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“I knew I shouldn’t have signed that treaty.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
“We were fucked either way.”
“Pipe down, boys.”
“Yes Vesemir,” the three Wolves said in unison.
The assembled crowd couldn’t possibly have heard them, speaking so low only their enhanced hearing could decipher each others’ grumblings. But this was a wedding. A diplomatic wedding. So a certain level of respect for the proceedings was expected.
The three witchers couldn’t help feeling vulnerable with all eyes on them, the one thing their armor didn’t defend against.
But it was this or war, with hints that Temeria would side with Redania should the witchers find reason to behead another king. Allowing the would-be conquered lands to follow some of their traditions with the negotiated terms of the treaty was the least they could do. Anything to prevent bloodshed on either side.
It doesn’t matter to the rest of the nobles in attendance that the Wolf witchers’ brides are terrified. The Wolves can’t say it matters to them without risking Vizimir throwing out the treaty entirely.
So they’ll just have to toughen up, say “I do,” and partake in the feast that follows. Afterwards they’ll get a moment alone with their brides to discuss the situation at hand. That’s the plan at least. But Yennefer had helped them plan for a few potential eventualities.
Three women in elaborate gowns and veils are marched down the aisle, their heads held high despite their fear—which was strong enough for their husbands-to-be to smell from across the great hall with many other mingling scents.
This is when the grooms first learned their wives’ names. “For the hand of the White Wolf, Warlord of the north, ruler of Kaedwen and Caingorn, Geralt of Rivia: I present Viscountess Julianna de Lettenhove.”
“My lord,” the girl said with a curtsy.
Despite her fear she managed to meet his gaze. Impressed, Geralt bowed deeply to his bride.
“For the hand of Eskel of the Wolves, chief advisor to the Warlord of the north: I present Baroness Oliwia Bartol of Denesle.”
“My lord,” the girl said with a curtsey. She did not meet his gaze. In fact she seemed to have the sort of thousand-yard-stare of someone wishing to be very far away. And she was just so small. If the treaty negotiations hadn’t specified their brides to be of age he’d almost worry she was still a child. He’d have to thank Yen for catching that later.
Eskel bows in return, knowing this is one of the few times he can indicate his respect. They’d settle the “my lord” business later. But she would need to know he didn’t see her as a subordinate.
“For the hand of Lambert of the Wolves, general to the armies of the Warlord of the north: I present Marchioness Milena de Roggeven.” Lambert snorts at the title he’s given, knowing Vesemir probably made it up on the spot.
“My lord,” the girl said with a curtsey. She glances up at him through her eye lashes and barely manages to hold back a flinch at the sight of his fierce scowl, opting to bite the inside of her cheek to quell her fear.
Lambert scowled harder at the spike in her fear scent. But he bit his tongue when Geralt, sensing his desire to remark, whispered, “Shut it.” Instead Lambert sighs and gives a quick bow. When in doubt, following his brothers’ leads was probably the best option, at least with this political shit he’d been dragged into.
“No obvious ill intentions,” Yen whispered, having glimpsed the minds of each girl. They would be closely monitored in the coming weeks, but this was a promising start, all things considered.
The vows are recited. The witchers are impressed by the honesty emanating from their terrified brides promising to uphold their duties. The Wolves promised the same, hoping the girls believe the truth in their now husbands’ words.
The priestess binds each girl to her husband with a ribbon. The women can’t help but think of the golden material as gilded shackles.
The gathered witnesses applauded. The newly weds try not to flinch at the noise, being pulled out of their own thoughts so suddenly.
The ceremony is complete.
There was feasting and music but not much enjoyment from the newlyweds. The Wolves asked their wives if they’d enjoy a dance—with someone other than them, they clarified at three sets of tense shoulders. To be untied from their husbands before the wedding night would be a disgrace. And even if that weren’t the case, the women knew that no man would dare risk offending the witchers in such a way.
The group was resigned to a meal in misery.
Geralt noticed his bride staring at one of the performing bards. Hatred and envy were almost a welcome change from fear. He kept his expression neutral, a skill he had honed long before this warlord nonsense that came in handy at times like this. The fearsome White Wolf expressing his displeasure would likely cause an uproar more than it would solve anything.
Eskel pretended he didn’t see his bride glancing at her father, whose own gaze was fixed on her in warning. He wished there was something he could say to comfort the poor girl he figured there wasn’t much comfort to be found in his scarred face.
Lambert’s bride had much the same issue, avoiding a clearly stern look from her father. And a girl—possibly his bride’s sister, given their similar appearance—sitting next to the Duke was snickering of all things. Lambert scowled at them. He took some satisfaction in the fuckers flinching in response. They didn’t have make his bride’s situation worse. She needed assurance, not ire.
Eventually it is time for the group to leave the festivities.
The witchers lead their brides to their separate suites for the final part of the wedding ceremony.
Yennefer stepped ahead of the small crowd of nobles that had followed, casting a temporary sound proof barrier behind her to keep the “proceedings” private, as was promised in the treaty. Once the brides were aware of the plan, Yen could claim to have heard the consummations take place. Playing the heartless mage to the ruthless warlord is an easy enough role to slip into.
She knows it is fear of the Mage to the Warlord of the North that keeps the Redanian council members from stepping forward to assert their “duty” to witness the consummation firsthand. Several of them seem very put out to not be allowed to watch what they presumed would be nothing short of brutality. She made a mental note of their names to be dealt with at a later date.
To those who know her, Yennefer’s expression betrays the restraint it takes not to turn those men into slugs on the spot. The men before her only know to not further provoke the mage.
———
Julianna wasn’t going to show any fear tonight despite knowing that in other circumstances, this could be a night of love and pleasure. Instead she would be another name in a long list of victims of another terrible practice meant to subdue gentle born ladies who wouldn’t be expected to know better. She only knew otherwise after managing to find some enlightening books when slipping away from chaperones.
She had withheld this information from her fellow brides, sure that the truth—knowing that there need not be any pain on one’s wedding night—would hurt more. Having yet another choice taken from them by virtue of their noble birth, just as their virtue was taken by their husbands.
The treaty specified she and the others remain alive and in good health, which was decidedly not the same as unharmed. Especially with what she had heard of witcher appetites. Perhaps if she played her cards right, she could put her knowledge to the test and quell the White Wolf’s appetite enough to leave her less battered by the end of the night.
“How does my lord husband wish to have me?” She asked, hoping a brave face would allow her some say in the proceedings. Of course, taking in his hulking figure, there was little she could do if her husband wished otherwise.
“I—” Geralt blinked at his bride’s question. “I was just hoping we could talk. Away from prying eyes and ears.”
He quickly moved to untie the ribbon keeping them together. Hopefully allowing his wife more freedom so soon would make his words more believable.
———
“Talk, my lord?” Livi asked, cautiously. She didn’t dare hope he spoke the truth.
She knew little of the expected proceedings other than blood would be shed to prove her virtue had been claimed by her husband. Having been previously promised to the Duke of Velen she knew to expect the worst. Her survival was assured with the treaty but her life would likely be one of pain and misery with a witcher for a husband.
But perhaps talking first would let her know what more to expect.
“That is all I hope to do,” Eskel promised. “There’s a fair bit to discuss.” Hopefully they’d get to the topic of addressing him by his name fairly quickly.
He reached for the ribbon connecting them, “May I?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“First things first, you don’t have to call me lord,” he said as he carefully undid the ribbon.
———
“You mean you do not intend to…” Milena blushed but powered through, “…consummate?” A number of Redanian men she might have called husband instead would not have waited longer than it took to untie their hands, and perhaps not even that. Perhaps he planned to proceed at the witcher stronghold in the far north instead of this unfamiliar territory. She only hoped the witchers would hold to the treaty, ensuring the lives and health of her and her fellow brides, far from the prying eyes of the court.
“No,” Lambert said. As if it was that simple. “I’m pretty damn sure you wanted this marriage even less than I fucking did. I’m not gonna make you do more things that you don’t want to.” He knew a good deal about not having a choice. And he wasn’t about to inflict that on the girl.
He glared at the ribbon tying her to him. First things first, that had to go. He took out one of his smaller daggers to cut it off but her flinch made him pause. “How the hell do you propose I get this off then?”
“Like this,” she said, nervously reaching to untie it. He leaned away as best he could to give her some space. She probably figured he was about to fucking pounce on her. Fuck. He stepped back the moment the ribbon was loose enough.
———
“First things first,” Geralt said once the ribbon was untied, “you do not have to sleep with me, or anyone you don’t want to. Tonight or otherwise.”
“But, my lord, even with my reputation,” Julianna said sardonically, because flirting with a stable boy out of sight of her maid should hardly be taken as seriously as her father said it should, “they’ll be expecting blood.”
The White Wolf’s eyes widened.
“Fuck.”
———
“Fuck.”
———
“Fuck!”
———
“That’s not even—Fuck. What do we do?” Geralt asked aloud.
“I think it’s pretty obvious what—”
“No. I—hmm. I was asking my brothers.”
“I’m sorry, can they hear you?” Julianna looked to the wall, knowing just on the other side poor Livi was likely just as confused by and much much more terrified of her husband, and dear Milena one room over could hardly be asked to take this any better.
“Mmm,” Geralt nodded.
———
“I don’t know, Geralt.”
“My—Husband?” Oliwia asked. She couldn’t help but wonder if the witchers could hear each others thoughts. From the few accounts she could get her hands on in preparation for the wedding, she knew witchers had access to at least some chaos. Oh dear could they read her thoughts as well? Had she already given offense? Had simply noticing her husband’s scars at the feast already sealed her fate?
———
“Witcher hearing,” Lambert explained, “we can all hear each other.”
“That sounds… useful, my lord,” Milena said calmly. She firmly ignored the fact that if her husband had chosen to consummate, his brothers would be just as aware of it. An unsettling idea that still upheld the promise of having no witnesses in the room. She wondered if such convenient truths were common for witchers.
“Shit. Right. You don’t gotta call me that. I’m not a lord.” He spat out the title like it left a sour taste in his mouth.
———
“And if there’s no blood?” Geralt asked desperately.
“Then the marriage is null. A sullied bride means the treaty may be voided.” Julianna rolled her eyes.
“And if I don’t intend to void the treaty?”
———
“Without proof of consummation, we are not considered married,” Livi explained.
“And Vizimir has even less reason to uphold his end of it,” Eskel scrubbed his hands over his face. Of all the damn messes this warlord stuff has gotten us into… he lamented. He and his brothers being truly made into monsters by something as stupid as tradition was not going to happen.
———
“Then why even fucking bother with the godsdamned ceremony?”
“There’s much to be said for tradition… and boasting through an overly extravagant affair,” Milena said, rather more blunt than she ever imagined being with her brand new husband. But he didn’t seem the sort to hold back. She hoped attempting to match him in that regard was the correct choice.
“No kidding.”
He idly began twirling the dagger in his hand, trying to come up with a solution for their problem.
———
“So how do you want to do this?” Julianna sighed.
“We’ll figure something out,” Geralt insisted.
She couldn’t help but note how earnest the Warlord of the North looked in that moment. “I appreciate the attempt, my lord, but either the council sees bloody sheets or we put on a show.”
“No.” Geralt growled. He refused to accept those terms. He had dared hope the sound proofing would save them all the sickening ordeal. But of course practices based in politics thought of every angle to prevent someone getting out of something they’d agreed to.
———
“Would Yen have any ideas?” Eskel asked, desperately. “An illusion or something?”
As much as she appreciated the idea, Livi had to mention, “The court mages may very well see past that, my lord.”
———
Lambert scowled at the blade in his hand and the bed across the room before he spoke up. “Those bastards want blood. They’ll get blood. But they don’t need to know whose blood it is.”
“My lor—husband?” Milena hoped that title would suffice.
Lambert distinctly does not make eye contact with the girl as he made his way to the bed.
———
“Good thinking, Lamb,” Eskel said.
His bride observed him apprehensively.
Eskel explained himself before following his little brother’s lead. It was often best to follow his little brother’s lead when it came to fighting stupid traditions. Lambert did have the most experience with malicious compliance.
“Despite the rumors, witcher blood looks just like a human’s.”
———
“They’ll have no way of proving if the sheets are stained in your blood or mine,” Geralt explained.
Julianna considered this, marveling a bit at the lengths her new husband was willing to go for the sake of her comfort. “But won’t they notice you suddenly have a brand new wound? And perhaps wonder how it got there? Leading to a line of questioning you seem keen on avoiding?”
They could just lie, she supposed. Saying that she fought back would be believable enough. But that would not be the case for the others, who were much more inclined to do their duty.
She also wasn’t sure how she felt about the possibility of the court assuming she had injured her husband in a final act of defiance. People already had said many nasty sorts of things about her unladylike demeanor. And while she usually took pride in those rumors, it didn’t sit well with her to be blamed for harming her (far more honorable than she’d expected) husband.
———
“Witcher healing,” Eskel explained to his concerned wife, “I’ll be right as rain in minutes. Won’t even scar if it’s not too deep.”
Oliwia just blinked at him. The idea of making himself bleed on her behalf was baffling enough without his unsettlingly calm demeanor at the prospect. The scars on his face reminded her that his profession meant he was accustomed to injury. But that he intended her to escape the same fate did not escape her.
———
“Here,” Milena hurried to offer a handkerchief to her now bleeding husband.
“What’s that for?"
“Your… injury?” She could hardly stop from gaping at the red line cut across his hand already becoming smaller.
“The bedsheet took care of it,” her now not bleeding husband said, “but… thanks.”
Lambert ignored the bile rising in his throat at the sight of bloody bedsheets. Those fuckers wanted this sort of pain to be brought upon the girls they sent off to be married. And they expected him and his brothers to be the same sort of monsters.
He knew humans assumed the worst of him on sight but gods be damned this was vile.
His wife had expected that cruelty. He had promised otherwise.
But as much as her fear scent had diminished, it was still present, and he couldn’t blame her. Despite that, the girl had chosen to approach him, the source of her fear and offered to help him. Even though he hadn't needed it, he couldn’t shake his disbelief at the gesture. Who the fuck was this girl?
———
Julianna suggested the brides ought to appear a bit… rumpled if they had been bedded by witchers. "Sometimes letting people see what they expected was the best way to sell a lie." Bodice laces were loosened, skirts were slightly twisted, and hair was tousled as best it could in the elaborate braids the women wore. The beds were also made a bit messier to be properly convincing.
Geralt called for Yen. She entered each suite to confirm the sight of blood. She had to admit it was a good plan, not that she’d tell Lambert that with so many witnesses present.
“The treaty is sealed,” she announced to the gathered crowd.
“May there be peace between our lands,” King Vizimir decreed. It didn’t escape Yen’s notice that he refused to call Geralt’s lands a kingdom. Likely for the sake of his own self-important ego.
“We shall be off to Kaer Morhen.” The few remaining witchers present for the ceremony came forward, more than ready to leave this place saturated in the scent of fear.
Vesemir followed after his boys through the portal. Aubry, Dragonfly, Vesper, Serrit, and Ealdred followed after the brides. Yen followed after, snapping the portal closed.
Ealdred had waited on the other side with an arm to steady her. Multiple portals over such a distance in one day (though thankfully a few hours apart) was possible, but not without consequences. And after all the courtly nonsense, she’d need a drink.
There was still much to be done to settle the noble ladies into the keep but, based on the events of the evening, perhaps things wouldn’t turn out so terribly as they had all thought.