Chapter Text
Vesemir
Vesemir didn’t usually take contracts anymore. He was old. A relic of a time long gone. So he sat at Kaer Morhen, taking care of the keep, waiting for his pups to return every winter. But ever so rarely, when there were urgent matters in the nearby villages, they would send for him, begging him to take just one more contract. And he always did, because that’s what Witchers did: they killed monsters.
It took him longer than he cared to admit to dispose of the wraith. His joints ached, and his head swirled, but his hands were steady as he slid his silver sword into its scabbard. He sniffed cold air: it was going to snow soon. His pups were due any day now.
He worried, all year long, a worry that was only quelled when the last of them arrived through Kaer Morhen’s gates. Though he would never admit it out loud, he was especially worried for one of them. Geralt. His silver-haired, sulking wolf pup. Witchers were Betas, you see. The Trials were done before they presented, and whatever was in those Grasses, turned them all into Betas. Or perhaps the ones surviving would have been Betas anyway, who knows. As Betas, Witchers weren’t bothered by useless ruts and heats that would have led nowhere anyway, given their infertility. Their scent never betrayed their feelings. They weren’t ruled by their animalistic emotions, the way Alphas were often blinded by rage or Omegas by fear. Yet, Beta Witchers were faster and stronger than any Alpha. The perfect killing machines.
Except for one Witcher. One Witcher, who was twice-grassed, and that second course of Grasses changed something in him, turning Geralt into an Omega. The scent was easy enough to hide, a small enchantment placed on Geralt’s medallion, and everyone assumed he was a Beta. But there was nothing they could do about the heats. No suppressants or spells seemed to work on him, and his heats were more intense than a normal Omega’s. Vesemir suspected that even on the Path, Geralt didn't often share his heats with Alphas. This was too big of a secret to expose. But he also knew how excruciating it was for Geralt to spend his heats alone. Every winter, once a month, he would hole up in the furthest room of the keep, refusing any help from his brothers. He was too damn proud and too damn stubborn. But they could still hear his painful moans, his howls, and when he emerged, he was always gaunt and pale, and tired for the next few days. Vesemir could only imagine how hard his heats were on the Wolf on the Path, with no time to properly rest and recover.
These were the thoughts troubling Vesemir as he trudged inside the brothel that had hired him. The madam rushed to meet him, concern in her eyes.
“Did you succeed, Witcher? Is the monster dead?”
“Aye,” Vesemir nodded. “It was a wraith, bound to one of your dead girl’s bodies. I took care of it.”
“Many thanks, Witcher.”
She seemed relieved, and Vesemir hoped he wasn't about to get stiffed on payment. As if reading his thoughts, the madam nodded towards the stairs.
“We can go up to my office so I can pay you. Or you can pick one of my girls or buys, and have some fun first, as part of the payment.”
Vesemir’s gaze swept through the room. There were many pretty whores there, of all genders. Most of them were Omegas, a few Betas and, to his surprise, an Alpha. That was a rare thing to see, but some Alphas preferred such whores to show off their dominance, and some wealthy Omegas hired them in secret, or so Vesemir heard. This one was a young man, no older than 25, sitting in a client’s lap and playing a lute surprisingly well. An idea began forming in Vesemir’s mind.
“What of him?” he asked the madam, tilting his head towards the Alpha.
“Ah, I see you have a special taste, Witcher. Dandelion is a rare gem. You can have him for the night, and I’ll give you the rest of your reward in gold. Agreed?”
Vesemir considered the offer for a minute before he made up his mind.
“I want him for the winter.”
“You can’t be serious, Master Witcher,” the madam gasped. “You did great service for us, true, but Dandelion would make six times the money I promised you over the winter. And besides, I don’t rent out my whores for such long times.”
“Six times, you say?” Vesemir grunted. “I’ll pay you five times, plus my reward. And I promise to bring him back unharmed, once the winter is over.”
The madam opened her mouth to argue, but then she thought better of it.
“Eight.” She said. “On top of your reward.”
“Seven. And I’m being generous.”
“Deal.”
The madam carefully counted Vesemir’s coin before standing up.
“I’ll talk to the boy, get him ready for you. It was nice doing business with you, Witcher.”
Vesemir watched as she pulled Dandelion from the client’s lap, already whispering into his ears, and the old Witcher hoped that the deal was worth it.
Jaskier
Jaskier couldn’t even finish his song when Madam Lorna grabbed him by the arm and dragged him out of the main room.
“Listen to me. I’ve made a good deal with the Witcher, but he wants you for the whole winter. You’ll go with him and serve him well, you hear me?”
Jaskier paled, staring at the madam in shock and horror. A whole winter at the infamous witcher keep? Surely he wouldn’t survive that.
“This wasn’t what you agreed on with my father.”
“Yes, yes, but you still owe me a year of work here. Tell you what, do this winter well, and I’ll waive the rest of the debt; you will be free to go.”
It sounded tempting, shortening one year's grueling work to three months, but then Jaskier remembered all the horrid tales he had heard about witchers. Even if only half of them were true, there was a good chance he would be dead by spring.
“I won’t go,” he argued. “Surely, there’s another way here. I can entertain the Witcher for a night or two, but the whole winter? They would kill me there.”
The madam huffed, impatient and clearly fed up with Jaskier’s protests.
“I can send your sister instead, if you won’t do it,” she threatened.
Jaskier felt like throwing up, imagining sweet little Essi at the cruel hands of witchers. When their father racked up an impossible high debt to Madam Lorna, with his gambling and whoring, she gave him a choice: one of his children could work off the debt at her brothel. Jaskier volunteered. He couldn’t let Essi suffer for their father’s mistakes. And he certainly couldn’t let her be killed by witchers.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
“You have ten minutes to pack,” the madam smiled, satisfied.
Jaskier rushed to his room, throwing everything he owned in a bag. He wrapped up his lute with special care, then he tore a page from his composing book, hurriedly scribbling a note for Essi.
“Are you running away, Jas?” a female voice asked.
Jaskier looked up, only to see Priscilla, the Beta he shared the room with, standing at the door.
“The witcher bought me for the winter,” he gritted out. “Could you give this to Essi?”
He pressed the note and the small pouch that held all his savings into Priscilla’s hand.
“She can’t do that!” Priscilla protested, but Jaskier just shrugged.
“She threatened to send off Essi instead if I didn’t go.”
“That bitch,” cursed Priscilla, before she drew Jaskier in for a fierce hug. “Don’t you dare die out there, you hear me?”
“I’ll be back by spring,” Jaskier promised, not really believing it either.
He swung his package over his shoulder and trod downstairs to face his fate.
The witcher was old and grey, but still standing strong. Strong enough to kill Jaskier if he wanted to. The Alpha forced a smile on his face, playfully bowing to the Witcher.
“I hear you require my services for the winter, Sir Witcher.”
The man stared at him, slowly examining him before nodding to himself.
“You’ll do. Come now, boy. We have a long road ahead of us.”