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Breathing heavily, Jaskier settled down on one of the roughly carpentered benches in (presumably?) the main hall of the old keep. He just wasn't made for a trip high up to the mountains. In the kaedwenian winter. With far too few clothes on. He wiped the sweat from his brow, which had appeared on his face despite the cool temperatures, and looked around curiously. The princess had only briefly gone over to the witchers, had spoken to them briefly and then retreated for the evening. The bard's gaze was drawn to the mighty tree in the middle of the hall. Snow was trickling through some holes in the roof and something hanging from the tree tinkled softly. There was something magical about the image and Jaskier moved closer.
Standing directly in front of the tree, he realised that they were witcher medallions, dozens of medallions. Involuntarily, sadness came over him, even though he did not know all the dead men commemorated here. He reached out a hand to touch the metal, as if he needed to feel the physical evidence to believe that what he was seeing was real. His fingers were only centimetres away from a wolf medallion when a hand darted out from the side and wrapped itself around Jaskier's with an iron grip. Startled, he drew back and stared into the face of an angry-looking witcher. Into the handsome angry face of a witcher with red wild curls.
"Don't!" he growled.
Brown eyes with a hint of red bored into Jaskier's. The man's brows were furrowed and a beard, as flaming as his hair, framed his jaw. Jaskier took in all the details and suddenly he was all too aware of their physical contact.
Oh fuck! he thought as he became aware of the excited little pull that he felt in his belly. A little further south, quite different tickling twitches were felt and the bard's heartbeat quickened.
The witcher's eyes narrowed, then his pupils dilated and his nostrils quivered. A hearty laugh rang out from behind Jaskier.
"Oh fuck! Lamchop, I think you're just his type," the witcher the laughter belonged to circled Jaskier - his heart now joining the excited bounces in his body. Did all witchers look this good? Yes, this one had a nasty burn scar on his face, but his eyes! They looked at Jaskier kindly and openly. His right eye shone brightly and contrasted strongly with his dark skin.
"I'm Coën. This pleasant fellow is Lambert," the witcher pointed with his thumb at the redhead, who still held Jaskier's hand in a firm grip, "And with whom do we have the honour? You arrived together with Ciri, but she did not introduce you."
Jaskier glanced at his and Lambert's interlaced fingers. The witcher followed his gaze and as if suddenly burned, jerked his hand back. Jaskier was sure a slight blush crossed Lambert's cheeks.
Now freed, the bard extended his hand to Coën. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. Perhaps you know me by my stage name, I am quite well known, I should think. Jaskier. At your service." And indeed, he bowed slightly to both of them.
Lambert blanched slightly and Coën looked taken aback.
"You are Geralt's bard? I hope you will sing something for us tonight?" asked the dark-skinned witcher. "It is far too quiet in these halls."
Jaskier squirmed a little, "Well, whether travelling together makes me "Geralt's bard" I don't know, but I would like to sing something. I suppose for that you have a good ale or something stronger to warm me up?" He winked mischievously at Coën, who tilted his head slightly and eyed Jaskier up and down with a brief grin. Mustered with interest, the poet noted.
Oh, fuck me sideways. I'm doomed.
"Ale to warm you up, among other things," Coën not only looked Jaskier straight in the eye, but seemed to look straight into his core. A little nervously, Jaskier licked his lips but said nothing.
"I will take you to a room that you can claim for your time here. Lambchop?" he looked around at his witcher brother, who had been standing silently beside them all this time. That silence was a most unusual state for Lambert, Jaskier was to learn later.
"I need to blow something!" he blurted out now, his gaze darting to Jaskier for half a second. The slight blush on his cheeks now took on a much deeper hue. He cleared his throat, "I mean, I need to blow something up! Fuck!"
He turned and stomped away.
"That was... something," Jaskier remarked, puzzled. "What did he mean?"
"The second part? Lambert catching fish with bombs. Or blows anything else up. He's a bit obsessive, if you ask me." Coën put a hand on the bard's shoulder and manoeuvred him towards the stairs to the bedrooms. "The first part? I'll put it this way... he's very bad at flirting."
"Ah. I see." Jaskier willingly allowed himself to be led away, trying not to be too distracted by the warm hand on his shoulder.
Maybe being in the mountains in the winter wasn't so bad after all.