Archive of Our Own ^beta

Geralt woke to a tongue on his cock. 

There was only one person who could disturb his sleeping body without getting a dagger lodged in their throat. His unconscious self must have recognized her scent and labeled her as a non-threat; or, more accurately, accepted that if she were here to kill him, there’d be no point in raising a fuss about it. 

Geralt tended to sleep in the fetal position—the best way to protect his innards—and was surprised that the only point of contact was her tongue on the tip of his dick. She’d managed to pull his cock through the opening of his underthings without waking him. The idea warmed his heart: even his mutated reflexes knew not to attack his daughter. 

“Ciri,” Geralt rasped. He released the dagger he held beneath his pillow and blearily opened his eyes. His daughter knelt beside the small cot; her head hidden beneath his blanket. 

Her tongue traced along his slit. 

It was a strange sensation. It tickled, sort of. This kind of direct assault—too gentle, too focused, without any lead up—felt so unattached from desire that it could be called clinical. Malicious in its teasing. 

Her tongue circled his head. Wiggled against his slit. Lapped against his shaft. Doted on him with soft kitten-licks that spread her spit and slickened him all up. 

Her lips wrapped around him. Sucked all of him in. His soft cock fit entirely in her mouth. The warmth and wet heat incubated growth. Demanded it. Relished in it. Beckoned for him to rise for the occasion. 

Geralt could do nothing but obey. Blood rushed south. 

She widened her jaw to accommodate his answering hardness. Her throat spasmed as his cock filled it. She pulled back slightly, just enough not to choke, then shoved against his hip. 

Geralt obligingly rolled onto his back. Ciri followed along, expertly keeping him from slipping out of her mouth. She crawled further under the blanket and prostrated herself between his legs. 

“Ciri,” Geralt said again. He rubbed his eyes. “What, why—”

Her teeth grazed him. Geralt hissed a warning. Her teeth scraped with added pressure. Geralt obediently lay still, message received. Ciri hated having to explain herself, especially when her actions were self-explanatory: she was here to suck his cock. But. Still. 

“Why so early?” Geralt asked, his complaint half-absorbed by a moan when she added her hand to the mix.

Ciri squeezed the base of cock harder. And harder still. Until Geralt grunted. A warning for him to keep quiet. She remained hidden under their shared blanket: a little thief in the night, here to steal an offering of carnal desire. Geralt spread his legs for her to rest more securely between them. 

Ciri loosened her grip and went back to slathering all over him. Her touch grew gentle, feather light. That lasted only a moment or two, his little girl never one to show gentleness if blunt force were an option; she sank onto him and began bobbing her head in earnest. She added a twist on each upswing, her timing impeccable—she'd clearly done this a time or two—as she tackled this foreplay with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for slaughtering cockatrices. 

As much as he enjoyed the idea of Ciri being so desperate for him, she’d attack him in his sleep, he knew she wouldn't be waking him at the ass crack of dawn if she didn't have some ulterior motive. Geralt gently tugged the blanket off.

The corners of Ciri’s eyes crinkled in mirth as she met his gaze: a little minx caught with a plump fowl between her fangs. Her lips stretched around his girth. Her cheeks hollowed. A line of drool slid down a jutting vein, only to be wiped up by her fist on the upswing. It was a good sight. But Geralt couldn’t let himself be distracted. He took in the details, trying to parse out her motivations. 

Her eyeliner had been applied recently, despite it looking a mess. He’d witnessed the process once: she’d drawn a perfect line, licked the pad of her thumb, then smudged the kohl into purposeful disarray; she’d done a similar process with her hair, securing it into a bun and then pulling loose strands to drape around her face. It didn’t make much sense to him, but he’d never fault her for choosing her own style. And that style meant exactly one thing.

Someone, or something, was going to die today. 

“Ciri,” Geralt said, his parental tone indicating that his level of indulgence was wearing thin. Ciri shoved herself on him until his cock hit the back of her throat. Geralt held back from thrusting his hips but couldn't prevent his moan from escaping. It felt so damn good. Fuck. “Ciri,” Geralt tried again, having a hard time remembering why he was trying to question her when clearly, she had better things to be doing with her mouth. “What's going on? Hnnn…where do we need to be?”

Ciri pulled off his cock. She huffed on his tip, the cool air almost painful in contrast to how warm and wet her mouth had been. “Really?” she asked, drawing out the word. 

Loathe as he was to turn down a good cock sucking—and she was good at it—he would like to know who she planned on murdering before he agreed to go through with it. “Yes, really.”

Ciri tapped him against her lower lip—a tease—and then rubbed him against her jaw, playing with him like a wight played at brewing: constantly adding more ingredients in and never partaking of the rotten stew. “I thought this would be a kinder wake up than dumping a bucket of water on your head.”

Geralt’s cock throbbed. Ciri smoothed his saliva coated tip along the edge of her jaw, caught it on her bottom lip, teased at sucking it in, but at the last moment she tilted her head and let it trace along her cheekbone. 

Geralt almost preferred the bucket. “Where are we going?” 

Ciri sighed. She pressed a kiss to his cockhead. Patted it like it was some kitten being set aside from play, and then released it against his abdomen. She smirked when it jutted up on its own. But the ruse was up. Play was over. She rose onto her knees. She wore only a plain white shirt—his shirt, stolen from his saddle bags; its gaping front offered no modesty as she crawled up his body, her dangling breasts on full display. Vesemir’s amulet swayed as her peaked nipples rubbed against the fabric. “We should leave soon. Imlerith is in Velen for the sabbath.”

“What? How did you—where did you learn this?”

“Mm.” Ciri occupied herself by crouching above him. Geralt could smell how wet she was. She must've enjoyed the thought of waking him so. “He always visits for the sabbath. He'll be…indulging in the local assets.” 

Geralt could picture exactly the type of assets the general of the Wild Hunt would be interested in: succubi desperate for a taste of his power, interspersed with pleading young maidens wrenched from their homes and forced to pay homage to the Aen Elle who viewed all d'hoine as cattle for the taking. “And you know this because—”

“Avallac’h told me. Claims knowledge will tip the scales.”

“Mhm.” Of course Avallac’h waited until the last moment to reveal that he knew exactly where all the pieces on the board were located. The elven sage was playing them like pawns.

“Mhmm,” Ciri parroted, mocking him: yes, she knew Avallac’h was playing them—but what point was there in railing against the hand that guided them when ultimately, they achieved mutually beneficial goals?

And killing Imlerith—well, Geralt wasn’t about to object to that. 

“You want to murder Imlerith on your own?” Geralt asked, despite disliking the idea. Imlerith had slaughtered Vesemir—Vesemir. That alone proved how formidable an opponent he was, not to mention the time Geralt had spent with the Hunt and learned just how ruthless Imlerith could be. He didn’t want Ciri to face him alone.

Ciri grasped his cock and rubbed him against her inner folds. Any pretense of her arousing him for his benefit fell away as she used him as a toy. “I knew you wouldn’t like it, so…” she circled him around her swollen clit, smearing her wetness against him. “This is me inviting you along.”

“Hn.” If they caught Imlerith cock-wet and three sheets to the wind, without all his hounds and army as backup…they’d have no better opportunity to exact revenge. 

Ciri’s—his—shirt gaped open to her navel, a weak sneeze enough of a threat to expose her nipples. Geralt reached out and wrapped his hand around Vesemir’s amulet. His knuckles pressed against the side of Ciri’s breast as he traced the wolven snout with his thumb. Geralt knew that Ciri could easily have left without him. And, despite his hesitations, his protective instincts, he knew that she could slaughter Imlerith without any help from him. She was doing Geralt a service by inviting him along. Because this was his revenge too. 

Imlerith killed Ciri’s mentor, but she knew, she recognized the truth of it, that despite no blood being shared, a deeper bond was there, one forged through discipline and a heavy hand. Imlerith had killed Geralt’s father. Geralt would be the one to land the final blow. 

Ciri slotted Geralt’s cock against her opening. She sank slowly onto him. Pleasure snaked its tendrils through all his nerves. It felt so fucking good. She settled her weight fully against his hips, and they both took a moment to just breathe. Her walls clenched around him, jolting him with blazing-intense-perfect sensation.

Geralt forced his brain back into focus despite it being soaked in arousal. He raised a brow, knowing she’d be able to interpret his meaning: you woke me this early so you can take a ride before we ride out?

Ciri grinded against him, a piquant answer: we have time. And I am rewarding myself for good behavior. I could’ve left you behind.

Geralt released the amulet and slid both hands under the hem of his stolen shirt. He grasped her hips. Tight. He squeezed even harder: I’ll show you a ride. He began to thrust.

Ciri braced her hands on his chest and let her head droop as Geralt took over. Her breasts swayed within easy reach so Geralt lifted his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth. He pinched it between his teeth, smoothed his tongue over the linen, soaking it, increasing the layers of sensations for his little girl. She was using him, sure, but only because he made it worth her while to. 

This kind of easy fuck—one unasked for, done simply because it felt good, because their partner would always be willing—reminded him of the relationship he had with Eskel. Stable. Consistent. Where consent was guaranteed, and not groveled over, or begged for, like it was with Yen. Where there was no payment required for it, like with Keira, or promises of fidelity, like with Triss. It was simply a fun way to pass the time, like his forays with Lambert. Geralt was lucky to have such compliant brothers as companions.

Why was it that fucking his own family was what brought him the most comfort?

Regardless, it felt amazing to fuck his daughter first thing in the morning. 

Ciri shoved against his forehead. Geralt released her nipple from his teeth and thumped back against his pillow. She pushed harder against his head, holding him down, so Geralt took the hint and stopped thrusting. 

She took over once more. Riding him like he was nothing more than a cock jutting from a saddle. That was fine with him. Gave him time to focus on worshiping her perfect breasts. He lifted the thin shirt up to her collarbones with one hand and took turns caressing each breast with the other. They swayed as she rocked herself on him. While Geralt considered himself an ardent admirer of all shapes and sizes, he couldn’t help but think that Ciri had the best breasts he’d ever seen. He could stay mesmerized by them for the rest of his life and never grow bored.

But soon, they’d finally be leaving the keep. 

Geralt considered the ramifications.

If Avallac'h gave Ciri the information she needed to find Imlerith, that implied that he considered her training complete—or at least as ready as she could be, considering how explosive and unmanageable her magic was. He'd waited to reveal Imlereth’s position on purpose, until it was nearly too late: if they didn’t leave soon, they might miss their window.

There were no shortcuts. If Ciri portalled them, they’d be tracked immediately by the Wild Hunt. It was vital that the Hunt remained unaware of her exact location. Ciri couldn’t use any of her powers until their final preparations were made. 

That meant they’d have to take the long way.

If their only option to get to Velen was by riding, they ran the risk of being caught. There was still a hefty reward for any hint of Ciri’s whereabouts. Her likeness was drawn on posters in every city and backwaters village throughout the North—not as accurate as they could be, seeing as Emhyr’s only portrait was of her at the age of four. Not to mention the last time she’d been seen on this world was when she’d only been a teenager, and those renditions had to have been described by witnesses the Nilfgardians had captured. 

Despite the inaccuracies, Emhyr’s spies were competent enough to recognize Geralt on sight and could extrapolate who the young woman was that was with him. The emperor would receive word that his daughter was alive, and most damning of all, traveling with the man who had yet to keep his promise.

Geralt should keep his word and take Ciri to see her father. 

Ciri’s hand slid down to cover his mouth. She pinched his cheeks hard, her fingers digging in and forcing his lips to pucker. She stopped rocking. “What’s got you scared?” Ciri’s eyes bore down into his, questioning, indignant; ready to rip to pieces whichever challenger Geralt had pictured in his mind’s eye. 

“Mph.”

Ciri released her hand. She leaned in and placed both hands on his face. Her thumbs traced his cheekbones. She examined his eyes, his lips. She tapped a finger at the worried line between his brows. “Why are you scared?”

“‘M not scared,” Geralt lied. 

She tapped it again. “You are.”

“No I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“I don’t get scared.”

“You’re terrified.”

“I don’t know what fear even feels like.”

The look she leveled at him was entirely unimpressed. She smoothed out his crow’s lines with her thumbs. Then clenched her inner walls, squeezing his cock with an impressively vice-like jolt. Geralt’s hips jerked. Ciri clamped her thighs down on either side of his ribcage. “What’s. Got. You. Scared.” Each syllable had an accompanying clench acting as counterpoint. 

“Hnng,” Geralt let out, his cock being strangled. “There’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

“Oh?” Ciri released his face. She slowly dragged her nails down his chest. 

“You know how, uh, the emperor wanted you found?” Geralt winced as her nails dug in. Everyone on the entire continent knew that the emperor was seeking her: he was razing the entire countryside on his path to get his daughter back. 

“Yennefer mentioned,” Ciri said, clipped, her tone implying that if Geralt said something else monumentally stupid, she’d bring in her mother as reinforcement and the two of them would string Geralt up by his balls and show him how foolish it would be to try to keep something from Ciri ever again. 

“He commissioned me. To bring you to him.”

She tilted her head, implying a yes, and?

“He wants you to visit him?”

Ciri flicked his nipple. Geralt jerked; message received. She wasn't hurt, or offended, that Geralt had accepted the contract. It'd achieved mutually beneficial goals, after all. Of course the emperor had sought the employ of the man who raised her, who had her best interests at heart, who was an expert tracker: Geralt was the best suited individual in the entire world to find her. It made sense that Emhyr added him to his list of hunters he’d sent scouring the world for her.

Geralt was the only foolish one for making a big deal out of it. 

“Should I go?” Ciri asked.

That was a loaded question. He didn’t particularly want her to. He’d spent so much time comparing himself to her real father he was afraid that when she met with him that she’d realize that Geralt was second-rate. But. It shouldn’t be up to him to decide that for her. “This could be your last chance to see your…father,” Geralt admitted, hating the way the word dripped with envy off his tongue. 

She dug her thumb into one of the scars lining his chest. She’d taken offense—not to him by calling the emperor by who he was to her, but by the fact that he was implying that there wouldn’t be another chance. She didn’t like the grim reminder that it was a suicide mission to go against the Hunt, and if they didn’t win this next battle, she’d have to disappear completely. 

“Do you think I should go?” she asked again, pointedly.

“Oughtta decide for yourself.”

“I want your opinion. Should I go or not?”

Geralt sighed. He looked up at the rafters. He’d taken to sleeping in the stables, since most of the keep had been destroyed (which he couldn’t really blame Ciri for; Kaer Morhen had been falling apart for centuries). The warmest place was beside the horse pens, because of course the horses got better treatment than its other residents. “He probably just wants to talk. Promised me he wouldn’t force you to do anything.”

Ciri rocked her hips against him. It forced a vivid reminder of why they were together like this; what had caused them to tip from a loving father-daughter relationship to something more.

Emhyr should have been the one trapped in the bubble with her.

Emhyr wanted Ciri to have his throne. And there were at least a few, probably many, elven sages who wanted the Emperor to get something more from her too: a child of Destiny. If Emhyr were aware of the lengths the sages had gone through to orchestrate such a thing, he might just consider it a beneficial route to pursue for himself. 

If he knew what had happened in the bubble, and what had continued to occur ever since, he’d have Geralt hanged on sight. 

“Why’re you so scared?” Ciri asked, pensive. She continued rocking as she ran her fingers over his scalp. She got a fistful of hair in her grip and pulled, keeping the pressure just shy of painful.

“He is your father,” Geralt said, letting all of the weighted implications pool between them: Geralt’s fear of not doing good enough in his stolen role, his fear that Emhyr would know on sight that Geralt’s twisted his relationship with Ciri into something depraved and have him killed, his fear that Ciri would choose her Destiny with her real father rather than follow along the simplistic path Geralt offered.

Ciri snorted. She released his hair. Smoothed it out. She rose. Geralt’s cock slipped out of her, and the fear hit him even harder: was she embarrassed to learn that Geralt was afraid to face the man that had created her? But she crawled up his body and placed her thighs on either side of Geralt’s head. Her cunt glazed sweetly above him, a delectable offering, a treat slickened just for him. 

“Daddy?”

“Hn?” Gods, Geralt loved when Ciri called him that. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”

An amused snort burst out of him. It was funny, having his little girl protect him from the big bad emperor—but the truth of it was momentous. She could protect Geralt, no matter what the emperor decreed. The fact that she would—that she still referred to him as Daddy, meant that Geralt’s fears were unfounded. She had chosen him and would stand by that decision.

Ciri must’ve seen the relief on his face, because rather than say anything else, she cut off their conversation by lowering herself onto his mouth. 

After that, well, Geralt showed his gratefulness to her in the best way he knew how.

*

This was getting ridiculous. Geralt’s stomach churned and roiled like a cauldron of White Gull left to simmer for too long. He wasn’t afraid. He was just…tense. He was about to face a looming threat and was just getting mentally prepared for it, that’s all. 

The fact that he hadn’t felt this much…tension when facing actual monsters—bloodthirsty werewolves, hostile leshens, fearsome demonic Red Miasmals—simply meant that he was facing a foe he hadn’t figured out how to counter yet. Silver, oils, bombs, spells—each monster had a weakness.

Geralt wasn’t sure if Emhyr had any. 

Sure, a knife to the throat would kill the emperor just like it would any man, but Geralt didn’t exactly want to waltz in and stab him simply because he felt threatened. Geralt felt threatened by each run-of-the-mill monster: any one of them could get in a lucky scratch or land a debilitating blow that could lead to his demise. They were risks he was willing to take; it was his very purpose to fight them, to act as a shield to humanity and eliminate the foes that preyed upon them. 

But Emhyr wasn’t a foe. 

He was Geralt’s reckoning. 

Geralt was the one in the wrong. He was the one that took on the shape of the monster, and Emhyr the one that had the right to enact punishment. Geralt had stolen his daughter away from him, in more ways than one. 

First off, Emhyr—Duny—had lost his daughter to Geralt before she’d even been born, when Geralt had accidentally claimed her via the Law of Surprise. 

And then, perhaps more damningly, Emhyr should have been the one teleported to the bubble. But Geralt had swept in and accidentally stolen his daughter’s virginity. Well, not so accidentally, but it was one thing agreeing to have sex with her to save her life and another thing to realize he’d taken more than he’d expected to—she hadn’t exactly been upfront with her lack of experience. In either case, technically, it would have fallen to Emhyr to claim it. 

Geralt had stolen so much from him. He’d raised Emhyr’s daughter. He’d shaped her, reared her, influenced her throughout her most impressionable years. And then, after the bubble, their relationship had morphed into something more. How much had Geralt taken for himself when it should have been Emhyr’s right to claim?

Would the Emperor seek retribution for the many ways he’d been shunned?

Worst case scenario, Emhyr decided to kill him. Geralt would have to make a rushed escape, and if they couldn’t get past the guards, Ciri could portal them out and they’d deal with the repercussions of having the Wild Hunt know their location later. It might even be to their benefit, because then the Hunt would go after the Emperor and Geralt wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him ever again.

There was a good chance Emhyr didn’t suspect anything. Ciri’s arrival back to this world had been kept under wraps. Only their family had seen her, and if any of them had pieced together the development between her and Geralt, it seemed as though they’d approved of it; they wouldn’t go and notify the Warlord of the North that his daughter was repeatedly getting fantastically laid by the man who’d claimed her as his Child Surprise.

Geralt had washed his face in the basin for what seemed like ages. Had even used soap, too. If a witcher like him had a hard time smelling any traces, there was no way the glare of distaste the emperor’s majordomo leveled at him was due to scenting exactly whose juices had soaked Geralt’s beard a mere day’s ride before. 

“If your Highness and the gentleman would come this way,” Mererid stated, bowing formally toward Ciri before shooting a censorious look at Geralt—it seemed as though even bringing about the miraculous return of the long-lost princess still wasn’t enough of an offering to endear the majordomo toward him. Mererid stiffly turned and guided them through the large arched entry to the inner courtyard of Vizima’s Royal Palace. 

Geralt motioned Ciri to take the lead. 

Ciri looked him up and down disapprovingly, implying that she was aware he was hiding behind her. She tilted her wrist slightly: the limp gesture a worse insult than calling him a coward to his face. 

Geralt clenched his fist and made a short, jerky motion that would’ve gotten them immediately thrown out if uttered aloud. 

Ciri’s nose crinkled in amusement. She repeated her gesture, more flamboyantly, indicating an insult so demeaning it’d cause Lambert to blush. 

Geralt scowled, but there was no one-upping that. He had no choice but to join her side, if a bit fatalistically. 

The guards in front of the door watched them without comment, their eyes hidden behind thick visors, their stances so still they’d almost be mistaken for statues if Geralt couldn’t hear them breathing. 

They had no idea that Ciri was making fun of Geralt for being tense.

Geralt rolled his shoulders back. He could do this. Ciri bumped her elbow against him, cheering him on. It seemed the opposite of how it should be: Geralt should be the one supporting her. Emhyr was her father, after all. But she wouldn’t have done this—what she should do and pay her father a visit—unless she felt like she needed to help Geralt do it too. She’d help him, because he had a promise to keep. A contract to fulfill.

And if it meant risking his own neck to complete it, well, that was nothing new. 

Geralt and Ciri walked forward together, shoulder-to-shoulder, their steps falling perfectly in time as they entered the emperor’s current domain.

The Royal Palace of Vizima put the idea of lavishness to shame. It was all vaulted ceilings and spacious stone halls and stained-glass windows: evidence of forced dwarven engineering and stolen elvish artisanry. The palace had been erected quickly, quietly, using a plethora of forced labor from non-human non-volunteers who’d been kicked out of the kingdom as soon as the building was complete. King Foltest had been desperate to create a new seat of power for Temeria and had spared no expense on the build. He’d hoped the hastily crafted and lavishly ornate palace would draw attention away from the previous seat, which had gotten run down due to a striga haunting its halls—a personal failure of the king’s, as it were. 

Geralt had walked these halls about two decades before, when King Foltest had thanked him for dealing with the striga and bringing his daughter back—two not quite unrelated tasks. This wasn’t the only time Geralt had brought a princess to this palatial home. Since then, the only difference in decor was the golden sun that’d replaced the silver fleurs-de-lis on each black drapery. 

Geralt didn’t recognize where Mererid was taking them. He’d only been to the throne room—where King Foltest had rewarded him with a chest full of three thousand orens, the largest reward Geralt had ever received in all his time on the path—and Emhyr’s study, which was tucked away in a private corner all on its own.

Instead, they took a left and delved deeper within the palace. 

Emhyr must’ve devised a different plan for receiving Ciri. He had to have gotten word of their arrival several hours before: his many spies throughout the kingdom would have spotted them riding and sent messages ahead, none of them impeding their travel since they were headed in the proper direction. 

Geralt genuinely did not know what to expect. 

Their footfalls fell on polished white marble—a shared glance proved that it served as a pleasant reminder of their time in the bubble, and they both glanced away: Ciri smirking, Geralt sheepishly pushing the improper thoughts further inward—and they soon found themselves entering a large, open grid dappled in sunlight. The geometry of it was spellbinding: the depth hinted at with elaborately carved pillars that sprung up in concentric arcs, the maze-like quality accented by curving walkways and perfect sweeps of cascading moss that draped from overarching trellises. 

They had entered the gardens. A crowd of advisors gathered near the central portion, where a lone figure sat looming, acting as a portend to their fates. 

Emperor Emhyr var Emreis slowly turned his head and allowed his gaze to fall upon them. 

His attention immediately latched onto his daughter. Emhyr stared at her intensely, as though she was a meal he was starving for. The depthless dark of his eyes spoke of tightly-held restraint, of calculated aloofness, of ravenous longing. This was the White Flame who danced on the graves of his enemies, who had blazed everything that stood in his way down to charred ashes on his quest to reclaim her; he’d stopped at nothing to find his daughter, and now…

Now he so desperately wanted to make a good impression on her that rather than be found in his study, where he spent the majority of his time, he had relocated to the most beautiful section of the palace in an attempt to prove…what? That he was willing to set aside his conquest for an hour of uninterrupted time with his daughter? To show that all of it—his many duties, his future plans, the demands of his populace—was worthless in comparison to having his daughter before him. 

Geralt felt his mouth grow dry. He understood it. Understood him. He felt his tension dissipate, dissolve into something new, as he drew nearer to the man who had more in common with him than anyone he’d ever encountered before. 

The advisors stepped aside, the crowd parting as the two approached the bench. Emhyr’s gaze never faltered, his heavy-lidded eyes not daring to blink, his attention fervidly following her as a flower turned to soak in the rays of the sun. There was a hidden strength to him, his body poised in a deceptively relaxed posture, though the truth of it was hidden in the placement of his feet, how his shoulders leaned forward slightly: he was a predator, a hunter, and would not make easy prey.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Mererid announced with a bow. “Sir Geralt of Rivia and—”

Emhyr took over the introduction and stated Ciri’s name, her full name. His voice was deep. Regal. Exactly the kind of voice that held the power to command millions. He listed out her titles, all of her titles, and kept going, and going, and slowly all of the advisors lowered to their knees and bowed to their princess—and future Empress, if Emhyr got his way—and all the while Ciri looked baffled at the open display of ardent dedication. Emhyr noticed her discomfort, because of course he noticed everything. “Get used to it. Before long every soul from Nilfgaard to the Dragon Mountains will kneel before you.”

The only other person who commanded so much respect, who had half as many titles to his name was…Emhyr himself.

The Imperator of Nilfgaard, the conqueror of the North and South, had exactly the kind of strength, the intelligence, the ambition, that could match Ciri’s. He was the only being in the entire world that could stand on equal ground beside the Lady of Time and Space and not be found wanting. 

Their rule, together, would have been marvelous.

What travesties has Geralt committed by keeping the two apart?

Ciri sent a questioning, darting look up at him. Geralt didn’t know what was on his face, what had given him away, but at that moment, as they stopped before their emperor, Geralt wanted to bow. 

He wanted to bare the back of his neck and offer recompense for his thievery. Only Ciri's gaze on him kept him from showcasing his humility.

“I did not expect you to keep your word, witcher,” Emhyr stated, his chiding blunt in its severity. 

For the first time since they arrived, the full weight of the emperor’s attention fell on him. Geralt felt like he might crumble beneath the imposing tonnage. He wanted to deflect. “Ciri wanted to hear what you have to say.”

He got a subtle jab to his side in thanks.

“She will.” The emperor’s unwavering focus didn’t miss a thing; he had to see how closely they were standing to each other; he had to read into the familiarity revealed by Ciri’s playful jab. “Your reward.” Emhyr motioned toward an advisor—his treasurer, most likely—with a smooth, controlled motion. Everything about him was composed, precise: a single raise of a finger could order a man to be executed, a clenched fist could exterminate an entire ancestral line. 

A man wearing an expertly fitted doublet, a folded-over barretina, and a pair of golden spectacles stepped forward. He held a small, polished chest, and he opened it to reveal a silk-lined interior, deep mauve, that contrasted nicely with the brimming pile of polished gold coins. Tucked against the top lining was a folded note, stamped with the official Nilfgaardian seal—exactly the kind of promissory note that one could wave about and be granted anything, anywhere, as long as the Nilfgaardian flag flew overhead. 

Geralt felt Ciri’s stare on the side of his face. If he took the reward, she wouldn’t fault him for it. She wouldn’t like it, but she understood how much this payment, this carte-blanche, could benefit him on the path.

Even if it meant denoting value to her life that could be paid.

“Didn’t come to collect on a deal,” Geralt said. He met Emhyr’s eyes again and refused to cower away from the blistering sharp focus. “You asked me to bring your daughter here. I did just that. Ciri will hear you out. Then we leave.”

“Are you sure?” Emhyr’s derisory tone called into question each last motivation behind Geralt’s actions. It implied fault. “Never again will you need to stalk monsters while wading through sewage.”

“I’m sure.”

Ciri slipped her hand into his, a demonstration of her gratefulness. 

A demonstration that did not go missed.

Geralt squeezed her once, showing her that of course he’d do anything for her, he wasn’t in it for the money, but for fuck’s sake your father will kill me if he gets a hint of what I’ve done to you, so he gently pulled his hand away. 

“I understand,” Emhyr said, the phrase sending rivulets of tension down Geralt’s spine. “Honor prevents you from accepting coin.” The slightest nudge of his chin instructed the treasurer to snap shut the lid and step aside. “In that case, a stallion, a thoroughbred Nilfgaardian, awaits you in the stables. Treat it as an expression of my gratitude.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, bewildered. He'd come in there, expecting to be led instantly to the hanging block, but instead had been thanked.

“Now forgive me. I wish to speak to my daughter.” Emhyr’s gaze slid from Geralt's, regally dismissive, and landed with razor-sharp intent on his daughter.  

Right. There was still the chance that he'd have Geralt killed, should he learn anything that warranted it during his discussion with his daughter.

Geralt looked down at Ciri and pleaded silently for her to try to keep things from going to utter shit. She rolled her eyes at him and motioned for him to get a move on. 

Well then. If she insisted.

Geralt trusted his fate to his daughter and followed the majordomo out. 

*

It was kind of hurtful that the visit didn’t amount to anything. 

Emhyr had played such a monumental role in the back of Geralt’s mind that it kind of hurt to be received as an unimportant footnote when they finally met again.

The first time they’d met, Emhyr—Duny—had been a prickly porcupine. Geralt had helped with that whole kerfuffle and accidentally stole ownership of Duny’s daughter at the end of it. One would think that their next meeting would end with something equally bizarre happening.

But, no, that wasn’t the case.

Geralt had to awkwardly wait around and make small talk with Morvan Voorhis, the same guy that’d interrogated him when he’d been trapped in a bath being shaved by a not-to-gentle Mererid the last time he’d paid the emperor a visit. Apparently, Morvan was quite an equestrian. He was also a high ranking general of the Nilfgaardian army that could have Geralt put to death if he sneezed in an insulting manner. 

He doesn’t seem the type though. Morvan seemed nice, actually. And gave off the impression that he really, really liked his horses.

Eventually, Ciri marched out of the gardens, looking in a right mood, but she refused to say anything about it. At least no one was bearing their weapons or shooting arrows at them. Geralt followed her leave and joined her at the stables where an expensive-looking stallion stood next to her mare, already outfitted with Geralt’s saddle and gear. 

“Hey there, Roach,” Geralt said, patting the massive beast’s flank before climbing into the saddle. 

Ciri scoffed.

“Would you rather me call him Gratitude of the Emperor?” Geralt asked, feeling smarmy about the whole thing. “Gote, for short?” Geralt patted the horse’s mane. “What’d’you think, Goat?”

“No.” Ciri dug her heels into the mare’s side and took off at a fast trot.

“Roach it is,” Geralt relented.

Geralt waited until they’d left the border of Vizima before he pulled up beside Ciri. She still looked like she’d sucked on something tart. Whatever she’d discussed with Emhyr hadn’t been pleasant.

“Wanna talk about it?” Geralt asked, hoping that she’d answer in the negative. But if she did want to talk, he’d be there for her.

“No. I want to murder someone.”

Geralt had no objection to that plan, so he spurred his stallion on, and they rode south. 

*

Imlerith died. 

His head got smashed in with his own mace. 

Geralt dropped the heavy weapon. It thumped against the ground at the same time as Imlereth’s body. He took a step back from the smoldering corpse and rubbed his neck. Arranging a murder seemed so much more fun from bed; the actual hoops to jump through to get here were ridiculous—climbing an entire mountain, getting locked out of the mountain’s peak and diving into icy water for a stupid coin to pass a stupid test to be granted entry, having to kill a fiend and a sylvan, and then playing the most serious game of rock-paper-scissors to win the chance to take out the war general while Ciri went off to massacre the Ladies of the Woods. 

It was all worth it though. 

Vesemir had been avenged. 

Geralt let out a sigh and walked over to the sheer cliff face he’d been dangled off of—by his neck—only a few moments before. He slumped down into a seat and let his legs hang off the edge while he waited for his daughter to finish her own murder spree. 

It didn’t take her long. 

A solid clank rang as she kicked Imlerith’s armor. 

Geralt scooted over a bit, leaving the most comfortable, and now slightly warmed, section of rock for her to claim. “How’d it go for you?”

“Uugh.” Ciri stomped her way over and sank next to him. For Geralt’s depraved body, Ciri plus close proximity equaled sex, and no amount of clamping down seemed to be able to stop it. His hand immediately reached for her and wrapped around her side. Ciri seemed to feel it too, because her breathing quickened as she scooted in close and draped her legs over his lap. “Slew only two of the crones, the third fled.” She played with his medallion, giving off the impression that it hadn’t even been hard; the reign of terror the demonic witches held cut off as simply as slicing off an ear. Even though one still lived, no local would continue to send their children down the Trail of Treats. “But she stole Vesemir’s medallion.”

Before Geralt had the chance to ask if she would’ve preferred help, Ciri yanked him in by his chain and kissed him. Geralt deepened the kiss. They’d both accomplished what they’d set out to do. Sure, they’d have to find the last remaining crone, slaughter her, and steal back Vesemir’s medallion, but that could be postponed until later. For now, it was past time they rewarded themselves for ridding the world of evil, one slice at a time. 

Geralt pulled Ciri onto his lap. It was a bit reckless, sure, sliding off his daughter’s boots, chucking them behind him, then pulling off her leggings while they sat at the edge of a thousand-foot cliff, a smoking corpse behind them, an abyss below them, and an insurmountable problem in front of them.

Fucking on the very edge of the world seemed like an appropriate start to the list of seemingly impossible tasks they’d soon set out on. 

*

Battle preparations took place in Novigrad. 

Their whole family was waiting for them in the Rosemary and Thyme. Ciri’s return startled up a flurry of activity, and an ear-splitting squeal from Dandelion, who immediately leapt into her arms and burst into yabbering wails, while Geralt got pulled aside by no less than three friends who had an “immediate request” for him to do. He managed to make eye contact with Ciri—who’d dropped Dandelion and was patting his head as he clung to her boots—and received a wave of dismissal from her: she’ll catch up with him later. 

Geralt shook his head fondly and decided to tackle each request one at a time. 

Yennefer wanted him to free the sorceress Margarita Laux-Antille from the most highly defended prison in the entire continent. It was completely insane. It had zero chance of success. But Yennefer routinely demanded the impossible, and Geralt had never denied her yet. He shrugged and got on with it. 

It involved tackling a drunkard and prying some questions out of him—Yen never did her own dirty work—and after they got some intel about the Deireadh prison, Geralt had the lovely opportunity to have a midday stroll with his former lover.

Yen walked him to the inner city. They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. Geralt played out the past few days in his mind, and Yen skimmed his thoughts. Contentment wrapped around her as snugly as her black-furred shawl. They stopped in front of a sunken-in well, old and disused. She motioned for Geralt to remove the cracked lid. 

“I take it you’re not going with me?” Geralt asked. The lid was made of cast iron. It was incredibly heavy. He grunted as he shoved it aside. 

A whiff of nasty hit them; Yen politely covered her nose. Geralt grimaced. Yen raised her perfectly formed eyebrow at him. “Our paths diverged long ago,” she said loftily, "and yours is not one I'd like to sully myself with." Geralt took the hint that she wasn’t talking about dealing with the stank and was instead referring to their relationship. As far as metaphors went, this one was pretty much on the nose. Ouch. “I simply wish you the best chance of success as you continue on.”

Geralt snorted. That was probably the best, most direct way she’d say that she approved of his relationship with their daughter; she just didn't want to participate in it. She didn’t seem bitter about it. If anything, it was yet another one of her messages that meant that she knew far more than she was letting on and Geralt would soon find himself wishing he knew more before jumping headfirst into things. Acknowledging this, he sent her a shoddy, lackadaisical salute, and dove headfirst into the well. 

The well had been dug directly beside the main sewage line to the city. Over time, the barrier eroded and the two merged. Geralt swam down to the base of the well and found the leak. He shoved aside a few bricks with his shoulder and shimmied through the hole, and then began the most pleasant task of winding his way beneath the city to the prison. A pang of longing hit him: if only he could’ve accepted Emhyr’s offer—it’d be rather nice to not have to wade through people’s shit ever again.

He didn’t think he’d ever be so lucky. 

Geralt wasn’t alone. Drowners, rotfiends, ghouls, and oh, look, a water hag, kept him company. It was a good thing he had the chance to warm up his sword arm, because he was sure he’d be fighting tooth and nail to try to free a sorceress out of the clasp of the witch hunters’ main domain. 

He followed the stench of black beans, a common meal served in prisons, and used a quick blast of Aard to clear a hole big enough for him to climb up into. A game of poker between three guards was interrupted when the first guard’s head slammed into the hard corner of the table, the second guard stabbed himself in the throat with the dagger he’d attempted to shank Geralt with, and the third had said dagger launched into his eye. Geralt searched their corpses for any keys, but no luck. 

He continued to not have any luck finding keys. 

He found Margarita though, and several other undesirables that’d been trapped in the prison. They all looked roughed up. Abused. Seemed like the only motivation witch hunters had for capturing prisoners was how easy of a victim they’d make: if there wouldn’t be any families—or families who had any political sway to their names—clamoring for their safe return. The whole thing was a cesspool of rape and violence.

And impenetrable locks. 

One of the elves shivering in a corner had watched Geralt dispatch the jailors through lidless eyes. It looked like someone had taken sheep shears to them. Scabs covered their whole face, which they scratched with fingers that’d had all their nails ripped off. They helpfully mentioned that only the prison warden had the key, and then they smiled vindictively at the guards’ corpses, revealing a pustulous cavern where all their teeth had been wrenched out. 

“Thanks,” Geralt said, and withdrew his steel sword. 

He climbed the steps, figuring that the prison warden would be off in a tower somewhere above the stench and the reach of the screams, and opened the door to reveal a courtyard and at least twenty guards. 

Geralt took off at top speed up the stairs before any of them had the chance to notch their crossbows. They had plenty of time to let out alarmed shouts, however, so when Geralt threw himself through the next doorway, he had to duck beneath a mallet swinging for his face, stab through the guard’s femoral artery, catch the mallet and lob it at the other guard in the room, then stab his sword through the first man’s throat to stop his screaming. He had to search through three rooms, scythe through seven guards, and go up two ladders until he finally found the prison warden cowering behind a desk dusted with fisstech. Geralt bashed his teeth in with the handle of his sword then cut off the lids of his eyes along with that entire section of his skull. 

He found the key. 

Problem was, now he had to make it back to the cells. 

Ekimmara decoctions tasted terrible, but it gave him an extra edge when facing a mob of enemies, so Geralt downed it and tucked the emptied vial back into his belt pouch. He selected his only bomb and placed it within easy reach, climbed down the ladders, passed through the rooms, and opened the door to the courtyard.

The next instant the whole world turned into a rain of crossbow bolts. Geralt launched an Aard and himself down the stairs and darted toward the cells, but a huge battering ram of a man with a giant shield shoved him back and Geralt had no choice but to face the mob, which had more than doubled in size. They all surrounded Geralt, yelling madly and waving their swords at him. 

He chucked a Superior Dragon’s Dream at the thickest congregation and ignited the poison gas with a blast of Igni. The closest guards exploded into bloody smithereens while the rest of the bunch burst into flames. Geralt gave another futile attempt to shove past the guard that was more wall than human but careened right back into the swarm. 

Geralt hated being surrounded. 

The only hope for it was to kill each one who attempted to get behind him, which meant a constant twisting dance of stabbing and decapitating and pirouetting until a tidy pile of limbs and heads lay in a ring around him. Meanwhile, bolts kept flying, and he was getting tired of knocking them away with the flat of his blade, so he caught the next one and threw it back; it hit the archer in the meat of his thigh, and he fell down the rest of the stairs, knocking down two other archers with him. Finally having room to breathe, Geralt held onto Axii with all his focused intent and got the big guy to smash the edge of his shield into the back of the neck of the closest jailer, who crumpled instantly. Geralt walked up behind him and wondered if the guy was part golem when it took two swings to slice off his head. 

Geralt wiped his blade off on the guy’s tent-sized trousers and idly glanced around. No one was shooting at him anymore. Seemed like he’d killed most of the guards, and any remaining were cowering and pissing themselves hoping he didn’t spot them. He debated on dispatching the rest, but honestly didn’t feel like exerting any more energy than he had to. He decided to head back in and tap the magic trinket Yen had given him.

Yen portalled directly into the cell with Margarita. 

Geralt pointedly finished unlocking the door and opened it wide. Yen didn’t even spare him a glance, her dismay at her friend’s fate her sole focus. 

“If you want out of here, go with her,” Geralt said. That got Yen’s attention, and she glanced around at the myriad of destitutes that desperately needed medical attention. She pursed her lips. They didn’t have time to spare for the rest of the prisoners, but she knew how stubborn Geralt could be and recognized he wouldn’t let her leave without them. She waved her hands about and snapped her fingers.

All the chains, shackles, and doors clicked open. Geralt dropped his key. He folded his arms, slumped against the bars, and watched as the prisoners slowly rose, the ones better off helping their cellmates, and they all shambled to where Yen was holding open a portal. Geralt shoved himself upright once the last prisoner limped through, but Yen had draped Margarita’s arm across her shoulders and she beat him through it. It closed behind her.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose.

Back to the sewers, then. 

*

Triss wanted him to free the sorceress Philippa Eilhart out from under Dijkstra’s thumb. Geralt scrubbed his hand down his face when Triss gave him the details about the two of them having the kind of a lover’s quarrel that involved backstabbing and eavesdropping and scheming and being turned into an owl—Zoltan’s owl, as it turned out—and got a helpful suggestion that he should really take advantage of the bathhouse’s facilities while he was there. 

Problem was, as soon as they arrived, the explosions started. Geralt had to chase the livid sorceress through the baths, climb back down into the sewers, ask a troll for directions, kill an actual golem, and then finally tackle the blind sorceress who had the gall to wrinkle her nose at him and state haughtily, “I will submit if you agree to stand as far away from me as possible.” Philippa willingly followed him back up to the baths, holding a perfumed rag against her nose the whole time. She and Dijkstra got into another lover’s spat, and somehow by the end of it they wrangled Geralt into agreeing to help them tidy the last strings to their monstrously convoluted plot. 

If he had known that he’d be committing regicide by the end of it, he wouldn’t have gone along. But, just like most things that happened to him, Geralt simply tried to keep the shit from trickling down and stopping it at its source. And if that meant siding with Roche’s Blue Commandos and luring King Radovid into an alley to be stabbed in the back by a vengeful Philippa, who then immediately polymorphed into an owl and flew away, then so be it. 

He hadn’t expected to be confronted with the announcement that Dijsktra was claiming the position of Chancellor of Redania and would unite all the Northern Realms under his banner and wage war against Nilfgaard. 

Geralt didn’t realize he’d had any strong opinions on that front until after he was standing above Dijsktra’s corpse, his sword firmly lodged in the ribs where the heartless son of a bitch apparently had had a working organ. He still didn’t have time to think through his utter lack of neutrality, because he had to hurry up and kill all Dijsktra’s guards who were very, very angry at him. Roche and Ves jumped in to help. After, Roche clasped him on the shoulder and thanked him for being a friend. Turned out, the guerilla fighters had been in peace talks with Nilfgaard and negotiated a truce. Temeria as a vassal state, in exchange for Radovid’s head. 

So Emhyr had been behind this whole thing. 

And Geralt had just saved his life, because if Dijsktra had claimed power, the first thing he would’ve done was incite a coup and get Emhyr killed. 

Geralt dragged himself back to the Rosemary and Thyme. Ciri was the first to greet him. She took one look at him and blurted, “Oh, gods, Geralt, what have you been up to?”

A glance at his sodden, blood and filth covered armor proved that he looked as good as he smelled. He shrugged. A brief contemplation of the consequences of his actions from today—the witch hunters no longer being a threat (since most were dead), the discrimination against sorceresses, elves, and dwarves no longer spurred on by a mad king (and would soon be outlawed entirely, under Roche’s command), and the entirety of the north handed to Ciri’s father on a platter (because Geralt just couldn’t help himself, could he)—seemed like a bit overkill, but honestly wasn’t too far off from what usually happened wherever he went. 

“Not much,” Geralt said.

“Uh huh,” Ciri said, disbelieving, but figuring that she wouldn’t get a complete story out of him even if she tried, she took his hand and dragged him up to her room where she had a bath waiting for him. She didn’t join him in it, but she did willingly get out another set of gear Zoltan had kept on hand for him ever since the whole appearing-in-the-town-square-completely-naked debacle. Geralt cleaned up, got dressed, and happily allowed Ciri to drag him out onto the town. 

It was the most fun Geralt had in years. 

Ciri held his hand the whole time. She chatted away, eagerly detailing her adventures the last time she’d been in the city, revealing all her passing thoughts, pointing out the sights that interested her. It was reminiscent of their first travels together. Before Geralt had learned how to keep up a conversation with a child, which didn’t matter, because Ciri quickly picked up on exactly what each of his grunts and silent moods meant. 

Ciri took him to the Golden Sturgeon, where she proudly introduced him to her friend, Bea. It was very clear, very quickly, that lovely Bea would absolutely be willing to join them in a threesome, based on the meaningful looks sent at their entwined hands and the salacious wink she sent Geralt’s way. Ciri pecked a quick kiss to Bea’s cheek and apologized, but they really did have someone to fillet the skin off of and hang out to dry, maybe some other time, and dragged Geralt back into the road. 

“Are we committing more murder?” Geralt asked, amused.

“Yep,” Ciri said happily. 

*

They didn’t end up killing who Ciri had in mind, because Geralt had already beaten the man to death the last time he’d been in town. 

“Dudu?” Geralt asked, incredulous. 

The doppler gave him a slow one-eyed blink from Whoreson Junior’s body. Their happy reunion was without fanfare and held silently in Whoreson’s office, because Dudu didn’t want anyone to overhear that the man he was masquerading as was actually dead. Ciri congratulated Dudu on landing himself the role as leader of all the gangs of Novigrad, since the four former leaders had somehow all ended up murdered not too long before. Geralt grimly vowed to stop sticking his nose in things, because if he kept this up, the next murder he’d commit would land Dandelion a role as King of the Dragon Mountains or something equally outlandish. 

After hugging the doppler nearly half to death, Ciri guided Geralt to a literal circus at the edge of town, where she happily reunited with her friends and dragged Geralt along for the fun. They danced in front of the fire, drank some remarkably well-made elvish brew, stole a bunch of horses, and then made love all night long under a pavilion her friends had helpfully cleared out for them to use. 

The morning sun kissed Ciri’s skin as gently as Geralt did. He didn’t want the night to end. They’d fallen asleep in each other's arms, their legs entwined in a spare bedroll Valdo had offered them. The reprieve had been more than welcome, but Geralt knew that it was far past time they got back to work. He kissed his way down to Ciri’s collarbone.

Ciri woke with a low moan of distended pleasure. She rolled onto her back and arched her spine to give him greater access. She let him have his moment to nuzzle between her breasts, then pried open her eyes. “Morning already?” She let out a forlorn sigh. “They’re expecting me back at the inn.”

“Think they can handle it without you?” Geralt asked, his voice pleasantly muffled. 

“The Lodge of Sorceresses,” Ciri said with a tone of bitterness, implying a haughty attitude belonging to the lot of them, “want to appeal to me to join them. I think their goal is to convince me that I will stand on equal ground as them and will no longer be their puppet.” She pulled Geralt’s ear until he backed off. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. 

Geralt admired the way the sunlight caressed her tits. “You think they’ll actually hold themselves to that?”

“Does it matter?” Ciri yawned. “Whether they view me as an equal or not doesn’t change the fact that they want to use my powers for themselves.” She rose out of the bedroll, unabashedly nude, and looked around for the clothes that they’d discarded rather enthusiastically the night before.

“Want me to go with you?”

She spotted her brassiere dangling from a flag post. She collected it. “Don’t you have anything else planned?” 

“Avallac’h wanted to meet with me.”

“Best not leave him waiting.” Ciri chucked Geralt’s small clothes into his face. 

Geralt pried them off his nose and let them fall onto his lap. “You sure you don’t want my help?”

“You think I need it?”

“No.”

“Then no, I’ll be fine on my own. You, however, are probably not going to enjoy Avallac’h’s portals.”

Geralt let out a long, aggrieved groan. 

*

Geralt did not enjoy Avallac’h’s portals. 

Avallac’h was more liaison than he was sage, but he was unrepentantly incompetent at both. The elf dropped Geralt off at four different worlds, nearly got him killed a half dozen times, and didn’t tell him what they were really after until they ended up back at the Rosemary and Thyme with one of Eredin’s generals in tow, and finally revealed to everyone that Eredin had murdered the former king of the Aen Elle. That pissed General Ge’els right off, and he vowed that the Wild Hunt would not receive any reinforcements. The indignant general even gave some tips on how they could defeat the traitorous Eredin, and then fucked right off back to Tir ná Lia.

Well. At least they had a game plan now. Would’ve been nice if Avallac’h were more forthcoming with the details, but it didn’t bother Geralt too badly. He was used to being led around by the nose. Yen looked over at him and smirked. 

*

“What do you know that I don’t know?” Geralt finally had the chance to ask, after slaving away doing all the hard work the sorceresses expected him to do before they considered themselves ready for the battle. 

“Oh Geralt, the volumes that would fill,” Yen said. She admired a bookshelf that had centuries-old tomes stuffed into it. Her raven-black hair coiled in perfect curls down her back.

“Don’t be coy. What has this got to do with Ciri?” Geralt kept his voice pitched low, because Ciri was right around the corner. The three of them had decided to do some light breaking-and-entering, a fun family adventure that they’d been missing out on for the last few years, and were currently looting Avallac’h’s lab. 

Yen idly pulled a scroll out and blew the dust off it. “What makes you think this has anything to do with Ciri?”

Geralt gave Yen a flat look. 

“Ah. Right.” The sorceress rolled it open and scanned the tight script, looking bored. “Sorry, I forget that unlike most people, you’re not the center of your own world.”

“Yen.”

“What’re you two arguing about?” Ciri stepped back into view, holding a hairbrush, of all things.

“Nothing,” Geralt said.

“We’re arguing about you, of course, darling,” Yen cooed sweetly. She rolled the scroll up and crammed it back into the shelf, not in the same place she pulled it from. “The only thing in the universe that matters.”

“Care to fill me in on the details?” Ciri asked, looking bemused. “Or should we take care of the intruder first?” She waggled the hairbrush at them. Geralt furrowed his brows, confused, until he noticed that the strands of hair caught in the bristles were distinctly brown.

Avallac’h’s hair was the color of foamy piss. 

Geralt withdrew his steel and stalked further into the room. Yen rolled her eyes at his bravado and looped her arm through Ciri’s. The two of them followed leisurely behind him. 

They found a brunette elf in the back bedroom. She sat in front of an armoire and calmly applied lotion to her bare arms. Most of her was bare. Geralt tried hard not to stare: all her curves and dips were revealed beneath the see-through cloth. 

Ciri recognized the elf. She barged past Geralt and took charge of the conversation. Accusations flew, insults were made, and Yen and Geralt watched as their daughter defended herself against the vitriol the elf spewed at her. The elf had all sorts of things to say about Ciri based on what Avallac’h told her, and Ciri was learning all sorts of pernicious truths. After getting her barbed points across, the elf took her leave, apparently unconcerned that the place was actively being broken into and left them to it. 

Geralt almost expected Ciri to simply stab the elven bitch, but then again, if Ciri slaughtered everyone that was rude to her, there wouldn’t be very many people left. 

Ciri huffed and stomped past them back into the main study. Yen and Geralt shared a look. Yen’s head tilt meant that it was his turn.

Geralt followed his daughter. “Are you surprised that Avallac’h hates you?”

How tactful, Yen mouthed disparagingly. Geralt shrugged at her, then followed Ciri over to a table. Ciri frowned down at it. Several sketches of herself stared back at them. They were remarkably accurate, save for the lack of a scar depicted on her cheek. It was like Avallac’h had attempted to capture a perfect version of her on paper. Seemed odd to Geralt, since she’d already achieved perfection in his eyes.

“I knew it, I suppose,” Ciri admitted bitterly. “But I still don’t get why.”

“Oh Ciri, darling, there never is a valid reason for any of the strong emotions. Hate, love, it’s all the same. Completely ridiculous.” Yen joined Ciri and consolingly patted her back.

Tactful, Geralt mouthed back at her. Yen’s lips twitched. She was normally much more stoic, but around Geralt, she knew that he needed every hint he could get. Yen let him see her amusement and then she leaned against her daughter, held forth her hand, and summoned a ball of light into her palm. 

“Would you feel the potential for hatred,” Yen said, tactfully, “when you see someone wield the kind of power you know that you and all your people will never be able to achieve on your own?” The light grew brighter. “Would you despise having to work with something you view as chattel to get something you think owed to you?”

“So that’s it then? I’m just…some prized cow for him to parade around, hoping that I can achieve all his goals for him?”

The light disappeared. Yen tapped Ciri’s nose. “I think the proper term would be heifer.” 

“Damnit, Yen,” Geralt interrupted. 

Ciri giggled humorlessly. “Oh, it’s all so very fucked, isn’t it?”

“I believe so. Come. I think I spotted something that might be very illuminating. For all of us.” Yen looped her arm around Ciri’s hip and guided her back into the main lab. An enormous tapestry adorned the far wall. Shimmering gold thread shaped an enormous tree—on closer look, it depicted a genealogical chart of the Aen Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood, from Lara Dorren all the way down to Ciri. The empty space beneath Ciri’s elaborately embellished name was a blank space outlined in vibrant, rainbow explosions of thread, dedicating her child as the Child of Destiny. 

Only one name stood beside hers as a potential mate. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Geralt said.

“Hm. No, this about sums up what’s been common knowledge for many, I’m afraid,” Yen said. 

“There’s no other options?” Ciri asked, trying for hopeful and falling short.

“Weak ones. Lines so close to extinction that the potential for a fruitful culmination is too poor of a chance to risk.” 

“And what then? Incest in perpetuity?”  

Yen squeezed Ciri’s hip comfortingly, then released her and strode toward the notes gathered on the table beneath the tapestry. “Actually, no. There’s reason to believe that your child will have enough sage power to rewrite the components of blood itself. They will be able to pick their own mate and alter them and allow magic to more fully spread back to the masses.”

Ciri scrunched up her nose. “Alter blood itself?”

“Says the Lady of Time and Space,” Yen quipped. She scanned through the documents quickly, then withdrew one that caught her eye. “You can rewrite time and portal to unknown realms, is it too hard to believe that genetics wouldn’t be next on the list? Oh, look here.” Yen pointed at Avallac’h’s tidily scrawled notations. “He’s been studying this for centuries. He actually tried to cultivate a genetic mix like Ciri’s. But one excluding the human line.” Her finger slid further down the page. She withdrew the next page and repeated the motion. At the bottom of the fourth page, she declared, “All his experiments ended in failure.”

“So I can’t just fuck an elf and hope it works.”

“I’m afraid not, dear.”

Ciri let out a beleaguered sigh.

“You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?” Geralt asked skeptically. He was still caught up on how Emhyr’s name showed up twice on the chart: once above his daughter, and once more beside her. And, sure, it was old news to Geralt; ever since the bubble, it’d been hard to miss the fact that it’d be a good thing if Emhyr could get his hands on Ciri.

It was exactly like pairing up the prized stallion with the highest rated broodmare. The fact that they were already related only made the pairing stronger, thanks to the overarching fuckery magic provided. 

“I’m not particularly thrilled, no,” Ciri admitted. “And I’m not saying it’ll never be an option, but if I ever want to become a mother and not have my babe slaughtered for being bred wrong, there’s only one person I can turn to.”

“I’ll protect the child.” Geralt stepped forward and slammed his hand down on the desk. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Ciri and Yen shared commiserating looks. Then Ciri looked up at him, her expression breaking, the truth—her truth, her years spent being chased, her continuing need to flee: Geralt’s protection was never enough on its own. Yen patted the back of Geralt’s hand, reminding him that he didn’t have time to fall apart right then. “I’m sure it’ll all work out in the end, Dear Friend.”

*

Not even destroying Avallac’h’s lab made him feel any better. 

To make matters worse, as soon as they got back to the ship where all the sorceresses were lounging about, waiting for Geralt to do all their work for them, Geralt was instructed to go beg Emhyr for help.

“We need Fringilla,” Philippa stated, admiring her nails despite lacking a pair of eyes. “He has Fringilla. We need a fleet. His warships are, conveniently, already here. Go entreat him for assistance.”

The Nilfgaardian war fleet had been hard to miss, once they’d arrived at Skellige and learned that the island was under siege. The Warlord of the North had made it to the furthest point north, it seemed. 

“He’s not going to listen to me,” Geralt objected.

“Then don’t bother speaking,” Yen said. “It might actually work in your favor.” She ignored his glower and handed him a sealed letter. “Deliver this. Don’t antagonize him. You’ll probably survive.”

“Splendid,” Geralt muttered. He shoved the letter into his inner breast pocket and stomped off to play errand boy. 

*

“Don’t shoot!”

Geralt’s Nilfgaardian must’ve gotten pretty good, because he recognized the guard’s command after having roughly a dozen crossbows aimed at him. Geralt held up his hands and tried to look as non-antagonizing as possible. 

“What a pleasant surprise, Witcher.” The deep voice rose out of the fog with as much impact as a shallow coastline rising up to slam into one’s boat. Emhyr strode within view, majestically regal and fully awake despite the late hour.

Geralt had hoped that this midnight meeting might allow him to sneak aboard the ship, leave the letter with one of the guards, and then dive back into the frigid water before anyone had the chance to disturb the royal slumber. He should’ve known better.

Geralt lowered his hands. He eyed the crossbows held at the ready. “Warm welcome.” Remembering that he’s supposed to be polite and not ask to be gutted on the deck, he added, “Thank you, your Majesty.” He bowed slightly.

“You should have come with my daughter. Your welcome would have been different.” Emhyr’s eyes lingered on where the water had sucked Geralt’s armor tight against his skin. “Where is she?”

Geralt had spent the day searching the island with Ciri for her friends and helped her orchestrate a funeral for the villager who’d risked his life defending her honor. (The same man who Yen and Geralt had performed a bit of Necromancy on while searching for answers, but that was another topic.) “Close.”

“Close, White Wolf, is what you are to decapitation.”

Yeah, that sounded about right. Without Ciri acting as witness, the gloves came off. Geralt tried to hide his wince as Emhyr stalked closer. 

“You’re insolent because you believe I cannot afford to hurt you. And you’re right.” Emhyr stopped directly in front of him, his gaze unwavering, his sharp focus as challenging as some vast, serpentine danger. “Yet that will change one day. When you are no longer indispensable but…disposable.”

Emhyr thought he was indispensable? Him? Why? And seeing him was a pleasant surprise? Or was that sarcasm? That and the threats to decapitate him were such mixed messages. Geralt tried to assuage the level of danger he faced by examining the curve of Emhyr’s lips, the stern censure of his brow, the slope of his nose, the piercing brown eyes that had flecks of green near the pupils—the exact same shade of green as Ciri’s. He was a mirror image of his daughter, made masculine and sharp. Undeniably handsome. 

Emhyr frowned. He took a step back. “What do you want?”

Geralt did his best to not antagonize the only man in the world that could offer Ciri something she might need, sometime much, much later in life, and probably wouldn’t want, anyways. He handed over the letter and explained the general gist of what was coming down the pipe. They were going to incite the Wild Hunt to attack them, here, and could use all the help they could get. He kept it brief. 

Emhyr scanned through the letter. He allowed Geralt to stew in silence, gracious in his cruelty. The whisper of the wind, the crashing of waves, the thumping of their hearts offering the suspenseful ambiance to the potent decision. 

“Very well.” Emhyr folded up the letter. He looked past Geralt’s shoulder to the closest guard. “Bring me Fringilla Vigo. You may remove her dimeritium shackles.” He turned and walked toward the bow of the ship. 

Wait, that was it? He was going to offer the Lodge of Sorceresses amnesty without putting up a fight? And he would cease his siege against the last remaining scion of rebellion and instead wage battle with the greatest foe to mankind? The Hunt was going to massacre his troops—he had to know that. 

And yet, all his careful planning, all the many years of hard work and toil, was set aside. 

For Ciri. 

Still, Geralt couldn’t quite believe that he’d be willing to let the sorceresses go free. It was basically handing them the knife they’d use to stab him in the back with. He kept a half-pace behind Emhyr and asked, “Truly prepared to forgive them? Amnesty in exchange for help?

“I am prepared to abide by the agreement I made with Yennefer.”

“Didn’t answer my question.”

Emhyr stopped. His nostrils flared infinitesimally. “Nor must I.”

Right. Geralt decided to take Yen’s advice and stay quiet. 

The emperor’s guards were quick. Fringilla marched out, looking like the living embodiment of entitled, demanding behavior, unreasonable expectations, and an aggressive attitude that would escalate minor issues into blown-out proportions all wrapped up in a pretty package.

“No introductions are necessary, from what I’ve heard,” Emhyr said acerbically, implying just how much he knew about Geralt’s sorceress-adjacent proclivities.

Geralt pursed his lips. It wasn’t his fault they kept on throwing themselves at him. Though he had to admit, especially when it came to the prissy ones like Fringilla, it hadn’t been worth it. 

“Farewell.” Emhyr did not bow before taking his leave. Instead, he walked off like a man inconvenienced by having to dump out the contents of a chamber pot. 

Fringilla didn’t waste any time. After Geralt told her the location of the rest of the sorceresses, she opened a portal. Unlike Yen, she allowed Geralt to step through, rather than forcing him to swim the several arduous miles back to shore. 

*

The final preparations were made. Avallac’h performed the ritual with the sunstone he’d sent Geralt to fetch. He summoned their doom.

The Wild Hunt descended upon them. 

The White Frost froze the ocean.

Emhyr’s warships poked out of the icy expanse like flecks of meat caught between teeth. The warriors of Skellige charged out onto the ice to battle the spreading swarm of the Wild Hunt. The Nilfgaardian soldiers bravely transitioned from ocean warfare to land battle and took up formations. It was impressive, really, how quickly they adapted to the new surroundings: Emhyr’s guidance was a tactical miracle. 

Geralt raced across the ice, searching for Ciri. He killed hounds and warriors that directly attacked him, but he could not dally and get caught up protecting the soldiers that fought with him. He slaughtered as he ran—slid, mostly, but at least maintained forward progression—toward where he felt a spectral force of magic emanating. 

He found Caranthir—Eredin’s second in command, a powerful source mage—who called to life golems and sent blistering spells at Geralt. He wasn’t easy to kill. Geralt landed the final blow, but the bastard grabbed Geralt’s heel and teleported them both to the bottom of the ocean. 

For fuck’s sake. 

Geralt swam with all his might. He recognized that the upper crust of the ocean layer was frozen over entirely, and that he’d met his end already. He refused to give up, however. He followed his air bubbles and rose for the black cap and watched with practiced dismay as an enormous warship exploded above him and churned the surrounding icy shards back into water. It had to have been a planned explosion; the only way to unfreeze the ships from the now churning, unfrozen water. Emhyr’s timing was nothing but astounding.

The freed warships altered their position, giving the maritime fighters the upper hand as hundreds of Wild Hunt warriors sank into the fray. Geralt broke the surface and sucked in a welcome breath of air. He noticed where Emhyr had put all his attention: at the stern of the Hunt’s spectral warship, where the King of the Aen Elle would be. Geralt swam for it. He snuck up the side of the ship.

Fighting the best swordsman in the entire world while shivering from the cold was not an ideal situation, but Geralt made it work. Eredin was just as much of a bastard as he usually was, and he pulled cheap tricks: launching Geralt to another world, equally as cold, and teleporting around him to sneak in cheap shots, and taunting him all the while, proclaiming that he knew something that Geralt didn’t.

Yeah, yeah, join the club. 

The thing was, Eredin had to die. Geralt wasn’t going to let him live, because if he did, that would put Ciri’s life at risk.

Geralt had to kill him.

So he did.

Geralt demanded an answer, first, though. And Eredin gave it to him, laughing.

Avallac’h had stolen Ciri away while Geralt had been distracted. 

*

The whole world was ending. Yen found him at some point, and together they made their way for the tower that all the magic was emanating from. They dodged twisters and giants and lightning and gale storms and shoved their way to the central point of Ragh nar Roog. 

Yen helped push Geralt through Avallac’h’s final line of defense, and then Geralt got to have a chat with the asshole who’d been behind all the destruction. Before Geralt could slit his throat, Ciri stepped out.

“I asked Avallac’h to open the tower, because I aim to enter it.”

Geralt sighed and put his steel away. Avallac'h knelt there, looking pathetic and unrepentant. The elven sage watched them like they were a pair of honey-badgers hissing at each other; inconveniencing him with their noise. “You know that’s doing exactly what he wants.”

“Yes, we all know I’m his one-trick pony. But if I don’t do this, the White Frost will destroy us all.”

“Any chance of putting it off? For a few years? A century, perhaps?” Geralt suggested hopefully. “Wait until you outlive me, and then I’ll happily grant permission.”

“Dad.”

“Ciri. Please. You don’t have to do this. Not now. Eredin's dead. Carathir's dead. Your father's got the Hunt on the run. Why don't we take a break?”

"Why should I break up the momentum? Sounds like we're on a roll."

Geralt hesitated. As impossible as a battle as this has been, as monumental their opponents were, they were nothing compared to the White Frost. The White Frost destroyed planets. It consumed and destroyed. Ciri...might not survive if she faced it head on. But he didn't want her to think he doubted her. He ended up repeating himself softly; "You don't have to do it now."

Ciri lifted her chin. A gleam of challenge entered her eye. “I want to, so I’m going to.”

Geralt opened his arms. She rushed for him and sank into his arms. He held her tight. He kissed the top of her head. He might never see her again. She might fail and bring about the world’s destruction. But he would let her go.

Because he would never try to stop her from doing what she wanted.

*

Geralt was naked, almost all the time, and so was his daughter. 

He’d found a cozy home for them in Velen. Yen supplied the furniture, though she notably didn’t supply any stuffed unicorns. The bed, however, was one that even the most spoiled of sorceresses couldn’t find fault with.

Geralt could finally spoil his daughter the way she deserved. She’d eliminated the White Frost; she’d come back to him; worshipping her was the least he could do.

Every moment they spent indoors, they found new and inventive ways to indulge in depravity. Geralt found himself in a perpetual cycle of blistering lust and dazed satiation. Their bed remained unmade, the chance of them falling into it at any point a viable possibility; he grew used to being awake in the dark, succumbing to the havoc of pleasure, love, and adoration that came with chants of my little girl, and daddy, daddy please. 

They did whatever they wanted. They went fishing, hunting, and took up contracts. Ciri smiled constantly, laughed all the time, was red-cheeked and vibrant. She won all their arguments, she landed all the killing blows, she used Geralt exactly how she saw fit.

But she grew discontent.

They both knew she was meant for greater things than hiding away in Velen, fucking away the months. The routine sparked and melted, first in vibrant vermillion, then rusted orange, until there was nothing but muted greige. Every day a repeat journey down the same beaten path.

Geralt knew it was coming. His upward thrusts slowed to a grind. He nipped and licked her breasts. Ciri shivered, holding his head close to her chest, like she knew it was soon time to let him go. She clenched around him with each downward stroke of her hips, dragging it out. They’d skipped their morning walk, their midday meal, the temptation to gorge on each other too powerful to ignore. 

“I think I will claim the throne,” Ciri announced.

A lump formed in Geralt’s throat. He shoved his face closer to her sternum, to her heart, where all of him resided. “What about your father?”

“He told me the throne is mine, should I want it.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’ll use you?”

“He vowed that the only thing he wants from me is my happiness.” She gyrated her hips, slowly, comfortingly, like rocking a cradle. “He said he won’t ask anything of me that I won’t first be willing to give. That if I want his advice, he will freely give it. That if I want to live elsewhere, he will not search for me.”

Geralt said nothing, could say nothing. His hips lifted up, filling her, seeking her, as he gluttonously wished he could house himself within her and never leave. 

“And you know what?” Ciri kissed the top of Geralt’s head. Held him even tighter. “He meant it. He doesn’t want to use me. He doesn’t want to impregnate me, or claim me as a trophy, or wield me as a weapon against his enemies.” Soft spoken cruelty, uttered as sweetly as injecting venom straight to the heart. “He just wants to see me happy.”

Geralt had lost.

The very act of spoiling his little girl had caused her erosion.

The greatest threat she’d faced had never once been the Wild Hunt. It had always been something larger, something that could never be defeated.

The threat of settling.

Ciri would never find contentment in Geralt like he had in her. She had worlds to conquer. Challenges to face. 

She was always meant for far more than what an old witcher like him could provide. 

This acceptance afforded him a clarity he’d never had, of purpose, of living. He’d never be enough for her, but he’d offer up all of himself regardless. 

Ciri stopped rocking. She pressed her hands on either side of Geralt’s face. Tilted his head back. Kissed his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks. “Daddy. Would it be alright, if I choose to do this?”

Witchers couldn’t cry. Geralt felt his emotions, his sense of self, snap like fragile porcelain. But he knew Ciri loved him, and that alone held him together. She was willing to ask him for permission. She’d honor what he wanted, even if it caused her suffering. He could never do that to her.

Ciri should have the freedom to do whatever she wanted to do. 

“Sure,” Geralt said. His voice did not break. “As long as you choose to do me every so often.”

Ciri blinked. She tilted her head. “That was horrid. Seriously?” She jabbed his chest. “You chose to say those words out loud?”

A honking laugh burst out of him. He pulled her in tight for another embrace.

Ciri wriggled against him and tried to break free. “I thought we were having a moment! You are such a dad.” She started to squeal when Geralt tickled her sides. “Alright! Alright, yes! Yes, Daddy, I promise to do you too. As often as I can.”

Geralt stopped tickling her. He held her, feeling bliss that was indistinguishable from grief. Ciri could face her challenges, take over the entire world, and claim her rightful destiny—all interspersed with portalling directly to Geralt, whenever she wished to see him.

It was more than he’d ever hoped for.

More than he deserved.