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Witcher, Poet, Fool

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In the two years they’ve been lovers, Yennefer has learned that Jaskier has an unparalleled talent for getting himself into trouble. Contracts that should be straightforward go sideways as soon as the Cat witcher shows up, previously cooperative villagers suddenly get out the pitchforks, crossbow-wielding bandits start popping up all over the place. Yennefer has been on the Path for decades, has seen plenty of shit in her career, and honestly has no idea how Jaskier is still alive. Some minor god or goddess must smile upon him.

So when Jaskier announces that he’s going off for at least a month to “take care of some business,” Yennefer is immediately suspicious.

“What kind of business?” she asks him. She, Jaskier, and Geralt don’t travel together all of the time— it’s uneconomical for three witchers to work together constantly— but they’ve been meeting up more ever since the ugly business in Velen the year before. Her lovers are less willing to let her out of their sight for long these days.

Jaskier swallows audibly. “Some witcher business.”

“A contract?” Geralt asks.

“Yes, a contract.” Jaskier’s tongue flickers out over his lower lip, a nervous habit that Yennefer normally finds endearing. “One that I was specifically requested for.”

Geralt and Yennefer exchange looks. They both know damn well that Jaskier is lying through his teeth, though Yennefer can’t figure out for the life of her why. Jaskier would tell them if he was going off to see one of his other lovers; they know about the countess in Sodden, the troubadour in Cidaris, and the pretty young bard in Novigrad. The three of them never have any secrets between them, especially not about the people they bed.

“What kind of—” Yennefer starts to ask, but Jaskier cuts her off.

“I’m sorry, but I really need to be going.” He hurries to press a kiss to her mouth, and then to Geralt’s. “Why don’t we meet in Vizima at the end of next month? The city is lovely this time of year.”

“Is it?” Geralt cocks an eyebrow.

“Well, as lovely as it ever is.” Jaskier waves a hand. “Take care of yourselves, my loves.”

And then he’s gone in a whirl of his too-floral perfume.

Geralt looks at Yennefer. Yennefer looks at Geralt.

“Think we should be worried?” Geralt asks.

“He survived twenty years on the Path before we met,” Yennefer says. “Surely he can take care of himself.”

“Hm. Remember Brugge?”

“Fuck.” Yennefer lowers her face into her hands. “Remember Kerack?

Geralt grunts. “We can’t keep wracking up kingdoms with warrants on our heads.”

“Gods damn it all,” she mutters. “We’re going to need to stage a rescue mission, aren’t we?”


“Let me get this straight.” Even over the xenovox, Yennefer can hear the amusement in Triss’s voice. “You want me to do a tracking spell on your beau?”

“Ugh, don’t call him my beau, Triss.” Yennefer shudders. “It makes me sound sixteen.”

“What do you prefer? Paramour? Beloved? Sweetheart?”

“I prefer a little less sass and a little more tracking.

Triss, one of Yennefer’s oldest and dearest friends, sometimes lover, and sorceress whom Yennefer would happily strangle right now, laughs merrily. “Oh, Yenna, relax. Of course I’ll track Jaskier. It would be easier if I had some of his DNA on hand.”

“I didn’t have time to collect samples before he mysteriously vanished.”

“He didn’t leave you some as a parting gift?”

Yennefer bares her teeth. “I should have let that fucking striga eat you.”

“How long has it been?”

“Two weeks.”

“Oh, darling, you have it bad.”

Yennefer doesn’t bother denying it. “I wouldn’t be worried if he hadn’t lied to us, Triss. We don’t lie to each other, not ever.”

She knows it makes her sound naive, but it’s the truth. She, Jaskier, and Geralt are always honest to each other, sometimes brutally so. It’s what makes the three of them work.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Triss says, voice gentling. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

“Thanks, Triss.” Yennefer pockets the xenovox and heads inside to find Geralt.


“Beauclaire?” Geralt demands the next morning. “What the fuck in Jaskier doing in Beauclaire?”

“I think the better question is who is Jaskier doing in Beauclaire?” Yennefer isn’t jealous, not exactly. They all take other lovers when they’re not together. But she is annoyed, because they don’t just sneak off to Beauclaire to be with those lovers. They’re always honest with each other.

“Maybe he’s on his way to Stygga,” Geralt says.

“Don’t see why he would be. I don’t think he’s particularly close with any of his siblings. Anyway, Beauclaire’s well out of the way of Ebbing.”

“Hm.” Geralt stares out the window at the street below. “And Triss is sure?”

“I’ve known Triss for thirty years. She hasn’t failed me yet.”

“Guess we’re going to Beauclaire then.” Geralt grimaces.

Despite her worry, Yennefer smiles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing. A beautiful, scenic country with temperate weather and the best wine on the Continent.”

“People are too fucking friendly. The one time I went there, everyone kept talking to me.”

Yennefer has to clap her hand over her mouth to hide her laughter. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Jaskier you said that. He’ll never let you live that down.”

Geralt only grunts in response, a small smile curling his lips.


Two weeks later, they arrive in Beauclaire and find Geralt’s worst nightmare.

“A music festival.” Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, most famed and feared witcher on the Continent, looks positively green as he looks around at the mass of brightly colored troubadours and minstrels milling around.

Yennefer pats him on the arm. “Perhaps we should call in backup. Jaskier may be in grave peril.”

“A music festival,” Geralt says again, in the tone most witchers would say, “a nest of bloedzuigers.”

“Well, I suppose we know why he didn’t tell us where he was going. He knew you wouldn’t want to join him.”

“And you would?” Geralt arches an eyebrow at her. “Thought you didn’t like bards.”

“Does anybody actually like bards?” Yennefer shudders. “Anyway, as long as no one starts singing ‘The Lilac Witcheress’—”

As if on cue, the opening notes of the familiar song begin to play somewhere nearby.

“Oh, what the fuck.” The song, written nearly forty years ago by an amorous minstrel who just couldn’t take a hint, is still one of the regrets of Yennefer’s witchering career. Namely, that she saved said minstrel from the bruxa trying to eat him. It was only her second or third year on the Path; her judgement wasn’t always the most sound.

Geralt frowns, tilting his head to the side. “Is that Jaskier?”

Yennefer has heard Jaskier sing many times. He does it constantly when it’s just the three of them— making up filthy little ditties about Geralt’s ass and Yennefer’s breasts, crooning to the horses, belting out drinking songs while they sit around the campfire. He even owns a lute, a finely made elven instrument that he claims was a gift from Filavandrel himself. But witchers don’t perform for crowds, especially not at music festivals. Yennefer thinks it must be a mistake, even as she and Geralt follow the sound of the rich, clear voice that they know so well.

They find a large crowd of people gathered around a stage, but the man singing “The Lilac Witcheress” isn’t Jaskier. The troubadour is a lanky young man with lustrous, shoulder-length blond curls, a long, thin nose, and cornflower blue eyes. He’s wearing a satin maroon doublet and a matching hat with an enormous peacock feather waving in the air. He looks nothing like their dark-haired, broad-shouldered lover, but it’s unmistakably Jaskier’s lovely, rich singing voice coming out of his mouth. And in his hands—

“That’s Jaskier’s lute,” Geralt says quietly.

Yennefer nods. “And the song…”

The version of “The Lilac Witcheress” being sung doesn’t have the simpering lyrics that have haunted Yennefer for decades now. Instead of the witcheress— a descriptor that has always set her teeth on edge— being a helpless damsel tormented by her so-called “monstrousness” and rescued by the love of the ballad’s hero, the witcher of the song is the hero. She slays monsters and saves lives, she loves and is loved. She’s the hero of the ballad now, instead of the prize the knight wins at the end.

There aren’t many people who see Yennefer that way.

“It’s Jaskier.” Yennefer doesn’t know how, but she’s certain that the pretty young man on that stage is their Cat witcher.

Geralt hums in agreement.

Their certainty is sealed when the bard looks up. Someone with human eyesight wouldn’t be able to clearly see Yennefer and Geralt from the stage, but when the bard’s gaze falls on them, his eyes go wide. His voice wavers for just an instant before he regains control of himself and continues with the song.

“Who is that?” Geralt asks a group of young women standing nearby.

“That’s the bard, Dandelion,” one of the women squeaks in reply.

“Dandelion?” Yennefer snorts. “Fuck, of course he would call himself Dandelion.”

The song draws to a close and the crowd explodes into thunderous applause. On stage, Jaskier— no, Dandelion— whips off his hat and bows low.

“He plays here every year,” another one of the women, who seems a bit bolder than her friend, tells Geralt and Yennefer in a conspiratorial tone of voice. “But he hasn’t placed once, which is a travesty. Money must be changing hands.”

“Well, everyone knows Valdo Marx has the judges in his pocket,” another one of the women says, earning solemn nods from her friends.

Yennefer scans the crowd for Jaskier and finds him, that stupid peacock feather bobbing above the throng of admirers mobbing him. She starts towards him, pushing her way through the crowd. When people start to part to let her through, she knows that Geralt is right behind her. Jaskier looks up as they approach and if Yennefer had any doubt as to his true identity, the beaming smile on his face would put them to rest. She would know that smile anywhere.

His smile grows sheepish as he looks between Geralt and Yennefer. He has a lipstick print on his cheek, undoubtedly left by one of his admirers. “I can explain.”


“So, Dandelion?” Geralt asks as soon as the door to Jaskier’s room at the inn closes behind them. It’s a nice room, Yennefer notices, probably the finest the inn has to offer, with an enormous four-poster bed and a fireplace. Trust Jaskier to spend all his coin on a room with a fireplace in the middle of the summer.

Jaskier looks between Geralt and Yennefer with a nervous smile. “I imagine you have some questions.” It’s bizarre to hear Jaskier’s voice emitting from that unfamiliar face.

“A few.” Yennefer looks him up and down. “First of all, how?”

Jaskier wiggles his right hand, showing off a spectacularly gaudy ruby ring. “It’s a glamour crafted for me by a mage who owed me a favor fifteen years ago.”

“So that’s how long this has been going on?” Geralt asks.

“About that, yes.”

“You need to update your glamour,” Yennefer tells him. “It hardly looks more than thirty.”

Jaskier sniffs. “Dandelion has an excellent skincare regime. There are also rumors of a smidgen of elven blood.”

Geralt grunts. He’s still looking at Jaskier with trepidation.

“And why do you dress up as a bard?” Yennefer has privately thought that in another life, Jaskier would have been a good bard. He has the voice, the impractical fashion sense, and the flair for the dramatic. But he’s a witcher, and witchers don’t perform at music festivals.

“Because I sometimes need a break from the witchering.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “This way, I can travel the Continent spreading music and joy, not just wading through swamps and graveyards. Dandelion’s quite famous.”

“Not famous enough to win music competitions,” Geralt says.

“No, dear Valdo makes sure of that. Winning this competition comes with a prize of wintering in the duke and duchess’s court, and as charming as the duchess is, I try not to stay in one place for too long as Dandelion.”

“Valdo?” Yennefer asks.

“Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris.”

“He’s the one you go to Cidaris to see?”

Jaskier nods. “This was his idea all those years ago. He knew I needed a break from witchering after— well, things weren’t great for witchers for a while a few years back, if you’ll recall. I had a couple of close calls and decided it would be safer to travel as a human for a bit.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Yennefer sees Geralt flinch. Blaviken was seventeen years ago, not long before Jaskier decided to start moonlighting as Dandelion. Many witchers would have liked to take a break from the Path back then.

“Oh, don’t look like that, dear heart.” Jaskier crosses the room to cup Geralt’s face in his hands. “If not Blaviken, people would have found another reason to turn against witchers back then. They always do.”

“Hm,” is all Geralt says in reply.

Jaskier does the only thing that can be done when their lover is about to sink into a brooding mood. He leans forward and kisses Geralt. The Wolf witcher makes an appreciative noise, his hands settling on Jaskier’s hips. Yennefer is surprised by the shock of pure arousal that goes through her. Geralt and Jaskier are always a pretty sight together, but there’s something about the contrast between Geralt’s bulk and the slim figure of Jaskier’s illusion that’s incredibly appealing. Geralt’s large hands dwarf Jaskier’s narrow hips and even though they’re of a height, he seems to tower over the pretty bard.

Jaskier breaks the kiss and turns to Yennefer with a glint in his eye. “Do you like what you see, Yennefer?”

Yennefer walks around Jaskier and Geralt in a slow circle, letting her gaze roam over the Cat shamelessly. “It’s a convincing illusion,” she murmurs. “Doesn’t even make my medallion vibrate.”

“You know me, my dear.” Jaskier’s voice goes breathy under her scrutiny. “Only the best.”

Yennefer strokes a hand down his back. “You even feel different.”

“Some things feel exactly the same.” Jaskier shoots a wink over his shoulder. “After all, why mess with perfection?”

Geralt chuckles, watching Jaskier with open want. His hands slide up to cup Jaskier’s face, thumbs brushing along delicate cheekbones.

“Do you still have your witcher strength?” Yennefer squeezes Jaskier’s ass.

“Afraid not,” he says. “I’m truly the hapless bard I appear right now.”

Geralt growls. “That’s not safe, Jask. What if—”

“If I run into trouble, the ring is easy enough to take off, dearest,” Jaskier says with a laugh. “Oh, don’t frown so. Things were about to get fun.”

“So I could do this?” Yennefer loops her arms around Jaskier’s waist and lifts him into the air. Jaskier lets out a squawk of outraged mirth as she carries him across the room and deposits him on the bed. He looks up at her, chest rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks pink.

“If I knew I was going to be manhandled, I would have shown you my glamour ages ago,” he says.

“Why didn’t you?” Yennefer crawls towards him, moving slow enough to savor the anticipation in his gaze.

His tongue darts nervously over his lower lip. “I didn’t want the two of you to think less of me. Most witchers just go on the Path. They don’t take breaks to playact at being a bard.”

“You’re not most witchers,” Geralt says. “That’s why we love you.”

It’s one of the sappiest things Yennefer has ever heard Geralt say. Jaskier starts to get misty-eyed, but she doesn’t have the patience for her lovers’ sentiment right now. She pushes Jaskier back against the pillow and straddles him, before bending to press her lips to his.

The shape of his mouth is different, plusher and wider, but he tastes like her Jaskier, sweet and warm and like the mint leaves he loves chewing so much. He makes a soft sound against her mouth, his long fingers cupping her face. It’s so familiar, but so different, and Yennefer feels like she could spend all day cataloging all the differences between Jaskier’s real form and this illusion. But she has more exciting activities in mind, so she deepens the kiss and grinds her hips against his, feeling the press of his erection against the crease of her thigh.

“You’re right,” she murmurs. “It does feel the same.”

“When have I ever lied to you?”

She nips at his lower lip. “I want to fuck you.”

His eyes brighten. “Did you bring your strap?”

“A brand new one. I got it with you in mind.”

He shivers under her. “Well, how could I possibly turn down an offer like that?”

“Just one condition,” she tells him.

“Anything, my darling.”

She kisses him again. “Keep the hat on.”


Jaskier is on his hands and knees in front of Yennefer, ass in the air. His glamoured body is smooth and unscarred, with a pert little ass, a narrow waist, and slender thighs. This will be fun to enjoy for the night, Yennefer thinks, but she’ll be happy to have her Cat with his hairy chest, broad shoulders, and muscular thighs back tomorrow. But tonight, she’s going to enjoy Dandelion the bard. She smooths her hands over his ass, squeezing the cheeks gently.

Jaskier looks around, a twinkle in those cornflower blue eyes. The hat tilts rakishly over his forehead. “I like the new strap.”

Yennefer looks down at the heavy cock in between her legs. “Thought you would.”

“It’s big.” His lips twist into a wry smile. “You just had to outdo both of us, didn’t you?”

Yennefer’s lips twitch. “You say that like it’s difficult.”

“Oh, you. I would be offended, if you weren’t about to fuck my brains out. Which if you would hurry up and do that, Yennefer, it would be much appreciated.”

“In a minute.” Yennefer presses a kiss to his back. “I’m enjoying the view.”

“Enjoy it later.

Yennefer snorts at his impatience and looks up at Geralt, who is sitting in the chair across the room, watching them intently. “How’s the view from your angle, Geralt?”

Geralt hums his appreciation.

“I think what he meant to say is that we’re the loveliest sight in the world,” Jaskier says, then pauses to consider. “Perhaps second only to dear Roach.”

“I see this glamour does nothing to alleviate your ridiculousness.”

“You would miss it if I were less ridiculous.”

“Do you really think so?” Yennefer asks conversationally, dipping her finger into the little jar of oil.

“Imagine how boring life would be if I were one of those self-serious witchers spent all my time brooding in dark corners. No offense, Geralt, you brood beautifully, but every relationship needs a little lev— oh, gods.” Jaskier gasps as Yennefer presses one slick finger into him. He feels hot and familiar around her finger as she works him open.

“You know, we came all this way because we thought you’d gotten yourself into trouble,” she murmurs in his ear.

“My valiant loves.” His voice is breathy with need. “Always rushing to my rescue.”

“Instead, you were prancing around on stage, showing off for all of Beauclaire.”

“Do you have any complaints?” There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, even as his breath hitches when she slips a second finger inside of him.

“None at all.”

“I am truly sorry for the worry.” Jaskier arches his back in pleasure. “I never meant for the two of you to follow me across the Continent.”

“We’ll always follow you,” Geralt says. “It’s what we do.”

Jaskier lets out a breathy laugh. “Remind me to wear this glamour more often. It seems to bring out Geralt’s sentimental side.”

“Hm, no,” Geralt says. “I’d miss your real face.”

“Yenn, did he fall off of Roach on your journey south?”

Yennefer smiles. “You’re so pretty like this, he just wants to sweet talk you.”

Jaskier starts to reply, but his words end in a garbled moan when Yennefer scissors her fingers. She’s worked him open many times; she knows exactly what he likes. She knows how to make him moan and writhe underneath her, gasping her name as she brushes over that sensitive spot inside of him. His pretty thighs tremble and the feather on his hat sways with his movements.

“Oh, gods, Yenn,” he breathes. “Fuck, I love your hands. I love you.”

Yennefer is used to the easy endearments Jaskier spews during sex, so much that she no longer lets it fluster her. She adds a third finger and is rewarded by Jaskier’s hips bucking encouragingly. Across the room, Geralt has his laces undone and is working his prick with slow, steady pumps, his gaze fixed on Jaskier.

“Enjoying the show?” Yennefer asks him.

He nods, his fist moving a bit faster under her gaze. “Think you’ve teased him long enough, Yenn.”

“Yes.” Jaskier nods so enthusiastically that his hat nearly falls off. “Please get that magnificent cock in me, Yenn, or I’m going to die of neglect.”

Yennefer twists her wrist to brush his prostate, smiling triumphantly at his cry of pleasure. Reluctantly withdrawing her hand, she slicks up the wooden cock with oil. The air is filled with the scents of Jaskier’s perfume, his arousal, and the salty scent of his pre-cum. When Yennefer gently begins to work the cock inside of Jaskier, he moans as he adjusts to the length.

“Feel good?” she asks and he nods.

“More,” he says.

She complies, rolling her hips to work farther inside of him. A surge of pleasure goes through her as the strap rubs against her clit and she lets out a little gasp. The smell of Jaskier’s arousal grows stronger.

“Gods, that feels divine.” Jaskier wiggles his hips, encouraging her to push in deeper, an invitation she happily accepts. “You always feel so fucking good, Yenn.”

Yennefer bottoms out, gripping his hips and holding still to give him a moment to adjust to the cock inside of him. “Geralt, why don’t you come over here? Give our pretty bard something to do with his mouth.”

Geralt doesn’t need any encouragement to stand up, his cock hard and leaking pre-cum, and closing the space between them in two strides. As Jaskier takes Geralt’s cock in his mouth, Yennefer begins to thrust. Jaskier moans in pleasure, which elicits a moan from Geralt. Yennefer fucks Jaskier hard and fast, just how he likes it, reveling into the gorgeous sounds that emerge from his throat. The feather on his hat bobs in time with his movements, brushing against Geralt’s stomach until the Wolf witcher tires of it and tosses it aside.

Yennefer gives him an accusatory look, though her heart isn’t in it. “I liked that hat.”

“Wanted to do this.” Geralt threads his fingers through Jaskier’s golden locks, tugging lightly. Jaskier whimpers in pleasure.

Yennefer changes the tempo of her hips, rolling them in such a way that increases the friction on her clit. Waves of pleasure crest over her and Geralt leans forward to kiss her as she shudders through her orgasm. Between them, Jaskier makes an appreciative noise and Yennefer fucks him harder while Geralt fucks into his mouth. Geralt is the next to come, moaning into Yennefer’s mouth as he spills down Jaskier’s throat. Jaskier releases his cock with a filthy wet sound.

Geralt bends to kiss Jaskier sweetly, his hands still fisted in the Cat’s hair. The glamour really does bring out their Wolf’s sweet side, Yennefer notes with a mixture of amusement and affection. Geralt reaches between Jaskier’s legs to stroke his cock in time with the thrust of Yennefer’s hips. Jaskier cries out, burying his face into Geralt’s chest as he comes. Yennefer fucks him through his orgasm, only letting up when he collapses under her, breathing heavily.

For a long moment, the three of them lie there, the scents of sweat, sex, and arousal heavy in the air.

“I should make the two of you chase after me more often,” Jaskier says breathlessly. “It’s such fun when you manage to catch me.”

Yennefer presses a kiss to his back. “Don’t go too far. Geralt worries.”

Geralt snorts. “I’m not the one who has Triss perform a tracking spell.”

“A tracking spell?” Jaskier laughs. “Yennefer, you really did miss me. I’m flattered. I never knew—”

“How’s your stamina in this form?” Yennefer unclasps the strap from around her hips.

Jaskier swallows audibly. “About the same.”

“Good.” Without further ado, she flips him over and climbs on top.

She’s not done enjoying Dandelion yet.


When she wakes up the next morning, it’s not the pretty golden-haired bard sleeping next to her. Instead, it’s her hairy dark-eyed Cat blinking at her with sleepy yellow eyes. On Jaskier’s other side, Geralt is nuzzling at his neck and making low, contented noises.

“Good morning, love,” Jaskier murmurs. “I see we tired you out last night.”

Yennefer raises one supercilious eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Cat.”

He sighs dramatically. “And in the cruel light of morning, I see all the sweet nothings you whispered last night mean nothing.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes, stroking a hand over the dark hair covering Jaskier’s chest. “I missed this.”

“Oh?” His eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Dandelion is fun,” Yennefer admits, remembering those pretty blue eyes and that pert little ass. “And I’m happy to play with him whenever you’d like. But Jaskier will always be my favorite.”

“Mine too,” Jaskier glances down at himself. “Playing the troubadour is fun, but it does get tiresome after a while. You’d never believe the number of people who try to rob or murder me when they think I’m just a bard. I never realized how many bandits there were on the Continent until I got this glamour.”

“Bet that was an unpleasant surprise for the bandits,” Geralt says.

“Oh, yes. There was this one time in Novigrad—”

But they never get to learn what happened in Novigrad, because that’s the moment that someone pounds on the door and a voice thunders, “Dandelion! Open up on the duke’s orders! We have a warrant for your arrest!”

“Oh, bollocks,” Jaskier grumbles.


“You fucked the duchess?” Yennefer demands as the three of them flee Beauclaire on horseback, keeping their gazes averted from the guards scouring the city for the runaway bard. No one has connected Dandelion with the witcher Jaskier, but they all want to get out of the city before that happens.

“Anna Henrietta.” Jaskier sighs dreamily. “What a woman.”

“A woman who is apparently married to a very jealous duke!”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Is she worth getting your heart cut out and roasted?”

“Well, no.” That cools Jaskier’s ardor instantly. “A severe overreaction on the duke’s part, I must say. Honestly, I’m far from the only man Anarietta’s ever fucked. There’s at least two knights and if she hasn’t bedded the duke’s steward yet, it’s only a matter of time.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we were here,” Yennefer says, cutting him off, because she really doesn’t need a full rundown of the duchess’s exploits. “Or you would probably be in a dungeon right now.”

“Yes, I suppose you saved me after all.” Jaskier smiles at her sweetly, before his expression abruptly sobers. “Though I’m afraid this means I won’t be attending the Beauclaire Music Festival anytime in the near future.”

Geralt nods. “Don’t think they’ll forget the death warrant on your head by next summer.”

“What a tragedy for the locals! What will they do without me?”

“Listen to better music?” Geralt suggests.

“How dare you!” Jaskier gasps and puts a hand to his heart. “I’ll have you know that my update to ‘The Lilac Witcheress’ is already sweeping the Continent. Soon, no one will even remember that terrible old version.”

Yennefer can’t help the little warm glow she feels at that. “I’m sure there will be other music festivals, Jaskier.”

“Well, of course.” Jaskier brightens a bit at that. “Oxenfurt is in a few weeks. And Vizima not long after that.”

“Let’s not get carried away.” Geralt looks pained.

Jaskier laughs. “No, you know my secret now. There’s no reason for you to not accompany me when I compete.”

“I can think of several,” Yennefer tells him. “For one, music festivals involve people.”

“Oh, Yennefer, you sound like Geralt.” Jaskier waves a dismissive hand. “How do you feel about betrothal feasts?”

“Negatively,” she deadpans. “Why?”

“Because I’m performing at Princess Pavetta of Cinta’s betrothal feast in a few months.” Jaskier’s eyes seem to sparkle. “I intend to make it a performance that people will talk about for years. And the two of you should join me.”