Chapter Text
Apparently, Jaskier was looking forward to another winter at Kaer Mohren more eagerly than Geralt could remember ever feeling.
He wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact. Mostly irritated? A little too warm somewhere deep in his chest?
The bard had begun to needle about the cold earlier in the season than usual. He’d never had much tolerance for it, always planning whatever court or city he’d be holing up in by the time the first snow began to fall.
This year, the leaves had barely turned and begun to fall when he started remarking on the chill. Reminiscing on the other Witchers, pondering what needed doing around the keep. It only got less subtle from there.
“I wonder if Lambert heard the song I wrote about him.”
“Oh, he heard it. The entire continent heard it. He’s going to murder you.”
“He’s not going to murder me.”
“Hm.”
“You won’t let him murder me.”
“I might.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I might.”
Ciri quickly joined in the unsubtle hinting immediately on being retrieved from Yennefer, and so they found themselves safely in the mountains so early in the season that Geralt was honestly surprised to find that any of the others had beaten them there.
Even more surprisingly, Lambert didn’t murder Jaskier.
“Bard!” he greeted loudly, clapping him on the shoulder. “I heard what you sang about me.”
“Lambert,” Jaskier returned, grinning back at him. “So good to see--”
The hand gripping him gave him a shake that rattled his teeth. “If you write another song that even so much as implies my dick--”
The merry romp of double entendres, centered around Lambert’s skill with a sword, had taken the Continent like fire to brush--as only a truly filthy drinking song could. It was heavy on praising Lambert’s talent and glory, but made him sound like a giant, albeit capable asshole.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaskier sing-songed. Laughing, he slipped out from under his hand--none of the Witchers ever actually grabbed him too tightly--and put a few steps between them. “I would never do something so crass. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
Ciri nodded earnestly, though her expression had already broken into a shit-eating grin by the time Jaskier grabbed her hand and raced for the stairs.
“Oh, hard and fast, the Red Blade swung--”
Lambert cursed after them, face only softening when Jaskier disappeared from sight, the bard’s belting of a new verse devolving into fits of giggles, as though composing dirty lyrics with the crown princess of Cintra while running through the Witchers’ keep weren’t a ridiculous thing to do.
“Red Blade,” Lambert snorted, rolling his eyes after Jaskier. “It’s not the White Wolf, but then again, he’s not in love with me, and I don't plan to wait two decades to be grateful.”
“Hm.”
“I don’t hate it. Anyway, it’s gotten me out of a few scrapes this last year.” He grinned and added, “And into a few beds. Almost hunted him down when I first heard it, but it’s grown on me.”
“Yeah, he does that.”
Jaskier didn’t know what he’d been expecting from life at Kaer Mohren but having four extremely large nursemaids fussing gruffly--while pretending not to be fussing--in the days following his rescue was not it. Witchers were good at a great many things. Subtlety wasn’t one of them.
The chill of the evening air made Jaskier’s bruised bones ache, despite the blankets and pillows piled around him. He was tucked away on a bench seat, discovering how easy it was to wheedle stories of out of Eskel and watching as, across the musty library, Geralt moved to get a fire going. The Witchers couldn’t be cold, not this early in the season, but Geralt had gone to the fireplace first thing, of course he had, before Jaskier even had the chance to mention it. It stirred to life, bringing warmth to the old room, and it was all done so casually that Jaskier was almost too distracted by Eskel’s account of adventures from their shared youth to remark on it.
Almost.
“Thank you, dear heart,” he whispered when Geralt had settled back beside him on the window seat, Witcher-warm at his back. “You’re so good to me.”
Geralt grumbled, “Just a fire,” but allowed the fond press of Jaskier’s lips to the side of his head, brushing the soft skin where his jaw met his ear.
Eskel was looking at them with amusement thinly veiled as impatience. “As I was saying. The things spit this poison, sticky as tree sap, smells like the ass end of a septic cow.”
Jaskier made a face at the imagery. At least some Witchers knew how to paint a picture with their words.
“And one of them gets Geralt with it, clear in the face. So, we do the only thing we know how to do: kill it and neutralize the stuff.”
“How?” Jaskier asked at the same time as Geralt said, “Don’t—”
Eskel shook his head. “You don’t want to know. Not the point." Geralt's near-silent breath of relief ensured he would be telling that story later. "We neutralized it, only it hardened up. Just turned absolutely solid as stone, fucking sealed to his face. Must have taken hours to get it all off. Took off like three layers of skin, and we had to cut his hair to the scalp. He’s got absolutely outrageous curls when his hair’s short.”
Jaskier squawked with indignation. “Curls? How did I not know this? How could you have never told me this story before?”
“Because I hate you,” Geralt answered flatly, “Obviously.”
“Oh, good, you admit it,” Lambert greeted, kicking the door closed behind him so that he didn’t have to set down either the food or the ales he was carrying. “Finally given up all the disgusting love nonsense? We can kick the bard out of the keep and have a little peace and quiet again?”
“Lambert, this keep hasn’t been quiet since the day you were foisted on Vesemir,” Eskel snapped. “The echoes of your grating voice probably don’t fade even in the dead of summer.”
Lambert made an offended noise, mouth hanging open. He dropped the tray of food with a clatter and started passing out the booze. “One for Geralt. One for me, two for the bard. None for you, fucker.”
The room was still stale when Jaskier stumbled into it, grinning and leaning on Ciri, but an obvious attempt had been made to make it hospitable before they arrived. It had been unused for the majority of the year, still would take weeks of settling in to feel truly inhabited, but it was clear that someone had swept, had aired out the furs and shaken them clean of their dust.
The window had been left open, probably for several sunny afternoons, and given that no one had known when they would be arriving, Jaskier allowed himself a delighted little smile.
A stack of books that Jaskier had been planning to read but never gotten around to--one he was mostly certain he’d left on a table in the library--were neatly placed on the dresser, and spare blankets had already been gathered to chase the chill from the fragile humans.
When he rejoined the Witchers in the hall, Jaskier thanked Vesemir in overly formal tones for the luxurious accommodations.
He received only a grunt in response and knew the old Witcher would make him pay for the embarrassment with scrubbing dirty dishes or something equally horrid. But the signs of welcome were there, the unspoken we’re glad you’re back certainly too much for his heart to bear silently.
”Did you never teach him how to defend himself?” Vesemir grumbled after yet another story that ended with Jaskier getting the snot beaten out of him until Geralt could swoop in like a white knight.
“He’s exaggerating,” Geralt grumbled back, which. Fair. The story as he’d told it had been a little bit… heightened. Jaskier hadn’t been in actual danger. He rarely got more than scuffed in encounters like these. “And I’ve tried. He won’t learn.”
“He should learn at least the basics,” Eskel said.
“I said won’t, not can’t.”
Which was how Jaskier found himself dragged into the training yard with a promise that he wouldn’t be allowed back in the keep without at least a rudimentary knowledge of swordplay. Jaskier protested, as he had in the past, that he knew all he cared to about swords, but he was soundly ignored.
At least they let him pick his weapon.
He picked a rapier that seemed lighter than the rest and had a very fancy bell. He dragged the point in the dirt insolently as he returned to the gathered group. “Fine, then, let’s get this over with.”
“Pick your sword up off the ground,” Vesemir chastised him, and it was so like his tutors always had been that Jaskier felt a small, spiteful fire flare in him. He lifted the sword into a starting position, form lazy in exactly the way he used to like, an incorrect stance he’d perfected specifically to drive sword masters crazy. One that looked like he thought he was in a ballad, not a battle.
Eskel stepped in, apparently to stop Vesemir from throttling him. “All right. Mirror Lambert. Don’t worry, if you stab him it won’t be any great loss.”
It was a simple exercise of attacks and parries, and reflex kicked in, steel hitting steel with neat, sharp clangs, the tip of his blade moving smoothly through a familiar basic pattern. When he dropped back to neutral, none of the feigned sloppiness remained in his posture. Oops. He could see the spark of surprise in Lambert’s eyes a moment before the Witcher lunged forward in a series of strikes that made the others curse and forced Jaskier to fall back to meet them.
But meet them he did.
It came back to him in a rush. He hadn’t practiced in years, but at least he wasn’t out of shape. He chased his Witcher over the continent and hauled Geralt’s bulky yet shapely ass out of enough scrapes to have the muscle to match his dexterity. He wasn’t and would never be a match for a Witcher, but he kept up blow for blow in a circle around the courtyard.
Lambert was toying with him, lazy and cocky now that he'd proved his guess right and forced Jaskier's hand. They both knew well and good that he could still win this bout with a hand tied behind his back.
Well, Jaskier could use that to his advantage.
He baited his trap, leaving himself open to an attack. In a fair fight, it would be too obvious, but they both knew he was barely keeping up. It was easy enough to believe. Lambert went for it, lunging forward, and Jaskier pulled a move that had gotten him disqualified from the regional tournament the year he gave up fencing. The tip of his blade slid past Lambert’s guard and came to rest between his legs, just denting the leather of his pants. If he’d had a foil, he would have bent the blade, but he chose instead to leave the man’s manhood intact.
Lambert knocked the blade away with a bray of laughter, reaching up to clap him on the shoulder. “Ruthless, bard. This isn’t that kind of swordplay.”
Jaskier laughed, “As you say, Red Blade.” He pulled back, still grinning, his expression only slipping a little when he turned to find the others watching with a mixture of looks on their faces.
“Jaskier. What the fuck was that?”
“What?” He looked between them. “You knew I grew up in a noble house,” he said, pointing at Geralt. “I’ve told you. All of you had to know that. I mean, really. Look at me.” He gestured to himself. “If you think I got out of having sword lessons just because I’m a gentle soul, you are sorely mistaken.”
“I have tried to teach you to fight before.”
If Jaskier didn’t know better, he’d say Geralt sounded hurt. He'd have to make it up to him later. “You always tried to teach me with daggers. I’m useless with daggers.”
“You could have said something.” Oh, nope. Not hurt. Frustration. Geralt looked like he was about to snatch the sword from Lambert’s hand and begin beating him with it.
“No,” Jaskier protested. “Your trying to teach me how to use a dagger was very fun. All intimate and sexy. You put your hands on me, so--”
Geralt would probably have a stroke if he continued to talk like that on the Witcher training grounds. In front of Vesemir.
“And anyway--I swear. I was legitimately bad with daggers. And really anything except a rapier.” He sucked his teeth and added, “Though in the interest of full disclosure, I do know more archery than I… may have implied. Not a lot! You were very handsome when you corrected my grip.” He winked saucily at Geralt, who turned on his heel and walked away.
“Why the hell don’t you carry a rapier then?” Eskel asked.
“Fencing is not actually a useful skill for the road! It’s all rules and peacocking. It’s-it’s… academic! I worked very hard at it for one semester because Valdo kept winning the tournament, but I quit after I beat him.”
“Well, then let’s teach you how to use that for more than just show.”
After two weeks, Geralt was ready to throw Lambert out of a tower, and even Jaskier had shifted from teasing them both to peacekeeping. So, it was to everyone’s relief that they heard someone coming up the path.
The Witchers heard it first, while everyone was out in the training yard. Jaskier’s rapier clattered to the ground in a way that made Vesemir’s eye twitch when he noticed the Witchers’ attention shift, and then the figure appeared on the path inside the gates.
“Eskel!” Jaskier shouted with delight, and Geralt was not jealous.
He got his bard’s focus year-round, and it would be absurd and irrational if he were to be jealous of the friends Jaskier had made with his brothers. He wanted Jaskier to like his brothers.
Eskel lifted Jaskier off the ground into a bear hug, while Jaskier laughed breathlessly and protested that they were the same height, thank you, and his feet belonged in the dirt.
It was like no time had passed, and it made warmth curl in Geralt’s chest, the easy extension of his family.
Jaskier rounded a corner near the stables and nearly crashed into someone, only stopping himself by putting a hand on an armored chest. An unfamiliar armored chest. And it seemed to him to be a little late in the season for that.
A Witcher he didn’t know was blocking the path in front of him, a puzzled look on his face.
“Um. Hello,” Jaskier greeted. “Can I help you?” He glanced behind the stranger. There was a new horse settled in the stables. Invaders didn't usually take the time to untack and curry down.
The man’s eyebrows climbed. “You’re not afraid of me.”
“Should I be?” He received a half shake of the head which was answer enough.
“Doesn’t usually stop people,” the man said and then smiled. “Coën.”
Jaskier held out a hand. “Jaskier.”
Recognition—and wasn’t that flattering? “The bard,” Coën said. “I enjoy your music.”
“Well, you’re my new favorite Witcher. Where did you need to go?”
“I need to speak with Vesemir.”
“Yes, of course. I think he’s--” Jaskier turned and for the second time nearly collided with a Witcher’s chest. This one, though, he was intimately familiar with.
Geralt’s hand came to his hip, steadying and just a touch possessive, but his eyes were fixed on the strange Witcher.
Who was staring back warily.
He seemed to have found himself in the middle of a Witcher standoff.
“Geralt?” Jaskier prompted carefully.
Geralt’s hand on his hip squeezed lightly, but he didn’t move.
Coën shifted back on his heels raising one hand in a placating gesture. “The White Wolf. It’s good to meet you. I’ve heard your name often enough.” He nodded to Jaskier. “I’m Coën. Griffin school. Eskel invited me.”
“Vesemir’s in the hall,” Geralt said, tilting his head back the way they came, which was good enough truce for Jaskier, who smiled brightly and lead the way.
It took Coën less than a week to end up as smitten with Jaskier as the rest of them. After the third night arguing with Jaskier about something obscure and historical, he loudly asked why no one had told him that Kaer Mohren had finally gotten some culture.
Lambert “accidentally” spilled a full tankard of ale in his face and the resulting cursing and tussle cemented Coën’s place in their midst.
His first weeks at the keep, while his body was still recovering and he hadn’t yet found his feet in the rotation of things, Jaskier composed a great deal of music.
The Witchers, ever present, watchful, pretended to ignore him while he teased out verses and corrected older songs with the new descriptions from the books in the library. No longer did he have to make due with to-the-point descriptions--“they have horns” or “big.” He could paint a picture with the paragraphs he dug out of dusty tomes.
While he loved learning about beasts, he could see, even before the snow set in and locked them indoors, that the monster they would all be fighting before winter was out was boredom.
It was something he could help with, better than he could repair a wall or hunt for food or any of the other Witcher-y tasks that needed doing. He could be of real use to them. If they would let him.
He was used to Geralt’s feigned indifference or teasing criticism, but having it directed at him from four of them—well, Eskel occasionally had something nice to say—would have gotten disheartening very quickly for any other bard. Lucky for them, Jaskier was a spiteful, stubborn bastard.
He knew how to bait Geralt into speaking up, and it turned out that Vesemir was much the same. The more wildly inaccurate and blatantly wrong his descriptions of events or monsters were, the faster he was corrected, the closer their eyes watched him.
Lambert, on the other hand, couldn’t give a fuck about accuracy, but was very prickly when he thought he was being made fun of.
Which he was, often.
It got Jaskier a cuff on the head as often as it got him words, but any attention was good attention at this stage.
Eskel was tougher. He was quicker to smile when Jaskier grinned at him, and answered if asked a question, but he didn’t have an easy button to push. Jaskier saw the spark one night while he was busy making Lambert turn red with indignation. There was laughter and engagement in Eskel’s attention, which was when he figured out how to rope the last wolf into participation. Apparently, Eskel was quite happy to roast the shit out of his brothers at the slightest provocation, much to Jaskier’s delight.
He wasn’t stupid—he knew his Witchers needed quiet nights sometimes—but they also needed laughter and song and bellowing voices. They needed to play, and before the bruises had faded from his body, he’d figured out how their notes were sung as well as any ballad he’d ever written.
The winter was a blur of laughter and song.
Griffin Witchers apparently used lighter weaponry than Wolves, which was a boon to Ciri’s training (and, reluctantly, Jaskier’s).
The teasing seemed to have passed on Lambert’s new title—a couple of nights drunkenly bellowing his song had seen to that—and now Jaskier was getting hinting comments about giving epithets to only some of them, and was he really playing favorites with Lambert?
It was warm and lovely, and still the Witchers weren’t the only ones going stir crazy.
A final warm snap came after weeks of snow. They’d deemed the weather warm enough to take Ciri with them hunting, and Jaskier determined that, with enough layers, he could go for a walk on his own. He had names to decide and songs to sing, and good god if he spent any more time with Witchers he would throttle one.
He’d barely been up the trail ten minutes when he felt the familiar prickle of magic on the back of his neck. There wasn’t even time to draw breath before darkness seeped in to obscure his vision. Fuck. No. Even his luck couldn’t be this bad. Just this morning he’d laughed in Eskel’s face when the Witcher told him not to get kidnapped on his walk.
He had just a moment to think about the fact that he would never live this down.
Then he couldn’t think anything at all.
The fire crackled in the hearth while outside, the wind battered the keep, the blizzard leaching heat from the stone all around them but still not quite reaching the little halo of light where they sat.
The lingering notes of the dancing song—the one that had sapped strength Ciri shouldn’t have had after all her training—had shifted to a simple melody (Jaskier would call it a lullaby if it wouldn’t get him tossed out in the snow).
Jaskier rested back against Geralt’s chest, fingers still moving, even though his eyes were drifting shut. Ciri had fallen asleep with her head in Lambert’s lap, which had been very funny to watch. Eskel had hauled in a couch and a few more comfortable chairs when the afternoon had locked them up in this spot, and so they were all still here.
No one was willing to disturb the peace.
Outside the wind was howling, ice biting, but the wolves were warm in their den. Jaskier smiled to himself, dozing with his fingers still on the strings, and thought that he must be the luckiest human alive to be here, to be wrapped up and safe in this beautiful pack of Witchers.
He was warm. Protected.
He was home.