#winter's king

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 29

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

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. 💖

The grey sky stretches on and on. The winter kingdom is unending. So vast you are certain it is a whole other world on its own.  

You slump in your saddle, chattering, shivering, bones aching, muscles taut, fingers numb. Even with the furs, even with hands and feet wrapped thrice over, you are frigid to your core. Bryce has both reins in hand as you have only the strength to straddle Roach. You cling to the pommel of the saddle as it's the only thing you can do.  

The tip of your nose is frozen despite the scarf shielding you from winter's breath, your own freezing in the weave of the fabric. The man with his beard fares better in his leather and furs, as if he isn't bother by the matting of flakes around his chin or in his brows. You are a summer's maid after all. You are not fashioned for these bitter lands. For as long as you've traveled, that's become clear as the absent sunlight.  

A croaky, strafing cough rises from you, rattling your chest. Each breath is like needles in your throat. Bryce draws Roach closer as if to shield you with his body.  

"There it is, on the horizon," he grits. "The heart of Winter. Stone Hull." 

You look ahead, snowflakes catching in your lashes. You shiver and let out another hoarse bark. You sink down and nod. You can only see a heap of snow. 

“We’re close. We will be there by nightfall. You will sleep warmly.” He yells through the wailing winds. “A mulled cider to warm your bones. Stew of elk. The meat is hearty and will put some back on you.” 

You nod and sway as he guides Roach. You are weak. You feel as if you’ve been asleep for days, though consciousness has been painfully clear. 

At times, when your mind is not bound by the ailments of your body,  it wanders beyond the snowy plains and craggy passes. You wonder how you've come so far. Why? Why should you be here in the Winter Kingdom? Why should the king favour you so that you much suffer the snow and the shame? That gloom only adds to the wither of your will.

You groan as Bryce touches your sleeve. Your eyes drag over to him, drooping as you fight away fatigue. He gives a hum.

"Poor thing. Once you have walls, you will not feel so ravaged," he avows.

You dip your head. Once you have walls, you are well and truly trapped. He keeps his grip on the reins as he clucks at the horses. They push their legs through the deepening blankets of powder. You watch the flakes gather in Roach's mane. You close your eyes and shudder.

You sink into the daze. The gales whistle as a tunnel forms around you. The breath of the horses, the grunts of your escort, and your own willowy whimpers dissipate into the furor. It is only the sudden horror that breaks through the desolate trance of your ague.

Bryce shouts again and fumbles for the horn across his chest. He blows as he stares up. You follow his gaze. Your eyes scale the impossibly high wall, the mortar white with snow. It is so tall it seems to touch the sky.

"Who goes?" A voice calls from a slit in the wall, made obvious only by the point of an arrow.

Bryce laughs before he answers. "It is I. The king's mule. Bryce."

"The king? I see only two and the creature beside you is much too small." The wind nearly drowns the guard out.

"He is back. With the people. I am sent ahead, as his dutiful servant. Lazeer, you know me. I cut the spearhead out of your shoulder before it could fester."

"Aye, and you kissed my sister," the guard snorts.

"So you do know me?" Bryce preens.

"Wait." The voice calls and there is a clatter, the arrow's tip disappears.

"Never fear, mouse. We're home."

You chatter and lump in the saddle. Any further and you think you would fall from it. You tremble and wait. When the door lurches inward, appearing from amid the snow-trimmed wall, you wince.

You jostle in the saddle as the man called Lazeer brings you within. Guards turn the cogs to close the doors as Bryce slips down and comes around to ease you to your feet. You cling to him and press your face into his damp cloak. You cannot stand.

"Please, sir... I am very weak."

"Hush, mouse. You will be well. Cuppa cider, like I said." He bends and scoops you up in his arms. "Laz, the king will be some weeks out. A fortnight at best."

"And he sent you ahead... for what precisely?" The other man challenges.

"We've a new queen. New brethren. We must prepare to welcome them."

"Mm, yes, the summer folk. Delicate things?"

"She is strong in her way," Bryce rebuffs. "Gather those counselors left here. We must convene on the morrow. I'll have some mead left in your chamber."

"Mead and mutton," the man insists.

"Aye, as you'll have it."

You close your eyes and shiver as Bryce turns sharply. The world is tilting this way and that in your vision. You hear Roach snorting angrily as the stablers try to lead her away.

The motion of Bryce's gait is both soothing and disorienting. You peek between your eyelids and see stone walls; a tapestry; a fur rug; a flickering torch. Each time you look, it is something new.

Hinges creak loudly and the air thickens with warmth. You smell a fire. You are laid on something soft. You open your eyes and stare at the heavy canopy draped from the high posts of the bed. Bryce puts a knee on the mattress and unclasps your cloak.

"I must get this off. It is frozen through."

You cough. He eases the cloak from beneath you and you notice how the tails are frozen solid. He hangs it close to the hearth. You stare at the amber flames and reach out weakly.

Bryce puts his large hand to your forehead then curls his fingers and feels your cheek. He sighs. He pets your neck as another rattling cough rises from you.

"Mouse, you will be well. Only rest. Yes. Rest and something warm."

Warm... warm! His hands are like fire on your skin. As he tries to pull away, you catch his wrist. "Please, sir..."

"Shh, lady, I promise, I will not leave you long. I only go to seek help. You must have something to sup on. It will hearten you against the weariness of the road," he coaxes and strokes your knuckles. "Not so long at all."

"Please, I..." your eyes are glassy and dull. You don't feel right. "I think I am dying."

"You... are not," he insists. "I only go to call a servant. I will not be far beyond that door."

"It is death. I sense it in my bones. I hear my mama calling to me." You snivel as your panic swells. Your head lolls as visions of the forest rise before you. Running, heaving, hiding. Your parents falling to the grass. You were sitting between them when sir Dustan's men took you away. "Mama, papa..."

"Shh, sweet maid," Bryce cooes. "You will be well again. I swear to you."

⚔️

A warmth spreads over your forehead. You flick your eyes open as the ghastly silhouette looms over you. The fog slowly dissipates enough to make out Bryce's steely hair and coarse features. With them comes all the he's dragged you through; the queen, the king, the long journey to Stone Hull. The summer kingdom fades into your memory, forgotten with all left behind there.

"Sir," you eke out as he presses the hot cloth to your face.

"Aye, there you are, mouse," he growls.

You stare at him. His eyes are shadowed with fatigue, his hair is askew, and he does not wear his mail. You sniff and it brings forth a haggard cough.

He hushes you as the rattling quiets. You suck in a scalding breath. You clumsily lift your hand and touch his sleeve.

"Let me go, sir. It would be better..." you murmur.

"Better? No. Do not bid such dire ends," he reproaches. "My heart would be shattered.

You groan and let your hand fall. "What day is it? How long..." your voice drifts off and your eyes close.

"A week, mouse..." his timbre follows you back into the void.

When you rouse again, Bryce remains. He sits in a chair with a high back and high arms. His head lolls as he snores, his limbs draped around the wooden frame. You hack out a cough and roll onto your side. It doesn't relent until you spit up a glob of thick phlegm. You spew it into the corner of the sheet. It's nasty but you cannot leave the bed.

You recede back into the depths and wake again as the room shifts. Bryce leans you back against the stacked pillows. You shake as you cough violently. He brings a bowl under your mouth. You spit into it.

"Good mouse," he drawls. "Be rid of the sickness."

Your head is not so heavy. It pounds but only dully. You lean back into the downy pile and look around the chamber. You stare at the fur rug before the fire. It was taken from a great beast.

You focus on the soldier. He is weary. He sits on the edge of the bed.

"Bryce. Sir," you say. He flinches.

"Oh, you're awake still."

"I am," you affirm. "Sir, this is your home?"

"Not my chambers, but a spare one," he answers as he wrings his thick hands. "It'll do. A nice fire, a cozy bed..."

"Sir," your voice scrapes dryly. "You need sleep."

"Eh, I've had it. Closed my eyes not long ago."

"Not long enough. I see it."

He scoffs and shakes his head. His shoulders droop as he clasps his hands loosely, leaning on his thighs.

"You worry for me? Foolish mouse. That is your fault. You care too much for all but yourself." He hangs his head and holds it in his hands. "And I, the fool, has delivered you as bid. Selfish, I am. Selfish I remain. So do not fear for me... I fear enough for myself and in doing so, I've greatly hurt you. I've... I've..." He folds over his lap. "Rest, mouse. Rest. Let this old soldier wallow in his sins."

Your eyes sting as you watch him. Sir Bryce is the strongest man you've known. Even stronger to you than the king.

You slip your hands out from beneath the layers of wool and you press them flat. You sit up shakily, using all your effort to do so. Your hand trembles as you reach for him. You touch his shoulder.

"I was angry, sir." You rub his arm as he winces. "Perhaps, I still am but... I know the truth." He stiffly turns his head, looking at you from and angle as he keeps his head low. "The king will have as he desires. Whether it is you... who gives it or..."

You flop back and clutch your chest. You spasm in a fit of coughs. Bryce moves to clasp one of your hands in his and tucks his other behind you. He draws you forward and slaps your back. A mouthful of phlegm flies out of your mouth and onto the blankets. You heave in a deep breath and he rubs your back softly.

You groan and lean into the soldier.

"Sir, I am not mad. I am afraid. And I will need a friend," you bring his hand to your stomach and squeeze it tight. "You are my friend, are you not?"

"Oh girl, I am your dog. I am entirely devoted to you," he curls his arm around you and rocks you.

⚔️

You lurch awake as the door slams. The force of it shakes the stones set into the walls. The canopy is drawn shut around you, hot stones tucked beneath the blankets to pen in the warmth. You gasp and press your palms to your neck as heavy footsteps stomp across the chamber.

"My king," Bryce's groggy voice scratches in the night. "You've arrived."

"So I have," King Geralt's grit scrapes your ears. "She is here."

"Your Highness, she sleeps. She is recovering."

"Recovering? She is unwell?"

"She does better now, but she requires sleep."

A sonorous breath puffs in the air. The fire crackles and its light flickers between the canopy's edges.

"How poorly?" The king asks.

"You know these winters. The summer kind, they are not made for it," Bryce explains gently. "How about your queen? How does she fare the winds?"

"My queen? Don't you utter her name." The king snarls. "Curses. She is my wife but she will wear no crown until I have an heir. That is what a queen can do for me."

"My king, forgive me. I only... the roads are not easy. I inquire as to your own health. To that of your people, old and new."

"My people. My..." The king growls. "Much has occurred. Very much indeed."

A shadow darkens the space between the canopy. The curtains are drawn back as Bryce grunts. The king's burly figure is limned in the firelight at his back.

He sits and the mattress jostles from his weight. You blink as he reaches for your hand. "My summer maid. You are awake. You sensed me, didn't you?" His tone is softer. Before, it was salt and steel. Now it is as velvet. He brings your knuckles to his lips. "How I missed you sorely. How I dreamt of you." He looks back, "A lamp, sir."

Bryce returns a dutiful "aye" and lights a lamp, moving it closer to shine upon you. You lower your lashes at the glow. The king cradles your chin and tilts your face up.

"Oh, my summer maid. My beloved," his thumb strokes your cheek. "You are... oh, my heart. To see you as this. So delicate, so frail."

You stifle as cough and touch his sleeve, "my king, I am better by the day."

"You..." his mouth falls open. "Oh, your voice..." He lets you go and takes your hand instead. He brings it to his cheek and leans into your touch. He has a beard. As thick and white as the hair on his head. "I hear how the winter has ravaged you but you are strong. You survive. For us." He kisses your hand again. He clings to it and turns to face the soldier. "You were to keep her safe."

"Eh? She's safe."

"She is... barely," the king accuses.

"No, no, you know better. You know how the ague carries on the winds. You will not say this is me--"

"My king," you croak and tug on his hand, though it is a pathetic attempt to move such a man. He flinches and looks at you. "Sir Bryce fended off the wolves and the foxes. He saw me here. He saw me to this place... he has kept me warm and he has healed me." You put your other hand on his. You haven't the strength to make him do as you will, so you can only use what you have. Your kindness. "He brought me home, didn't he?"

The king's expression eases, "yes, treasure." He moves closer and leans his forehead against yours. "We are home."

[evelasco-art]

Personal work inspired by greatest writer ever aka Ursula K. Le Guin's short story Winter's King. You can find it in The Wind's Twelve Quarters, it's set in the same world as The Left Hand of Darkness and it's... well, brilliant, like pretty much all her writing.

“Thus, although the best known picture is that dark image of a young king standing above an old king who lies dead in a corridor lit only by mirror-reflections of a burning city, set it aside for a while.”

And then, as she often does, proceeds to break your heart.

At first, I wanted to make 3-4 illustrations for this story, but found a way to put all scenes into a single piece. And I believe that actually works better, given the cyclic nature of the story.

I'm not done illustrating Gethen. Genly Ai and Therem Harth rem ir Estraven: you are next. Once I finish the commissions I'm working on and have the time and energy for personal art, that is.

[bookself]

Here is the 1969 version--that is, the original version--of Ursula K. Le Guin's short story, "Winter's King," for any other interested parties.

"Winter's King" is part of The Hainish Cycle and set on the planet Gethen, as is her novel The Left Hand of Darkness. It was written a year prior to the novel and later revised for inclusion in her short story collection, The Wind's Twelve Quarters.

When I wrote this story, a year before I began the novel The Left Hand of Darkness, I did not know that the inhabitants of the planet Winter or Gethen were androgynes. By the time the story came out in print, I did, but too late to amend such usages as 'son', 'mother', and so on... In revising the story for this edition... I use the feminine pronoun for all Gethenians—while preserving certain masculine titles such as King and Lord, just to remind one of the ambiguity... The androgyny of the characters has little to do with the events of the story.

[colleyuriko]

"Axt was quick of understanding, that being a minimal qualification of a Mobile of the Ekumen;"

Genly, I am side-eying you so hard hfjksfjkjf

[l3st1b0urn3s-707]

Following my hyperfixation with The left hand of darkness I read Winter's king by Ursula K. Le Guin, so let's talk about it!

It's a short story that takes place in Gethen (yay!). It's about king Argaven XVII so it takes place a few generations after TLHOD (since king Argaven XV was the ruler of Karhide in that novel). In this time the Ekumen has already settled in Gethen, and the planet is about to experience many political changes. Basically Argaven is kidnapped and her memories are altered, so now she'll have a journey trying to get them back and rule her country without any external influences, leaving her (at the time) baby daughter behind.

This story is particularly interesting because Gethen's people are reffered to with femenine pronouns instead of the generic masculine used in TLHOD.

You can find this story in The wind's twelve quarters, a collection of short stories by Le Guin, most of them being part of the Hainish cycle (which apparently is the universe where most of her sci-fi stories/books take place, and it's all about the ekumen and that stuff, it looks so interesting!).

Oh, and as a fun fact I also just discovered that there's another short story that takes place in Gethen called Coming of age in Karhide, which sounds so interesting!!! I swear, this woman's books are going to take my whole soul.

I also want to mention that I discovered this story through @evelasco-art 's gorgeous illustration of it, so go check their account out because they're trully talented!

[tiny-little-bird]

Love me with thine azure eyes,   Made for earnest grantings; Taking colour from the skies,   Can Heaven’s truth be wanting?

Love me with their lids, that fall   Snow-like at first meeting; Love me with thine heart, that all   Neighbours then see beating.

— Elizabeth Barrett Browning

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

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: this one came out of no where.

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. 💖

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. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 28

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: It might be my only full length chapter this week but pls enjoy.

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.

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I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The king keeps you within his sight. As promised, the cloak is brought to the tower chamber. You dawn it as the king pulls on the layers of his duty; tunic, breeches, leather armour, boots, cloak, and the small accoutrements to ward off the cold. For how hotly he burned beside you in the night, you would think he could not feel the winter. 

It is early still. The gray of the sky never fully recedes but it is neither pale nor dark. Even so, the day has come. 

There is a single tap at the door. The king backs away from the hearth. You sit at the table, restless in the cloak with the wolf patch. He calls for the knocker to enter. 

Bryce appears from the other side, his saddles bags over one shoulder. "My king. Roach is ready." 

"Very well," he nods, "summer maid," he turns and beckons to you with two thick fingers, "the good lord will take you ahead." 

"My leige?" Bryce wonders what you do not dare ask. 

"Only be concerned that she remains safe. Warm," he nears and shamelessly caresses your check. You flinch as you refuse to falter.  "You will get her to the capital ahead of us. You will be fleet without so many to slow you." 

You meets Bryce's gaze. In all that you've known him, he has never looked afraid. There is fear gleaming on his eyes. 

"I will always serve you, my king. And never have I denied your command, but might I speak plain?" The soldier faces his master. 

"I prefer you for your candour," King Geralt returns. 

"This will not go without note," Bryce says. "Not least of all by the queen." 

"The queen cares little for the maid. She only cares she has someone at her whim." 

"Be that as it may, but it is not her who would notice. Yet, whoever did, would be certain she hears of it--" 

"I fear not my wife and her temper. She is tawdry. A child. Let her whine and stomp her feet," the king dismisses. "Your concern is appreciated. I understand you only mean to protect me, but I care more to keep her safe." 

"Yes, my king," Bryce accedes, "I will not let any harm come upon the maid. As I've not yet done." 

"It is why I trust only you and Roach. Be gone before the party is abreast." The king faces you, surprising you as he kneels before you. You blanch as you notice the shift in the soldier's posture. "My tender maid, keep you well. I regret that it need be this way but after last eve, I must have you away from this tumultuous party." He takes your hand and pets your knuckles before kissing them. He admires your fingers as if they are adorned in gems. "I will see you in the capital. There, then, we can be happy." 

“My king,” you breathe, “what about the queen?” 

“I shall tend to her should she be dissatisfied. That is no longer your worry. She does not deserve you, treasure.” He avows. 

You stare at him. His eyes are eerie in the low light. You would not and cannot deny him. 

“Yes, your highness, as you wish,” you concede. It was never truly your choice. 

“Before we part, pet,” he squeezes your hands. “A kiss?” 

You hesitate. The soldier turns to the door and feigns ignorance. You dip your chin. The king tilts his head up and you lean forward. As you aim for his forehead, he brings his lips to yours.  

He releases your hands and quickly cradles your head as he braces your hip. His tongue pokes along your lips and you relent to his will. That is as it will be. As it has always been. You have ever been servant. 

He finally parts, humming as his bright irises glimmer, “my treasure, my love,” he rasps. 

“My king, I wish you a safe journey,” you utter. 

“And I shall bid the fates the same of you,” he drags his hand down your thigh and stands. “Safe and quick. Off, before my weak heart gets the best of my mind.” 

Bryce’s sole scuffs and he clears his throat, “come, maid. Put your hood up.” 

You stand and bow your head. You pass close to the king, your cloak stirring against him, and you cross to the soldier. He opens the door and trails you out. You do as he bid and pull your hood up. You descend the twisting steps in silence. 

The corridors are no less hollow and a bitter draft wafts through. The roiling of Bryce’s thoughts ripples from him as he marches next to you. You can only sense him past the fabric of the hood. 

“I shall make you tea for the road,” Bryce says at last. “It should keep you warm.” 

“Thank you, sir, but it isn’t needed,” you say. “We should leave quickly.” 

“Aye, we will be away ‘fore any know,” he agrees, “but not without the tea.” 

You offer no further protest. It isn’t your right to argue. You haven been bidden and so you will do. Obedience never chafed before. Obedience was safe, it was sustenance for any maid. 

You go to the kitchens and wait as Bryce boils water and brews a dark tea from leaves in a pouch he digs from his tunic. He offers it. It carries a pungent aroma. You blow over it and sip. You make a face. 

“It is... strong,” you murmur. 

“So it is, but the leaf will help warm your blood,” he insists and paces back and forth. He is restless to be away. You are as well. 

You drink and he ushers you away to the stables. You stride along the row of stalls and he dodges the nip of a dark steed. He flattens himself against another door and snarls, “the damned beast. ‘Less you can tame her, the king’ll have to keep her ‘neath his stubborn arse.” 

You recognise the mare. It is Roach, the king’s mount. You stare at her and she turns her nose to you. 

“Be wary lest she chomps off your face,” the soldier girds. 

You have little mind to worry for your own nose. You raise your hand pet the creature’s long snout as she plumes hot air from her nostrils. He pushes against your palm and eases, leaning into your touch as you brush along her long head. 

“Come, Roach, we have far to go... I believe,” you say. “Be kind to Sir Bryce. He is brave and kind.” 

“Aye, she seen me ‘fore and I never think she’s thought so,” he snorts, keeping his distance. 

You drag your touch down her neck and put your hand on the latch of her door. She nuzzles your hood and you free her. She steps out as Bryce lingers behind you. 

“Can you saddle a horse? Else I’ll have to brave her bites,” he says. 

“I can. Fetch it and her bit.” 

You dress the horses. Daisy is left behind as Bruce claims Chestnut as his own. You’ll miss your usual mount. 

You get astride and head off into the cold dawn. Your stomach churns as you descend the treacherous mountainside. You’re not sure if it is the thin air, the turmoil of what you ride away from, or ride towards. Perhaps it is all at once. 

Bryce stops you in a natural alcove, away from the winds as he searches his saddle bag. He hands you a leather packet. There are oats and nuts within. He spits out the red leaf he chews so often and nibbles on dried meat instead. 

You eat in silence. The food does not aid in the condition of your stomach. You feel rotten. 

The soldier squints and glances out from between the rockface. He tuts and shakes his head. He puts away the jerky and struts out into the open. He looks up the pass. 

“Eh, I know you’ve been there since we left. Better you show your face before I show my steel,” he warns the wind. 

You frown and fold down the flap of the packet. You hear scratching, then it comes clearer, footsteps. How did he know? Why did he not say a word? 

“It is I, sir,” Ezme declares. “Lord Vesemir--” 

“Aye, I know he sent ya. Why?” Bryce crosses his arms. You step away from Roach as she stomps. 

“He did speak with our great king last eve,” she appears just at the edge of your view. “He offered to keep the made. That the king might return to his throne ‘fore he come back to claim her.” 

“And he was denied.” Bryce says. 

“The king was not amenable, no, yet... Lord Vesemir acts only in accord with his duty. He vowed to protect King Geralt--” 

“And to serve him. As I have,” Bryce insists. “No, you will not have her. I’ve been commanded to take her away.” 

“You could remain. Lord Vesemir knows many secret places. Those that are not on maps. It would be as if the two of you were lost. The king wouldn’t know--” 

“He would,” Bryce growls. “I am not fool, even if all others in this forsaken realm might be. I do like my head on my neck.” 

“It is not safe. Not for the king or the maid. Not for you,” Ezme counters.  

“There is nothing safe in this world. Never has been,” Bryce scoffs. “Be away before I prove that.” 

“Sir Bryce, you have never been unkind.” 

“You ask me to commit treason. How should I be?” He retorts. 

Her head shrinks down. She slowly turns to you. Bryce moves to block her. She stops short and speaks over his arm. “Dear friend, know that Lord Vesemir’s invitation will remain. Always. Even after you leave this day.” 

You blink at her. Your heart is racing. You feel sick. Knots tie into themselves in your chest and stomach. You blow out a cloud of warmth breath into the frigid mountain air. 

“Thank you, friend,” you reply. “I shall follow the king’s command.” 

“I understand,” she purses her lips grimly. She steps back and faces the soldier again, “safe journey.” 

He sighs, “you know I cannot accept.” 

“And I had to try,” she says then spins and disappears back up the incline. 

“So is our call to keep on,” Bryce strides back to you and the horses. “Better sooner, the road will unwind on and on. I tire of it already.” 

You climb back into the saddle and set off again. The further you get, the worse you feel. As if you might be sick, or even as if you might need to lift your skirts in some hidden brush. You feel so wretched you can hardly focus on anything but your body. 

“Sir,” you say, “I must stop.” 

“Aye, mouse, we might,” he reins Chestnut as you tug on Roach.  

You nearly fall off of her in your panic. You are going to spew. You stumble and turn to hide the eruptions. You spit up onto the dirt. 

“I have water,” Bryce offers from behind you. 

“A moment, sir,” you breathe as fullness pulses in your pelvis. 

You go around Roach and hide behind her. You pull up the front of the dress, letting the skirts and cloak shield your back. You reach between your legs as slip your hands down your wool underclothes. Your palm comes away streaked and red. Your blood has come. Early. 

“Are you well?” The soldier asks. 

“Sir, I am,” you assure him and wipe your hand on the underside of the skirt. “It is only a womanly trouble.” 

“Aye, oh, aye,” he grumbles awkwardly. “Take ye time, then.” 

You lean on Roach and close your eyes. You are horribly sore already and exhausted to the bone. Still, you can do nothing but persist.  

“I’m ready, sir,” you lift yourself back into saddle. “I would away.” 

“If we are swift, we will be on flat ground by nightfall,” he says. 

⚔️

The days wear on. The first week is counted by the days of your cycle. The pain and the fatigue has you aware of each moment. Then it is the moon that marks the waning of time. 

The road winds away from the mountains and onto the flatlands. Only for a time before trees rise around you and shroud you in shadow, both dusk and dawn. Between the fir needles and veined bark are those noises that keep you unsettled. 

You camp before a small fire. Bryce works at planting the posts to drape canvas over. The snow is kept off the ground by the thick canopy of branches above. There is some dusting here and there, but it is mostly dry. 

“What can I do, sir?” You ask, as you have done every night. 

“I tell ya again to sit and warm yourself,” he sneers as he hammers in the post. 

“And I repeat I would like to help,” you insist. 

“I can manage. I’m not old man,” he sniffs as he grabs the canvas roll. 

“I know...” you pause as you hear another faraway whine. It sends a shiver through you. “Sir, what are those sounds?” 

He chortles as he works at spreading the canvas over the poles. “Why those are the frostwolves. And the low rumbles will be the bears. The skittering the snow foxes, and the shrill ones, those are the winter birds.” He explains, “they leave ya alone, so long as you keep the fire burning.” He ties a corner into place, “besides, they hate the smell of me.” 

“What?” You gasp, amused. 

“Aye, the don’t like my stench. I came eye-to-eye with a bear. Oh, he didn’t stick around to get a second look,” he scoffs. “And I said to the beast, I don’t mess with ya, don’t be gnawing on my leg. See, I’ve got a truce with the winter beasts.” 

You laugh and sway as you hug yourself. It is awfully cold. Your ears and head hurt almost constantly, even with your hood in place, and the gloves only do so much to keep your fingers from tingling, or your boots for your toes. 

“I s’pose they might be lured by the sweet scent of a summer’s maid. A new flavour,” he teases. 

“You scare me, sir.” 

“Scare you? Oh, but this beast is your friend. You needn’t fear the others.” 

You smile through chattering teeth. He stands straight and eyes you with hands on his hips. “Get close to the fire. You don’t want to catch the ague. Not around here.” 

“I am well, sir,” you promise. 

“Then stay well,” he nears and grabs your wrists. He drags you to the pit and guides your hands over the flames. “Keep close to the horses even. They reek but they put off heat more than cinder.” 

You nod and keep your arms out. It is nice by the fire. The further you get on the road, the colder it is. You could never dream of anything so frigid. It makes you wonder how any can survive in this place, let alone build castles or sow a field. And the more you think of what you don’t know, you are faced with what you do know. 

Your fate is as certain as any of the king’s commands. You will remain in the Hinterlands. It will be your home thus you should acquaint yourself to it. You should become tolerant to the winds and the snow and the wailing beasts. 

“Sir Bryce,” you eke out. “Will you tell me more about these woods?” 

“These woods? Trees, wolves, dirt,” he shrugs. 

“No, sir, I want to know more. I want to know everything. About the Winter Kingdom and the people who built it. What about the king? Not our king, but the one before? I hear much and yet I feel I know less.” 

He huffs and tilts his head, “it is best you know as little as possible about that one.” 

“Was he very bad?” You wonder. 

He sniffs, “I can’t tell you all but what I can is that he was selfish. He was negligent of his kingdom and his people even his own son. He let these lands go to spoil. His name is not one any speaks lightly. It is the reason our king is so loved. Because he is all that his father was not.” He dusts off his hands and shakes his head. “At least, we all hope that proves true.”