“Right this fucking instant, you bastard,” the man spat. 

And oh. Oh that made sense, didn’t it? Why he was being married off so quickly, the over-eager woman who’d played at ‘matchmaker’ all those months ago, the engagement gifts he chose but were likely never sent...

Jaskier nodded dumbly and took the stranger’s hand. 

[kojisapple]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Sigismund Dijkstra & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Character(s) Characters: Sigismund Dijkstra, Jaskier | Dandelion’s Father, Jaskier | Dandelion’s Mother, Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Additional Tags: Angst and Humor, heavier on humor I guess, Plotting and scheming, Nobility, Politics, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Smart Jaskier | Dandelion, Experienced Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sort of Worldbuilding, Jaskier & Dijkstra Love/Hate on friendly terms, Little shit Jaskier | Dandelion, Authorial Narrator (partly), Alternative Perspective, Unreliable Narrator, Slow Burn Summary:

After death, what comes next? Eternal life in the afterworld? Purgatory? Reincarnation? Oh, hohohaha — no. The business policy of afterlife is as follows: non-existent. Their only philosophy: some problems resolve themselves, life resolves the rest. What happens very, very rarely, but does happen: administrative errors. And life doesn’t deal with administrative errors.

— Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, barely ten, looks twelve, is — in fact — in his late sixties, and acts like he owns the place (which he does, actually).

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 153

Geralt isn't used to being in a place so sumptuous as the Pankratz manor. He's gotten word about an urgent contract demanding a witcher, coming from Count Julian Pankratz, himself. Granted, he'd only recently earned the title after his parents died at sea, so he hadn't been a count for very long at all, but he had been one for long enough, it seems, if he's already getting into trouble.

Geralt steps into the main chamber, and finds a short, graceful man biting at his nails.

"Oh! The witcher!"

He gasps, racing over and shaking Geralt's hand, despite the fact Geralt wasn't shaking his back.

"So so so so happy you've come! I'm Visco- I'm Count Julian Pankratz! Um, Of Lettenhove- Which you know- Um-" "Geralt. Witcher. The contract?" "Right! Um, so, there's- The thing is- I know I'm new to my- my.. my rank, but I've lived in this place my whole life, so-" "Get to the damned point." "I think someone is stalking me."

Geralt sighs, and rubs a hand on his face. As terrible as the situation is, this isn't his job. And it's one human's word. It could be branches smacking against his window for all he knows about beasts.

"Witchers don't hunt humans. I don't hunt humans. Good luck."

And Geralt turns and begins walking out to the sounds of the human stuttering and flailing.

"IT'S NOT A HUMAN!"

He squeals, finally. Geralt turns over his shoulder to look at the human with a raised eyebrow. The human looks horrified to have blurted that out. He glances away, as if ashamed of doing so.

"I- I don't think it's human."

Geralt turns fully to face the human and steps back over to him.

"People have been acting weird.. Like they're not themselves. I don't know if it can shapeshift or hypnotize- And- And things have been moved or gone missing and things that don't make sense keep happening- Please. Please, help me. I'm too scared to sleep."

Fuck. Geralt can't say no to those watery Cornflower blue eyes. Actually inhuman foe or not, he's going to become a damned bodyguard of all things.

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Before the Sacking, some noble houses would sponsor witcher schools. It was a show of wealth and prestige, which also had the added benefit of putting one's territories higher on the witchers' list of priorities.

Of course, the sponsors abandoned them when the witchers' numbers dwindled too low to prioritize any territory.

Thus, it was a shock to all of the wolves when they received a letter from the Viscount of Lettenhove offering them a sponsorship contract. Was this a joke? A twisted plot to kill the rest of them? Did this Viscount know they couldn't possibly offer him any sort of special treatment?

Despite their doubts, the wolves sent a representative to Lettenhove. Geralt was the most likely to survive a trap, and his reputation couldn't possibly get lower if he had to fight his way out.

Geralt braced himself for the worst. He had his guard up as he arrived in Lettenhove, as he was received graciously, as he met the surprisingly young and handsome Viscount.

"You must be tired from your long journey. I have a bath and food prepared."

"I'd rather see to the contract first."

The Viscount placed a sheet of parchment before him, and Geralt read the contract. He read it again. A third time to be sure.

"What the fuck is this?!?" Geralt growled.

"I thought the conditions reasonable."

"It's completely one-sided!" Geralt waved the contract in his face, like that would help the Viscount see the situation clearer. "You can't be serious!"

The contract, if you could even call it that, basically guaranteed an allowance for the wolf school and safe lodging for them in Lettenhove or any of the Viscount's properties.

In exchange for...stories. The wolves would have to visit the Viscount to tell him about their hunts.

What the fuck?

"I am deadly serious," the Viscount responded, and Geralt could tell it was the truth. "You see, witcher, I have an excess of responsibilities, so I lack the freedom to travel. However, I have the means to pay someone to share their experiences with me. I thought 'why not pay someone who actually needs the money?' You witchers are famously underpaid."

Geralt stared at the noble uncomprehendingly. If the Viscount was looking for entertainment, Why not hire a bard instead?

"Should you need time to consider it, you may stay as long as you like. Your rooms--"

"We'll sign."

The Viscount's proper facade cracked, and the man beamed like a child. "REALLY?!?"

Geralt nodded. He couldn't understand the Viscount, but he also couldn't deny that he and his brothers needed the money.

I LOVE THIS I LOVE THIS I LOVE THIS!!!

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Prompt 142

Prince Geralt is the second of three sons born to King Vesemir. Court... Isn't his thing. Court isn't really any of the three boys' things. Eskel was certainly polite enough for it, but many thought him too intimidating looking to even approach. Geralt detested the finery and the clothing that made him look like a sad silk trader. Lambert nearly killed a woman with a heart attack the last time he was in court and opened his mouth to speak. Geralt doesn't like court, or meetings, or what-have-you. He much prefers riding his favorite mare, Roach, into the nearby woodland. Whether they'd just go for a trot, or hunt something, or swim in a creek was a choice he usually made up on the spot. One afternoon however, as he dismounts from his trusty steed, he hears a noise on the wind. A rather lovely one, at that. It's singing. Someone's singing, and they've the voice of an angel. Geralt freezes in place for multiple minutes, too engrossed in just listening. Geralt glances around, attempting to make sense of which direction it's coming from. He doesn't even tie up Roach before he sprints off in the direction of the singing. He doesn't know what he'll do. Applaud? Say 'thank you, that was great'? Faint? But he does want to get closer. Just the slightest bit, so he can hear the singing better. After a moment or two of trompsing through the underbrush, however, the singing stops. Geralt loses all traces of the voice, and is left to return to his horse, stood where he left her, in disappointment. He tells his brother of the encounter, tells them to try hearing the voice in the woods. Lambert warns him it might be a troll in disguise, and Eskel gets so caught up correcting Lambert's thoughts on trolls that Geralt can't even gush about the voice any more, and returns to his room, eager to set out to the forest as soon as he can.

It's been two weeks, and Geralt is saddened by the voice's disappearance. It was a once-in-a-lifetime blessing he'd just have to hold onto. Even as he hears the voice in his thoughts and dreams every night. It's not the same. Not the real thing. Geralt is being moody about all of this as he lays on his back, floating in a small pond. Roach is there, on the shore, occasionally bending her neck down and taking a sip. He tried to invite her in to swim with him, at least get her feet wet, but she'd harshly declined, giving him a little nip on his arm. And then, he hears it. The voice. The singing. Geralt is so shocked, he flails in the water, and inhales some. Geralt rushes to the shore, hacking like a cat about to present it's owner with a hairball, and rushing to put all his clothes back on. As soon as he's fully dressed, the voice has stopped. He hadn't even had the time to try and seek them out again! He kicks the dirt, and sits down to pout next to his horse. Despite the failure, he was overjoyed when he revealed the news to his brothers. "My siren is back!" He said with a grin. Eskel loved when Geralt grinned, he didn't do it nearly enough any more. Not since they were all children. "I was in the pond when-" "Can't be a siren if you were in the water and they weren't." Lambert points out, mouth full of food. "I know they're not really a siren, that's just what I call them!" "Why is that?" Eskel inquires, raising an eyebrow. "Every time they sing, I- I feel as if I'm bespelled." Geralt whispers with awe, his eyes sparkling. Lambert begins chortling as loud as possible. "Prettyboy is whipped over a VOICE!" "You would be too, if you could hear them!" Geralt argued, just before a servant came in to alert them all that it was getting rather late, and their father requested them all in bed.

Another few weeks go by without his siren, but Geralt knows they must still be out there. They're just biding their time before they enchant him again. Geralt is home after a long day of messing around in the woods hoping to hear them. He's stood on his balcony, looking out toward the forest, sighing. It's just as he's about to walk back inside when he hears it... Ever so quiet, ever so soft, in the distance, coming from the woods. His siren. He freezes, and listens for a moment, before shaking his head. He slams his door open and races down the hall, only to run straight into Eskel. "Geralt? What's wrong?" "My siren! They're singing! I have to go to the woods!" "Geralt, it's the middle of the night-" Eskel worries. "You haven't found them yet, but you think you can find them now?" Lambert pipes up from the room farther down the hall, rubbing his eyes, evidently annoyed he was awoken by his brother's urgency. "I have to try." is all Geralt tells them, as he pushes past Eskel and continues down the hall. After a few minutes, both Lambert and Eskel are out on their own balconies, hearing nothing but the ambient sounds of night. "He's gone fuckin' batty!" Lambert shouts over to Eskel's balcony. "SHUSH! You'll wake father!" Eskel hisses back. Geralt came back that next morning, disappointed, and no closer to finding the mysterious vocalist.

Two entire months pass, and Geralt is distraught. It's beginning to feel like his siren is really gone for good this time. "Smiiiile, it's a happy day for you." Eskel lovingly reminds Geralt. They're all sat on their thrones, awaiting nobility and gentry to pass by and give Geralt gifts, for it was his birthday. All Geralt wanted for his birthday was to hear from the siren again, but even if his siren came back, he wasn't in the woods to hear them anyhow. "The Pankratz family!" A servant loudly introduces, snapping Geralt out of his thoughts. They looked the same as every other noble family did, though there was an exception. A boy around Geralt's age was the first to give Geralt an actual, genuine smile. "We are delighted to present you with our gift, it's a-" "I have a gift for the prince, too!" The boy interrupts his father, taking a step closer. "Julian!" The mother hisses. "It's a song." "Julian, don't embarrass us like this." The father snarls. Geralt holds up a hand. "...I'd like to hear it." The boy, who was quite handsome in retrospect, races to their bags and finds a lute he smuggled along. He steps in front of his family, looks into Geralt's eyes, and begins to sing. Geralt freezes. Eskel glances between the viscount and his brother, who was seemingly in a trance. Eskel was at first worried about the way his mouth parted a bit in shock as he realized what was happening, but then he looked to see Lambert was gaping like he was physically incapable of shutting his mouth... Which... It being Lambert, was actually quite possible. When the boy finishes, everyone politely claps, except for Geralt, still staring in awe. The boy flushes and fidgets in place. "..I cannot accept this song as a gift." Geralt says. "We're so, so, so dreadfully sorry about Julian, your highness-" Geralt shuts the man up with a wave of his hand, still staring at the musician who captured his heart. "I would rather my gift from your family to be your son." The Pankratz all gasp and gawk, as Julian's eyes widen. King Vesemir leans over and whispers "What the hell are you doing, boy?" "I would like to give him the official position as court bard, and I'd like to hear him sing again. Every day, if I can." Geralt explains. "Your highness, we simply can't just give away our dearest son-" "I'll do it!" "Julian-!" "I'd love to be the court bard, Prince Geralt!" Julian crows, bouncing up and down in delight. "...Then it shall be." King Vesemir said, giving a confused glance to Eskel. Eskel and Lambert are alone that night. Geralt was busy being serenaded, they assumed. "So. Geralt found his siren." Eskel says softly. "I really thought he was just nuts." Lambert snorts. "Apparently not." "..." "..." "..." "..." "Wanna bet on how long it takes until they start fucking?" "You know it."

[geraskierfanficprompts]

Julian, the reluctant heir of Lettenhove, completes his duties well. His people are safe, fed, and educated. He and his counsel have also been working to rewrite the prejudiced laws regarding non-humans.

While Julian was satisfied with the results of his efforts, he wouldn’t say he enjoyed politics. No, he got his daily dose of enjoyment from indulging in hobbies: music, writing, and collecting art.

Most recently, he acquired an incredible marble statue. The subject was a humongous, long-haired man wielding a long sword. The detail was incredible, and the eyes were painted black with veins sprawling over the rest of the face.

It was titled: “The Witcher”

Julian was immediately captivated by the statue. He’d bought it and placed it in his atrium the same day. The statue reignited the whispers about Julian’s eccentricities, but he didn’t care. Hours were spent staring at the statue, writing poems about it, and talking to it. Yes, he knew the statue wasn’t technically a person; however, it helped Julian organize his thoughts to speak them aloud.

One night, an assassin slipped into Julian’s castle. They killed his personal guard and eventually cornered him in his atrium. When Julian closed his eyes, bracing himself for the killing blow, there was a noise like a landslide.

Upon opening his eyes, Julian stared at the back of a figure clothed in black armor with hair as white as marble.

YES YES YES YES YES!!! I actually just recently wrote something vaguely similar for promptapalooza, I LOVE the idea of things coming to life because of how much you love them! ESPECIALLY when it's Geralt being released unto the world as Jaskier's guardian You're beautiful, Anon!

[bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher]

Get Down pt 1

oops it’s mildly horny. I guess I’m in a mood?

Based on the song “Get Down” from the hit musical SIX

---

Geralt’s eyes went wide when he entered the throne room of the Castle de Lettenhove. He’d remembered the name vaguely; that was probably why he’d showed up at the front door in search of a contract. Now, staring down the length of the impressively decorated stone chamber, he remembered why the name was so godsdamned familiar.

He’d been listening to the same high, clear tenor introducing his best friend for nearly ten years now. He remembered the name his favorite person on the Continent used when he wanted to sound impressive or get free room and board: “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.” 

Fuck. Of course it was Jaskier’s manor house. Of course it was Jaskier’s lovely red carpet that Geralt was tracking dirt all over. Of course it was Jaskier’s father he’d have to beg for the opportunity to hunt monsters for less than sufficient coin. He kept his eyes respectively averted as he approached the throne and knelt, head bowed. 

“My Lord Pankratz,” he rumbled, “I’ve come in search of a contract or perhaps one night of hospitality in return for menial labor.”

“Well met, Sir Witcher.”

Fuck. The Witcher glanced up and somehow managed to keep his eyes from widening in shock for a second time in five minutes. “Milord Pankratz.”

Jaskier took a steadying breath as Geralt looked him over. The part-time bard was glad he’d dressed to impress today (he’d been expecting a visit from a dignitary who’d never arrived) because Geralt showing up and bowing like a knight errant when Jaskier was at his best was sheer dumb luck. “Sir Witcher,” Jaskier smirked. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“As I said before,” the Witcher murmured, “I’ve come in search of a contract, or one night of hospitality in return for menial labor.”

“That sounds like a rather practiced speech, Witcher,” Jaskier intoned seriously. He drew himself up to his full height and pulled back his shoulders, shoving out his chest like any good Lord would. Geralt thought the lot of them were posturing idiots. When Jaskier did the same thing, however, the Witcher felt oddly proud and a little reverent. He stayed kneeling far longer than he would have with any other rude nobility. “What work could you do for me that would be worth a room in my house?”

Geralt’s face was aflame and he was glad that his mutations tamped down the majority of his blush. “I could chop firewood or carry water. I can cook a little and I’m good with horses.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier made his way down the steps and walked in a slow circle around the suddenly nervous Witcher. No Lord or Viscount had ever done that to him before. Appraising him with eyes he knew had seen his every high and low. Jaskier was his best friend, after all. He knew what Geralt was capable of; what was the point of this whole charade? “I suppose we can find you a room.”

Jaskier snapped his fingers loudly and clearly and one attendant appeared on either side of him. There was a woman to his left, no older than Jaskier himself, with her head bowed respectfully. On his right side stood a middle aged man with gently greying hair, his hands clasped tightly together and resting against his lower back; he carried the air of a man who never took a step without considering its efficiency and professionalism first. 

“Matilde,” the Lord addressed the young maid. “Please fetch in Geralt’s saddle bags and bring them to the guest suite nearest my own chambers, darling. Send our gentlest stableboy to attend to the Witcher’s horse; she favors an apple or two before bed. Reyard, please measure our weary guest and have him bathed and clothed for dinner, if you would.”

“Yes, Milord,” the two servants bowed quickly and scurried off to attend to their various tasks. The valet darted forward and took Geralt by the elbow. The taller man startled and jerked away, somehow unable to break the valet’s dedicated grip.

“Right this way, Sir Witcher.”

“Wha-?” Geralt glanced up at Jaskier, whose chest was still puffed forward in a subtle show of power. The emerald green velvet of his tight, tailored doublet enhanced the brown of his hair and the blue of his eyes, making him appear even more youthful and angelic than usual. His trousers were impeccably clean and his boots were shiny and black; authority oozed from Jaskier like syrup from a tree. Geralt’s breath caught in his throat for a second time and he gulped. He found himself even more lost for words than usual in the not-bard’s presence.

“In exchange for your room and board tonight,” Jaskier explained, “You shall be my guest at dinner and humor me with several interesting anecdotes in the sitting room after our meal.”

“Y-Yes, Milord,” Geralt agreed. The valet ushered him away, then, leading him down several twisting halls to the young Lord’s private bathing pool. 

“Milord Pankratz has requested that you bathe and wash your hair. He’ll send another servant down shortly to dress and groom you properly for dinner.”

“Uhm...thank you?” Geralt bowed. The valet shook his head and disappeared from the bathing chambers. The Witcher, exhausted and confused beyond all measure, did the only logical thing left to do: he undressed and slipped into the warm, steamy pool of water. He might as well enjoy what little bits of luxury he could.

---

As soon as Geralt was far enough away, Jaskier released a long, slow breath and rested his hands against his knees. “Holy shit.”

“Milord?”

“Reynard! Thank you for doing me this favor.”

“Is this the Witcher you’ve spoken of all these years?”

“Indeed it is,” Jaskier nodded, glancing off in the direction of the baths. “Geralt of Rivia himself has graced my humble halls at last.”

“He seemed confused, Milord.”

“I haven’t introduced myself as Julian Alfred Pankratz for years,” the young Lord chuckled. “He probably forgot that I was called anything but Jaskier.”

“And your intentions?”

“Oh, I fully intend to seduce him, Reynard. Do not mistake my purposes there.”

“Of course,” the valet smirked. He’d practically raised the young nobleman, after all. They were each other’s confidants and friends as much as they were master and servant; Jaskier said goodbye to him privately every time he left to join Geralt on the Path, thanking the older man for all his years of friendship and advice. “Shall we execute the plan, then?”

“As much of it as we still can,” the Lord smiled. “That would be lovely. You’re a dear.”

“I expect that this evening will be more than entertaining, Milord.”

“Knowing Geralt, it certainty will be.”