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Jaskier has a secret.

He still goes back to Cintra.

That, in and of itself, isn’t really that odd. Nothing to keep hush-hush by itself. Geralt probably wouldn’t even question hearing about Jaskier travelling through or performing in Cintra, though he’d definitely change the subject quickly.

No, the reason it’s a secret is a bit more specific than that.

He goes back to Cintra on purpose. He runs the circuit, performs, and visits Calanthe’s court in particular. To check up on Geralt’s child surprise. Because, frankly, someone needs to.

Cirilla is an adorable child and looks just like Pavetta, gods rest her soul. And, hilariously, a little bit like Geralt, with her ash-blonde hair and light green eyes. Not that Jaskier ever brings that up – Calanthe barely tolerates him as it is. He doesn’t think Mousesack would find the same humor in it that Jaskier does, either, even with his fondness for Geralt. As far as Eist, well – Jaskier really doesn’t know enough about the king to guess. Better to stay on the safe side and keep his list of similarities between Geralt and Cirilla to himself.

When he returns, it’s usually during the winter, just before spring and after he’s finished his lecturing at Oxenfurt. Or, if not then, when he’s otherwise not going to see Geralt for a suitably long stretch of time. He’s popular, and the court loves him, and that’s most of what keeps Calanthe from kicking him out (or outright executing him, he’s got no illusions on what kind of rule she keeps). It isn’t until Cirilla is about two that Mousesack corners him on his way out of the dining hall and everything changes.

“You’re a teacher,” the druid says.

Jaskier nods. “Professor at Oxenfurt,” he says. “At least, for parts of the year.”

“So you can teach music.”

“Yes, I can.”

“How do you do with small children? Teaching them.”

“Well enough.” In fact, small children usually love Jaskier.

“The Queen has a proposal for you.”

Jaskier swallows his trepidation. “She does?”

“She finds you annoying,” Mousesack says, and from the small smirk on his face, he knows that’s not news. “But Cirilla likes you. Must be her mother’s blood – Pavetta loved you too.”

“Okay?”

“For what I consider a very generous sum, Calanthe would like you to tutor the girl.”

Jaskier considers. “I can’t be here often enough to be a proper tutor – ”

“That’s fine. There are others who can cover the rest of the year. But you’re one of the best musicians on the continent, and you’re already here at least once a year. And don’t think I don’t know why.”

Jaskier can’t exactly stop himself from flinching. Mousesack grins.

“Think of it as a special occasion,” he continues. “You’ll be getting paid very well, and you can check in on your Witcher’s child surprise. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the favor.”

Jaskier bites back a mildly hysterical laugh because favor is putting it quite strongly, considering that Geralt has no idea that he does this. Not that Mousesack would even believe him if he admitted that. It sounds exactly like what he’d say if Geralt did know about his regular visits to  the Cintran court. So he (smartly, he thinks) keeps his mouth shut. About that, at least.

“Alright,” he finally agrees. He can’t see any reason why he should decline, really. If anyone asks, it’s just a job; a very lucrative job that happens to serve several purposes at once, but a job, nonetheless. He really, really hopes Geralt never asks.

“Good,” Mousesack pats him heavily on the shoulder. “Very good. I’ll write up a contract tonight; come back to the castle tomorrow and we can hash out the details.”

Jaskier nods, and Mousesack leaves him to a mild panic attack in the hallway.

So that’s how it starts; the next day, Jaskier goes to the castle and meets with Mousesack, as instructed. He agrees, via proper written contract, to appear at the Cintran court for at least the entire last week of February. He’ll perform when requested as well as tutor the young princess in music. If he returns to the court any time aside from the agreed week, payment for any additional tutoring done then will be discussed.

All in all, a pretty sweet deal.

But definitely not one he can tell anyone about, in case it gets back to Geralt.

For the first few years, it works out just fine. The years he doesn’t winter in Kaer Morhen, he usually arrives early and stays for an additional week. The years he does go to Kaer Morhen – well. Sometimes he arrives late, and those times, he stays for an additional week (or two) to make up for it.

The lessons are chaperoned, usually by Mousesack. Despite that, he gets to know Cirilla in a more personal sense; she’s still just as adorable, but he learns she’s also smart. Wickedly so, in fact – he’s rather stunned she doesn’t get into more trouble than she does. She’s a little sheltered, but Jaskier can’t exactly blame Calanthe for that. To Jaskier’s absolute delight, though, the princess really does love him; from the first lesson he gives her – mostly just a game with music, really, she’s just a toddler then – she’s always thrilled to see him. She calls him ‘Jas’, at first, because she can’t quite get his full name out, and she tends to drag the ‘a’ out longer than necessary. Jaskier finds it almost painfully endearing.

And, the longer the lessons go on, the more he’s trusted; never alone with the princess, not really, but not nearly as closely minded. Sometimes, instead of Mousesack, it’s another advisor or trusted knight that does the babysitting. Then, when Ciri is eight, it’s no longer advisors or knights doing the overseeing.

It’s a Witcher.

He’s…different, than Jaskier has come to expect of Witchers. At least in terms of his looks. He’s got a large, bushy beard, but his head is shaved; in place of hair, there are intricate tattoos on his scalp. His eyes are yellow, as expected, but they’re not quite right – not quite yellow and not quite green, the color is sickly, and the whites are bloodshot. When Jaskier uses the excuse of a bathroom break to walk past and get a closer look, he finds that the Witcher has some pock scars on his face, indicative of some kind of pox and clearly the point of the beard. The few that aren't covered by the coarse, dark hair, stand out starkly on his dark skin, with darker rings and lighter centers. Jaskier has never met a Witcher with the evidence of disease left on his skin; most are taken in so young they’ve never had something like chickenpox, and the Trials give them immunity to human diseases.

There are other little oddities that separate this Witcher from all the other Jaskier has met. His armor is light, enough that it almost doesn’t look like armor at all, and he’s…well. Jaskier doesn’t want to make it sound as if he dislikes the roughness of his Witchers, because it’s not true, but this Witcher is almost genteel. Like a proper knight, in fact.

Which tells Jaskier which school he comes from, actually, when he thinks about it for longer than thirty seconds between corralling Cirilla into memorizing notes. Learning the Witcher’s name confirms it, though it does make Jaskier’s heart ache just a little.

He’s never met a Griffin, and with good reason; Coën, standing on the other side of the room while Cirilla clumsily tries to name the notes Jaskier’s drawn for her, is most likely the only Griffin left. Geralt has mentioned him before, a handful of times. Jaskier can tell, from what little Geralt has said, that Coën is considered a brother in more than the sense that he’s another Witcher.

The year that Coën first arrives at the Cintran court, Jaskier has no chance to speak to the man properly; as Cirilla gets older, she becomes more of a challenge to tutor. She’s just bored, Jaskier knows, but it’s still his job to ensure that she comes away from their lessons with something, or Calanthe will likely let him go (and possibly ban him from the court entirely). So he’s much too busy with her, as well as unable to find Coën during his brief free times. And then when his agreed-upon week of teaching comes to an end, he’s needed urgently at Oxenfurt Academy.

On the way to his alma mater, Jaskier promises himself that if Coën is back at the Cintran court the next year, he’ll get to know the man.

Due to a bit of a misunderstanding with some merchants he chose to travel with, Jaskier ends up back in Cintra much earlier than planned. Abandoned on the side of the road somewhere near Nastrog, he figures he may as well make his way to the city; he’ll find himself welcome to perform and tutor Cirilla, or he’ll be sent away. But either way, being in the city will be the better option – more opportunities to make money, better chance of securing some way to travel on.

Mousesack is the one who comes to greet him after he’s spoken to the guards. He’s smiling, a small, private thing; Jaskier has learned that despite his cutting wit and penchant for bullying, the druid does like him. Enough to continue convincing Calanthe to let him say, at least. Jaskier knows it’s been a near thing, a few times that he’s gotten into little spots with the local nobility. He’s grateful, even though he knows Mousesack thinks he has ulterior motives.

Of course, he does have ulterior motives. Just not exactly the ones Mousesack thinks he does.

“Jaskier,” the druid greets, smile turning to a smirk. “Back earlier than normal. Not bringing any cuckolded husbands down on us, I hope.”

Jaskier waves a hand. “Not bringing anyone except myself, Mousesack,” he says. A split-second decision, he adds on playfully, “After all, I’m sure the Queen would have my head if I dared.” It’s not meant to be an insult; more of a tease, and reference to the fact that Jaskier knows Mousesack has had to defend him.

The druid laughs, a deep, belly laugh, and Jaskier grins. “Come,” he says, and gestures into the castle. “The princess will be thrilled to know you’re back. She’s been dreadful to the latest music tutor.”

Jaskier hums in acknowledgement, and Mousesack continues with the gossip he’s missed since his end-of-winter visit. He keeps half an ear to it – he makes his living off of stories and gossip, after all – but mostly, he just looks around. Notes the changes that have happened since his last time in the castle, small as they may be.

And then, as they come to the hall of bedrooms that Jaskier usually stays in, he sees a flash of familiar black leather and swords around a corner.

Coën. So he’s here again – or maybe here still?

“Mousesack,” Jaskier interrupts the druid’s spiel on the latest citizen uprising Calanthe had ended. “I have a question.”

“Then ask it, bard. I’m a druid, not a mind-reader.”

“Coën,” he says, a little tentative. Mousesack frowns slightly, but Jaskier recognizes that he’s just thinking. “The Witcher. I met him – or, well, I don’t know that met is the right word, but I digress. When I was here last, he was the one to chaperone my lessons with Cirilla.”

“Yes. What about him?”

“Well,” Jaskier pauses for a moment to consider his question. He’s really just curious; he doesn’t want to come off as if he’s planning something. That would be disastrous. “I would have thought the Queen rather averse to Witchers in her court, nowadays.”

Mousesack snorts. “She is,” he murmurs. He opens the door to Jaskier’s usual quarters; it doesn’t smell like dust, which means someone else has been occupying it recently. That’s fine by him, as long as Jaskier doesn’t find them occupying it still. “I’ll tell you why he’s here, but it cannot leave this room.” The druid shuffles him in.

“Alright,” Jaskier agrees. Sure, he’s a bard, and as such a little loose-lipped, but he does know when to stay his tongue. He is also a spy, after all.

“Calanthe is…worried,” Mousesack says, slowly. “That Geralt may come and try to take Ciri – oh, by the way, she’s begun to throw fits if you call her Cirilla, now – by force.”

Jaskier frowns. “He wouldn’t.”

Mousesack sighs. “I know. I’ve tried to assuage her fears, but she refuses to see sense. At least part of it is you, of course; she’s worried that somehow you might sneak him into the castle. Another thing I’ve had to talk her out of.”

Jaskier stops, wonders if maybe Calanthe is too far to the wrong side of paranoid, then pushes it from his mind. Not really his business. “And Coën is here to…what, stop Geralt if he shows up?”

“Who would you bet on, if it came to a fight: Geralt, or a regular knight?”

“Well.” Jaskier tips his head. He does have to concede the point; after all, they both watched Geralt beat several Cintran knights all those years ago.

“Exactly. She thought it best that there be another Witcher here in the unlikely event.”

“And does Coën know that that is why he’s here?” He can’t imagine Coën would have agreed to this post, knowing that it was Geralt he’d be defending Cirilla against. And, considering the gallant air about him, he’d probably frown on the idea of Geralt shirking his child surprise, as well as Calanthe refusing to let destiny take its course.

Mousesack shifts, seeming a little uncomfortable. “Not exactly. He knows that Cirilla was claimed via law of surprise, and he’s likely figured out it was a Witcher by now, though I can’t know for sure. But Calanthe has spun a tale.”

Jaskier hums. “Of course.”

There’s a pause while Mousesack sizes him up. “I’m sure you understand you’re not exactly supposed to know that. And neither I nor the Queen would be amused to find that Coën knows more about this child surprise business than he’s been told.”

Jaskier laughs. “Despite the rumors you may have heard about me, Mousesack, I am not actually suicidal.”

Mousesack huffs. “You’re going to befriend him, though, aren’t you.”

Jaskier beams. “My reputation has spread, then.”

“Indeed it has.” Mousesack rolls his eyes, but opens the door again to leave. “There will be a small dinner tonight. If you’re wanted for a performance, someone will come get you.” And then he’s gone.

Jaskier settles in to organize his things and do some composing until then.

He doesn’t see Coën until his first lesson with Cirilla. Of course, with the girl there, gushing to him about how much better a music teacher he is (he tries not to let that go to his ego too much), he has no chance to speak to the Witcher.

Later, after their lesson is over, he does at least get a chance to introduce himself.

“I’m Jaskier,” he announces when he comes across the Witcher just exiting the kitchens.

The Witcher blinks at him, then hums an acknowledgement with a small tip of his head. “I’m aware,” he murmurs. “Coën, as I’m sure you know.”

“Wonderful to finally have a proper introduction, Coën.”

Coën hums again. “You’re Geralt’s bard, aren’t you? His companion.”

Jaskier bows with a flourish. “The very same.” He ignores the way his heart goes stupidly soft at Coën calling him Geralt’s companion. It’s a common word, but the way Coën says it, the emphasis behind his voice, makes it mean more than just the word.

A small smile spreads across the Witcher’s face. “I must go back to the Princess,” he says, and Jaskier steps aside obligingly. “I’m glad to have finally met you properly, Jaskier.”

Jaskier watches him go. A truly soft-spoken Witcher is a bit of an oddity. Eskel is the closest Jaskier has met, and even he, while stunningly gentle, isn’t really as collected as Coën seems.

He hopes for a chance to have a real conversation with the man soon.

Of course, he supposes he should be careful what he wishes for.

Servants start to go missing.

At first, it’s just two; a man and a woman, and it’s rumored that they ran off together. It’s kept hushed, but assumed that nothing is wrong.

Then one more goes. And another. By the time the fourth has gone missing, Mousesack corners Jaskier and informs him that until the mystery of the missing servants is solved, he won’t be leaving the castle.

Not ideal, but Jaskier supposes he’d much rather be here than hearing about something amiss in the Cintran court and not knowing for sure if Ciri was safe. So he goes about his business; mid-morning most days, he tutors Ciri, then composes until dinner. Sometimes he performs at dinner, sometimes he doesn’t.

Another servant goes missing, and then a knight discovers a body. The corpse of the third servant to go missing is found in the dungeons, only just beginning to properly decay because of the cold underground, and drained of blood.

Jaskier knows there’s something significantly more amiss than just a mere murderer stalking the castle. Coën knows it, too. He finally gets his chance to properly speak to the Witcher during one of Ciri’s lessons; Jaskier gives her a break to mess around, because she needs it, and he goes to stand near the Witcher.

“It’s a vampire, isn’t it?” he murmurs, quiet enough he almost can’t hear himself. Coën will hear it loud and clear, he knows.

“Most likely,” Coën answers.

“What kind, do you think?”

Coën shifts, moving a bit closer to Jaskier. He keeps his eyes trained on Ciri where she’s messing around with extra parchment and some charcoal on the floor. “I could hope it’s an alp or a bruxa, or even a katakan. But it could be a higher vampire.”

Jaskier flinches automatically. A higher vampire would be bad news; they’re basically unkillable. They can be reasoned with, of course – any of the vampires that take human form can be – but they’re so powerful it’s usually useless. They’ll do whatever they want. They’re also exceedingly rare, but that doesn’t rule them out, especially in a court.

“Have you spoken to Calanthe about it?”

Coën shakes his head. “Not in detail. I wanted to be sure what’s doing the killing before I suggest anything.”

“What’s the best way to find out?”

“Alps prefer sleeping victims, and give them nightmares, so I suppose if any of the servants that have gone missing spoke of nightmares it would be a clue,” Coën murmurs. “Bruxa sing. It sounds awful to anyone besides a vampire. I think I’d have heard it by now, though. Katakan like to feed in their true forms, but they’re sneaky, so I doubt anyone would have seen anything.”

Jaskier hums, considering. “I assume you can’t do much asking around, looking after Ciri.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll do it, then.” Jaskier pushes away from the wall and turns to catch Coën’s eyes. The Witcher flickers to look at him, but only for a moment. It’s enough for Jaskier. “I’ll talk to the servants, see what information I can find.”

“That would be a great help, Jaskier. Thank you.”

Jaskier smiles. “Of course.” He turns away from Coën and claps loudly, smile widening at the way Ciri giggles. “Alright! Back to work, Princess.”

She sticks her tongue out at him for the title, but puts her charcoal drawings aside.

Questioning the other servants goes well, except for the fact that none of them know a damn thing.

Going back to his room, though, that doesn’t go nearly as well.

He’s just reached the top of the stairs from the servant quarters when he hears giggling echoing around the stone hall. Ciri’s giggling, specifically, and that’s – that’s bad, because it’s about ten o’clock and night and the princess should be asleep, and barring that, absolutely not in this part of the castle. He’s been around long enough by now to know the basic schedules of the court, and where Ciri is and isn’t allowed.

Here, near the servant quarters? She definitely is not allowed.

He follows the sound of her giggling all the way down a hall and around the corner. At first, all he can see is Ciri’s hair, plaited for the night and near glowing in the moonlight streaming in from a window nearby. He can tell she’s giggling at someone – someone he can’t see, not at first, until he finishes turning the corner.

His heart drops to his stomach.

Bruxae, to the untrained eye, look no different than any other pale, dark-haired young woman. Jaskier’s eye, however, is far from untrained. It’s the eyes and the mouth that give her away; eyes just slightly too yellow to be called green – not the same as a Witcher’s, but too animal all the same, and an odd, crooked sort of pout to their lips, where Jaskier knows fangs often hide.

Ciri, obviously, wouldn’t know any of this. She’s standing in front of the bruxa, giggling gleefully as the vampire murmurs something to her.

Jaskier hasn’t been noticed yet.

He has no idea what to do.

Coën has certainly been relieved for the night, because there’s no way an eight-year-old human girl would have outsmarted a Witcher, and that’s what she would have had to do to make it out here at this time of night; so she slipped past the regular guards – probably not that hard, for a girl as bright as she is – and ran into the exact thing keeping the castle in an unspoken lockdown.

Because of course she did.

Pavetta’s daughter through and through, she is, and the longer Jaskier sticks around, the more he realizes she’s just like Geralt too. Destiny is hilarious, truly.

However, he doesn’t have time to focus on coincidences or destiny right now. Ciri, princess of Cintra and Geralt’s child surprise, is standing less than a foot away from a monster. Obviously, he has to do something – but what? He considers for a moment. Playing dumb is probably his best bet; he just needs to get Ciri somewhere safe, and then he can find Coën and the Witcher can deal with the vampire.

“Ciri, darling,” he announces, tone carefully carefree, “what on earth are you doing out of bed?”

The princess startles and whirls around to look at him, clearly guilty, and he doesn’t have to fake the smile that spreads across his face. He looks up to from her to the bruxa, still smiling, and says, “Thank you so much for keeping track of her, my lady. The gods know the Queen would send heads rolling if her precious granddaughter were to be hurt or go missing.”

The bruxa’s eyes narrow, and Jaskier’s heart thuds in his chest. He ignores the spike of panic and looks back to Ciri. “Now, come on, Princess. Back to bed with you.”

“And who, exactly, are you?” the bruxa asks, clear and cold, and Jaskier winces minutely.

He turns back to the bruxa and gives a low, overdramatic bow, using the movement and the way his head and shoulders will hide his arm to grasp his dagger. “Jaskier! Bard, professor, and music tutor to our lovely Cirilla here.”

There’s a shift, all of the sudden, and Jaskier can feel magic tingling on his skin. When he tips his head up from the bow, the bruxa looks furious, the tips of her hair beginning to float and her eyes taking on a terrible sheen. He yanks his dagger free with one hand and grabs Ciri with the other, yanking her back and to the side.

“Princess, run,” he hisses. To his absolute relief, she does as she’s told. He can’t be sure if it’s the fact that the bruxa no longer looks human, or the tone in his voice, but it hardly matters. She takes off down the hallway at a sprint, and the bruxa snarls.

Jaskier steps to the side, blocking the vampire’s path toward the direction Ciri fled. He sees her open her mouth and knows, with a deep terror in his stomach, what’s coming, but he can’t stop her.

The scream knocks him away and onto his back. He hits the stone floor with a pained grunt, but has no time to process it; the bruxa is moving, following Ciri.

Fuck. He scrambles to his feet. Stumbling, and with a clumsy swing, he just catches her across the collar with his dagger.

Its silver-tipped edge sears her flesh with a terrible hiss, one that she echoes, the sound something primal that makes Jaskier’s skin crawl. He has just enough time to recognize the sensation before she’s whirling around to face him.

A second scream knocks him back to the floor. A third disorients him, hearing going spotty and vision blurring with the intense pain of such a shrill noise so very close. He can just see the shape of her in front of him, enough that when she lunges at him, he catches her with his dagger again. The silver makes her scream again, but different this time, and he presses forward. Forward, forward, until the dagger hits its mark, buried into her collar.

It won’t kill her, but it’ll distract her, and that’s all he needs. She reels back, screaming cut off as her hands come up to the knife embedded in her chest; the pommel, also silver, burns her fingers when she tries to touch it. Jaskier staggers to his feet and runs.

With her screaming gone and some distance now between them before she regains herself and gives chase, everything is clearer. Certainly, someone will have heard that racket; ideally, Coën will have heard it by now, because Jaskier is now unarmed and running wildly in hopes that the bruxa will follow him and not go in the direction Ciri went.

He’s in luck – as much as one can call it luck; the vampire is, in fact, after him now. He can hear her behind him, chanting in that awful language vampires have. Musical, but in the same way that sharpening blades can be musical; sharp, and rhythmic, shrill and rasping all at once. She’s gaining on him, too, and her chanting is getting louder, stronger.

Skidding around a corner, he can suddenly hear noise aside from the vampire on his tail. Before he can parse it, though, the bruxa screams again. He’s blasted forward by the wave of sound, and just barely manages to catch himself with his hands. She’s right behind him now, he can feel her.

Clumsy, scrabbling, he flips around to face her. His dagger is still sticking out of her chest, the flesh surrounding it leeching black and oozing something that doesn’t really look like blood but can’t be anything else. (Do vampires bleed? He doesn’t know. Not the time.) She’s half-shifted now, eyes luminous and mouth full of rows of sharp fangs, claws arcing out from her fingertips. No longer appearing as a young woman, but instead the monster she really is.

Distantly, as she screams again and his senses go very fuzzy, he thinks it’s good that Ciri didn’t have to see this.

Just before she can descend upon him, though, claws-first, there’s the awful clang of metal and shouting. Her scream comes to an abrupt stop, and Jaskier’s vision clears just in time to see a sword rise behind her back. He watches as the blade arcs down, cutting clean through the bruxa’s neck.

Her head tumbles right into Jaskier’s lap. Her body falls with a squelch and a thud at Coën’s feet.

The monster head across his thighs is, frankly, disgusting, but in the moment, all Jaskier can do is laugh.

Coën blinks at him.

“Is that your dagger, bard?” he asks. He shoves at the bruxa’s headless body with his boot.

It takes a moment for Jaskier to gather the breath and composure to speak. “Yes,” he answers finally, as he tosses the monster’s head away from him. “Usually I use it to haggle with merchants or dissuade bandits, but I always figured that a blade is a blade, and silver has the added bonus of hurting most monsters.”

Coën hums. “Impressive,” he says, finally. “Are you hurt?”

Jaskier breathes in and takes stock of his body. “Bruised,” he answers. “Nothing more serious, I don’t think.”

Coën steps forward and holds a hand out. Jaskier takes it and lets the Witcher lift him to his feet. Coën doesn’t let go of his hand, though, once he’s standing. Instead, he squeezes it, and gives Jaskier an intense look.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “You saved Ciri.”

Jaskier’s a little taken aback by the naked gratitude in Coën’s face. Part of it is that he’s not used to Witchers emoting so clearly; a bigger part is that he hadn’t realized just how much Coën cared for the princess.

Looking back though, he figures it’s not that shocking, really. He loved Ciri the moment he met the girl, and was willing to protect her with his life from that moment forward. Coën has spent a great deal more time in close quarters with her, and probably knows her better than Jaskier ever will.

“Of course,” Jaskier murmurs. “Thank you.”

Coën smiles and finally lets go of Jaskier’s hand. “No need to thank me, bard,” he says. “It really is impressive what you managed with just a dagger.”

“Yes, well, Lambert has taught me several kinds of swordplay,” Jaskier says automatically. He flushes clear to his hairline when he realizes what he’s said, though; it’s not as if he’s ashamed of his dalliances with his Wolves, but it’s hardly appropriate to bring up right now. Also, he has absolutely no idea how Coën might react to a dirty joke.

There’s a small pause where Jaskier fervently hopes he hasn’t completely put the Witcher off, and then Coën laughs. A real, loud, belly laugh, and Jaskier feels a grin spread across his face in response.

Until, of course, he hears the sound of marching steps down the stone hallway and Calanthe shouting.

“Oh, shit,” he mutters, and turns to see the Queen striding toward them, flanked by four knights, two half-dressed in armor.

“What in Melitele’s name – ” she starts, and then stops when she sees the body and it’s separated head on the floor between Coën and Jaskier. “What happened.”

“It’s a bruxa, your Majesty,” Coën speaks up, stepping forward – and slightly in front of Jaskier, he notices. “A vampire. It was what killed those servants.”

Calanthe takes a deep, steadying breath. “Why is it here.”

“I’m not sure, your Majesty, what its goals were – ”

“Not – ” Calanthe huffs and rolls her eyes. “I don’t give a fuck about its goals, Witcher, why is it here, as in, this hallway?”

“Ah.” Coën shifts and turns to look at Jaskier.

“It wanted Cirilla,” Jaskier answers. “She was speaking to it, your Majesty.”

Calanthe pales. “Where is Cirilla?”

“Safe, your Majesty,” Jaskier answers immediately. “I told her to run, and she did. That way, toward the dining hall.” He points. Calanthe gestures sharply at one of the knights and he takes off in that direction.

“Tell me, bard,” Calanthe starts, slow and dangerous. Jaskier shudders. “Why I shouldn’t have you hanged, right now, for endangering my granddaughter.”

Jaskier opens his mouth but finds he doesn’t have any words; there’s nothing he can say that Calanthe will believe, anyway. He swallows.

“Because,” Coën says. “He didn’t endanger the princess’ life, your Majesty. He saved her.”

Calanthe arches one perfect brow, and Coën continues, apparently unfazed by the sheer threat emanating from the woman. He’s probably seen scarier, but it’s currently very hard for Jaskier to imagine anything more frightening than the Lioness of Cintra directing pure rage at them. “He distracted the bruxa, your Majesty, injured it and made it give chase to him, instead of Cirilla. That’s his dagger in its chest.” He steps to the side a little to point, and Calanthe looks impassively over the body.

“Is it?” she asks, fixing an icy look on Jaskier.

“Yes, your Majesty.” He doesn’t look away, even though his instincts are screaming at him to do just that.

There’s a tense pause, and then Calanthe sighs. “Fine,” she mutters. “Then I thank you, bard, for your service. And yours as well, Witcher. Now – if you would please get that thing out of my castle. Immediately.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” Coën moves quickly. First, he dislodges Jaskier’s dagger with a terrible squish, wiping it on his own pants before handing it back. Then he slings the body of the bruxa over one shoulder and grasps the head by its hair. “If I may – is there a place I might burn it?”

Calanthe pulls a face. “Outside the gates. Downwind, if you can manage it. Hendry, Simon, go with him.”

Jaskier forces himself not to laugh and ducks his head under the guise of putting his dagger back where it belongs. Coën and the two knights march off, leaving him alone in the hallway with Calanthe and the one remaining knight.

“Do you always carry that blade?” Calanthe asks.

Jaskier freezes. “I – yes, your Majesty.”

Calanthe hums. Jaskier looks at her, and he’s certain he looks like a stunned deer, wide-eyed and frozen in place. The Queen regards him coolly for a long moment. Then the corner of her mouth twitches upward, the barest hint of a smirk.

“Good,” she says. “Now, get out of my sight.”

Jaskier springs into motion. “Absolutely – I mean, yes, your Majesty. Good night.”

He turns and practically sprints out of the hallway, not stopping until he’s reached the stairs toward his chambers, and then he only pauses to catch his breath before continuing to run all the way up and to his room.

It isn’t until he collapses onto the bed that the absurdity of the last several minutes, as well as the withheld hysteria from the last hour, truly hit him. He dissolves into manic giggles that last much, much longer than they ought to.

The next night, Jaskier goes back down to the servant quarters again. This time, it’s to beg a couple of favors.

“I need alcohol, preferably of a decent sort,” he says, “and then to know where the Witcher’s room is.”

Marla, the first girl he catches, looks deeply unimpressed. “Don’t know nothin’ about the Witcher,” she says, and spits. Jaskier doesn’t bother to hide his eye roll. “Lena might. Alcohol, you’d have to talk to Jad. He won’t give it to ya, though.”

“Lena and Jad,” Jaskier repeats. “Thank you so much, Marla.”

She snorts and shoos him away. He goes looking for Lena first, and finds her rather conveniently in the kitchens with Jad. He’s almost positive he’s interrupting something when he arrives, but he doesn’t stop. He’ll be gone soon enough, anyway, and they can get back to their little affair.

“The Witcher?” Lena’s eyes are wide. “Why d’you want to know where he’s sleepin’?”

Jaskier hums. “He’s a friend,” he says. He figures at this point it’s not exactly a lie. Just…a bit of a stretch of the truth, maybe.

Lena squints at him, then casts a look to Jad. For his part, he shrugs. He’s probably old enough to be Lena’s father, but Jaskier files that away as information he doesn’t need to focus on right now.

“West wing tower,” Lena finally answers. “All the way at the top.”

“Wonderful, thank you,” Jaskier bows, then turns to Jad. “Now, I was told you were the person to ask about alcohol.”

Jad raises a brow. “Were you, now.”

“Nothing that will be missed, of course, but preferably something nice, is all.”

Jad just looks at him for a moment. “You helped kill that vampire, didn’t you?”

Jaskier beams and bows again, this time with an overdramatic flourish. “Why yes, I did! With my very own dagger, I – ”

“Vain,” Jad interrupts with a snort. “But clearly, you have your uses.”

“Indeed I do, good sir.”

Another snort, and Jad shakes his head. “Alright,” he agrees. “I’ll get you some of the nice whiskey. But this is only once, bard, you understand?”

Jaskier claps. “Of course! Thank you kindly.”

He waits with Lena, leaned against one of the tables, while Jad goes into a cellar to fetch the whiskey. The girl keeps throwing him odd looks; he ignores it, sure she’s just off-put by his eagerness to drink with a Witcher. She can have her biases. Jaskier will keep his strange ways and enjoy the hell out of the company he keeps, thank you very much.

Jad returns quickly enough with a bottle of whiskey and two chipped earthenware cups. “Won’t be missed, like you said,” he says as he hands them over. “But I would rather you didn’t mention this to anyone, bard.”

“My lips are sealed,” Jaskier promises. “Thank you very much, my friends. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He gives a little wave of his hand and practically skips back out of the kitchens.

He thinks about what he’ll say the whole way to the west tower, and the whole climb up. By the time he’s reached the door, he’s no closer to having anything clever to lead with. He decides he may as well just go with blunt, and knocks.

There’s the sound of someone shifting around in the room, and then the door creaks open. Coën is frowning when he peeks through the crack, but it morphs into a small smile when he sees Jaskier.

“Drink?” Jaskier asks, holding up the bottle and cups. “Thought you could use one, after all the excitement.”

And he’s not just talking about last night; he’d heard Ciri asking the Witcher endless questions about monsters, earlier, much to the chagrin of every one of her tutors – including Jaskier. Though Jaskier had an advantage with being able to teach about monsters alongside teaching her about music, considering his entire career.

Coën chuckles. “Sure.”

He opens the door wider and steps aside. Jaskier slips in and sits in one of the plush chairs by the hearth. Coën comes and sits across from him in the matching one. For a moment, as Jaskier pours their drinks, it’s silent; then, once Coën has given his approval of Jaskier’s offering – a slightly wider smile and an appreciative hum – Jaskier talks.

“So,” he starts. “Monsters scarce, lately?”

Coën laughs. “Less so than I thought, obviously,” he answers. “But yes.”

“How’d you come across the job to body guard the princess?”

Coën shrugs. “Luck of the draw, I suppose. Was the first Witcher Mousesack encountered.”

Jaskier hums and pours himself some more whiskey. “Seems like a pretty cushy job.”

“It’s as cushy as yours,” Coën counters, and Jaskier snorts.

“Touché.” Jaskier holds up his glass.

The conversation moves onto Geralt and the other Wolves. Jaskier updates Coën on their whereabouts to the best of his ability, and tells some stories; in return, once Coën is a little looser with the alcohol, he tells some stories of his own.

By the time the fire is dying down and Jaskier is properly tipsy, it’s late verging on early. He yawns and Coën laughs at him, which makes Jaskier wet his fingers and flick whiskey at the Witcher. Coën just laughs some more.

Its definitely the alcohol that makes Jaskier say it. “So what’s the story Calanthe told you about why Ciri needs a Witcher to guard her?”

Coën tenses, just a little, but seems to decide Jaskier is genuine and relaxes again. “She was claimed via law of surprise by an unsavory man,” he says. “And Calanthe, worried that this man may appear in Cintra and try to kidnap her granddaughter, wanted to ensure she had the best protection possible.”

Jaskier hums. Coën looks into the dying fire for a moment before turning to look at Jaskier.

“It’s a lie, isn’t it?”

“Well.” Jaskier shakes his head. “Not…exactly. Really, if that’s all the detail she gave, there’s only one part of it that’s a lie.”

“Which part?”

“The man Ciri belongs to isn’t unsavory.”

“I’m very curious to know how you would know that, bard.”

Jaskier snorts. “I know quite a lot of things I shouldn’t, Witcher,” he retorts. Coën just raises a brow, and Jaskier sighs, looking down into his nearly empty cup for a moment.

“You’re not supposed to know,” he says, softly. “In fact, I all but promised that I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I won’t ask you to break your word.”

Jaskier laughs at that, waving a hand. “Unfailingly noble,” he murmurs. “No, don’t worry about my word. Frankly, darling, I’m a bard; for the most part, my word is no better than the dirt on your boots. At least, not when I give it to nobility, aside from a very special Princess we both know. The promises I make to my Witchers, now, that’s different. But I digress; I’ve gotten off-topic.”

Coën raises his eyebrows. “Your Witchers, hm?”

“The Wolves, specifically,” Jaskier grins, “though I suppose I might occasionally include at least one Cat in the roster. And a Viper, though keeping my promises to him if I make them is mostly just self-preservation. If you’d like to be considered among the list, I’m not averse.”

That startles a laugh out of the Witcher. He looks several years younger when he grins so wide, and Jaskier finds his own grin widening in response. “You’re an odd duck, Jaskier.”

“That I am, Coën. That I am.”

“So, if the word you give to nobility is worth less than the mud on my boots,” Coën prompts after a moment, “may I ask who, exactly, is Ciri bound to?”

Jaskier downs the remainder of his whiskey in one gulp. “Geralt,” he answers, and he feels the way the shock settles over Coën.

“Shit,” he mutters.

“My sentiments exactly.” Jaskier nods. “Calanthe is less than enthused about the idea, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. In fact, it was the law of surprise that brought Ciri’s mother and father together, I don’t know if you knew.”

“I didn’t.”

“Mm, yes, I’m sure Calanthe doesn’t speak of it.” Jaskier pours himself some more whiskey. “His name was Duny. Called himself Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald, though I have no ideas about the validity of that title. He saved King Roegner’s life and claimed the law of surprise as payment; Roegner found Calanthe had given birth in his absence.”

“And I imagine the Queen had the same thoughts about it then as she does now,” Coën murmurs.

“She did. Duny showed up at Pavetta’s betrothal feast to claim her, and it was a clusterfuck to say the least. I was there to perform, and Geralt was there to make sure I didn’t die by the hand of some noble I’d cuckolded – he saved Duny’s life when Calanthe ordered him killed. Claimed the law of surprise, like an idiot, when Duny insisted he owed Geralt a life debt.”

“Pavetta was already pregnant,” Coën deduces. “Because of course. Has he come back for her?”

Jaskier shakes his head.

Coën looks at him for a moment, searching, then adds, “He doesn’t know you come back, does he?”

“Absolutely not.” Jaskier shakes his head again and takes a large sip of his whiskey. “And – if I may ask it – I would rather he didn’t find out.”

“I won’t tell him,” Coën promises. “Does he plan to come back for her at all?”

Jaskier shrugs. “Not that I know of.”

“Shirking destiny will not end well for him.”

Jaskier snorts. “Yes, I’m well aware; I watched what happened when Calanthe tried to stand in its way at that damned betrothal. But unfortunately, for the most part, I’m required to let Geralt make his own stupid mistakes.”

“That is true,” Coën nods sagely. “Well. I’m not sure how I feel about my post now.”

Jaskier waves a hand. “If he comes back for her, he won’t take her by force.”

“No, I can’t imagine he would.”

“Calanthe is unnecessarily paranoid. As far as your post, keep it. Pretend – for both our sakes, really – that you don’t know any of this, and keep guarding the girl as long as Calanthe will keep paying you. If Geralt comes back – if – it can be dealt with then.”

Coën hums thoughtfully. “You’re possibly the wisest bard I’ve ever met,” he murmurs, and Jaskier snorts.

“That’s awfully sad. I’m rather charming; I don’t know that I’ve ever been called wise.”

“Well,” Coën grins. “I think you’re very sage, for what it’s worth.”

Jaskier smiles. “Worth more than you think it is, Witcher.”

“I’m glad.”

The next morning, a letter comes to the castle inviting Jaskier to perform in Cidaris. Mousesack informs him that he’s very nearly used up his welcome from the Queen, so he sends word that he accepts the invitation and begins to pack his things.

He has one more lesson with Ciri mid-morning, and then he’ll hire a coach to take him to Cidaris.

As he’s packing, he comes across the portal charm Yennefer had gifted him. Geralt has his, now, as well; he’d shown Jaskier the last time they’d met. He holds it in his palm for a long moment before deciding not to pack it away like usual. Instead, it goes into his pocket.

Ciri’s lesson goes well. Her questions about monsters have begun to taper off, though Jaskier can’t be sure if that’s because she’s lost interest or because he’s teaching her songs about monsters and quelling her urge. Either way, she mostly behaves for the lesson, and as a reward, he lets her have a handful of moments to entertain herself before she’s on to the next tutor. He uses it to talk to Coën.

“I have something for you,” he says, and Coën doesn’t look away from Ciri, but raises a brow.

Jaskier pulls the charm out of his pocket, alongside a chain he bought off of a servant. Coën flicks a glance to it.

“Magic?” he asks.

“Mhm.” Jaskier fiddles for a moment and puts the charm onto the chain. “If you break it, it’ll open a portal to wherever Geralt is.”

At that, Coën finally looks at him properly. “Jaskier,” he says, lowly. “What – ”

“Just in case,” Jaskier interrupts. “If something happens – may the gods forbid it – then she belongs with him. It’s the safest option.”

They both look back to Ciri, who has decided to create her own little tune on the piano. It’s terrible, but it makes Jaskier smile all the same.

Coën takes the charm from his hand. “Alright,” he agrees. “You’re right. In case of emergency.”

Jaskier nods. “Exactly. I’m leaving Cintra today, but I’ll be back at the end of next winter. And you?”

“I’ll be here until Calanthe tires of me,” Coën answers. There’s a ghost of a smirk on his face. It makes Jaskier’s grin widen.

“Let’s hope she’s got a wealth of energy, then.”