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merlot-and-chardonnay · 4 months

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A Lark Among the Wolves and Dragons: Chapter 14

Chapter 13

Ciri laid in the tub, steam rising from the water, which worked wonders on her aching muscles. The water itself was scented with special oils which were meant to help her relax, but given the situation she was in right now, relaxing was nearly impossible right now.

After the young girl had disclosed to the king, prince, princess, and small council who she really was, there was silence followed by a short uproar by the council.

Some had questioned if Ciri's claim was true, and thought her as just some common girl in rags, others believed she was who she said she was, but then became concerned if word got out that the royal family was now hosting Ciri when there were people out there who were looking for her.

Viserys luckily shut down the commotion with a single word. He ordered the council out of the throne room and had you, Ciri, and Aemma shown out to your rooms. Daemon stayed behind, mostly likely to get scolded by his brother, and Daemon meanwhile would try and persuade Viserys to proclaim Aemma true born so she could bare the Targaryen name.

As soon as Ciri was shown to her room, the servants came later and prepared her a bath. Despite being in a foreign land, this aspect of life was still familiar to the girl.

In the present, Ciri laid in the tub, grateful that she was able to get cleaned. She fully submerged herself into the water and stayed there until the need to air was too great. She popped her head up to the surface, taking in a deep breath before leaning back.

She heard the doors open, but she didn't think nothing of it, assuming it was the servants coming in to bring extra towels.

"Princess Cirilla?" Ciri flinched, hearing that voice call her name. She recognized it to be Rhaenyra, "May I come in?"

Ciri thinks about it for a moment before making her answer, "I guess that would be okay." Ciri wasn't all that shy about being naked in front of others of the same sex, and even if she was, the water was blurred enough to shield her from view.

Rhaenyra walks in, a plate of fruit in hand, "the servants were bringing this when I decided to visit," she explains, taking a grape and popping it into her mouth before placing the plate at the table by the tub.

"Thank you," Ciri nods, reaching to take some fruit herself. There was some awkward silence after that. Ciri was new to this whole place; she didn't know what to do or what to say. She must've made an impression though if the king's daughter wanted to come visit her at this time of day.

"I uh, had to wait for the water to cool a bit before I got in," Ciri admits, "do they always make the bath water this scalding hot?" "Force of habit I'm afraid?" Rhaenyra admits, "dragons prefer heat."

"I'm not a dragon," Ciri mutters, more to herself, though Rhaenyra heard it, "I'm a lion cub."

"You grandmother is Queen Calanthe, right?" Rhaenyra asks, "the Lioness of Cintra?" "Yes she...was," Ciri nods, sadness in her voice from re-living that particular memory. "Oh, I...I'm sorry, " Rhaenyra says when she takes notice, "I didn't know. I heard what happened in Cintra...with Nilfgaard...but I didn't know how bad it was."

"My grandfather died in the battlefield," Ciri explains, "my grandmother died during the siege; she was already gravely injured from fighting during the initial battle-" "You grandmother fought?" Rhaenyra asked, "she wore armor and everything? Carrying a sword?"

"She did," Ciri nods, "She could wield sword as well as any man. Very few men actually ever bested her in combat." Rhaenyra smiled to that, "I wish I could learn to wield a sword. My father won't allow it. I don't know why, my forebear Aegon the Conqueror, his wives were warriors themselves; they were skilled sword fighters in their own right."

"It sounds like you admire my grandmother," Ciri notices.

"I'd like to think of her as my inspiration," Rhaenyra admits, "for when I become queen."

Ciri looked at the Targaryen princess in confusion, "my father named me Heir to the Iron Throne months back," Rhaenyra explains, "it happened shortly after my mother passed." "I'm sorry to hear that," Ciri says, "I never got to know my own mother, she died when I was still a babe. You must miss her dearly." "Yeah, I still do," Rhaenyra nods, "it hasn't been easy, even less after my father decided to marry my friend."

"Oh...so the woman that was next to your father was..." "Alicent Hightower."

Ciri nods; she had taken notice there was tension between those two back in the throne room earlier. At first, she would've chalked it up to tension that came between a girl and her new stepmother, but she didn't know those two were friends before that. It must be quite an awkward situation.

"Do you think, you'll still be heir, even if the new queen ends producing male heirs?" "I will be," Rhaenyra insists, "my father swore that I would, no matter what."

"Is there another reason you came to visit?" Ciri asks, "while I'm bathing of all things?" Rhaenyra couldn't help but laugh a little. "Well," the Targaryen princess answers, "since you'll be staying with us for the time being, I was hoping we could be friends."

Ciri regarded Rhaenyra with intrigue; the silver blonde princess was a few years older than her, and despite how she felt about the princess's uncle, there seemed to be a kindred spirit among the two.

And even if she had you, Ciri knew she was going to need a friend who knew this place if she was to survive and protect Aemma. "I would be honored to be your friend, princess," Ciri answers, "assuming His Grace allows me to stay."

Rhaenyra smiled at that, "if he doesn't, I'll change his mind. I don't imagine my father would be callous enough to toss you back to the wolves."

----------meanwhile in the small council chamber-------

"With all due respect, your Grace, this girl cannot be allowed to stay here any longer then she needs," Otto states.

Since the start of the meeting, the small council had been bickering amongst one another about little Ciri remain a guest under the king's roof.

"So you would have me cast this young girl out," Viserys counters, "thrown back to the place she was held captive in perhaps?"

"Of course not," Otto says, "but she certainly not stay here."

"She is the princess of Cintra," Lyonel Strong speaks up, "If the tales in the Continent are to be believed, she was the sole survivor of the siege by the armies of Nilfgaard. To survive that along with being held captive by a pack of mutants, she's been through a lot."

"Armies that are still looking for this girl as we speak," Corlys adds.

"What could they possibly want with the likes of her?" Mellos frowns. "That...is not known," Corlys admits, "but since her grandmother had reportedly perished in the siege that makes princess Cirilla next in line to inherited the Cintran throne. One could only assume Nilfgaard means to capture her so as to further secure a claim to those lands."

"All the more reason that this princess must be sent away," Otto says, "if foreign powers across the sea discover we harbor their highly sought after treasure, they may have cause to lay siege to King's Landing."

"You speak of the girl as if she were an object to possess, not some girl who's probably been through more then any of us could ever imagine," Corlys argues.

"She is a pawn in a foreign game we have no business getting involved in," Otto argues back, "the longer this girl stays here, the more we risk putting the peoples lives in danger should Nilfgaard come looking for her."

"if you ask me, I think Prince Daemon knew who she was this whole time," Otto continues, "probably brought her here to cause trouble." "Daemon has assured me he did not know of Cirilla's true identity before he brought her to King's Landing," Viserys assures, "I see no reason why he would lie about that."

"What would the prince even hope to gain by provoking conflict with Nilfgaard?" Lyonel asks. "What other reason then for glory?" Otto points out, "abduct the girl, bait their armies to come this way, all to come out of it as a hero for the people to see?"

"Enough!" Viserys shouts, bringing the room to complete silence, and receiving the council's undivided attention, "regardless of the circumstances of how and why Cirilla was brought here, she is a guest in my house, and will be treated as such. As far as we know, no one outside these walls knows we are hosting the princess, therefore, I see no threat from powers outside Westeros."

"Your Grace-" "Princess Cirilla will remain here for the time being," Viserys states above Otto, "I will not cast her onto the streets or anywhere else to fend for herself just because of the remote possibility of conflict with an outside threat. That is final."

Otto was left with nothing else to say; clearly the king was not going to change his mind on his matter. Now the Hand was wondering if he would convince Viserys to change his mind on the next matter, "very well," he says, "and what of the other girls you currently play host to? Daemon's whore...and his bastard?"

While the small council argued over this next sensitive subject, unknown to them, Daemon was listening in on this part of the conversation.

The prince wanted to make sure that whatever arguments were going to be made, Viserys would make his decision that would be in Daemon's favor.

If it wouldn't be the case, then Daemon would do everything in his power to make his brother change his mind.

But considering you had named his daughter after the late queen, Daemon wasn't too worried.

---------------------

Meanwhile you were holding onto Aemma, rocking her as she started to fall asleep.

After the council had been dismissed from the throne room, you were shown to your old rooms. Not much had actually changed, except the stuff you left behind had been removed.

Some time afterwards, several nurses had come to attend to Aemma while servants came to prepare your bath. You were a little surprised they would go to this much trouble for a bastard born baby, but apparently it was on Daemon's orders.

You were hesitant to leave Aemma in the care of strangers, but the bath did sound enticing and if anything you at least trusted that Daemon wouldn't put his daughter in harm's way; if anything he would've taken precautions to avoid that.

Aemma fussed though the moment you handed her to one of the nurses. She continued to cry as they took her away. You felt guilty, but you turned to the tub and undressed so as to clean yourself.

At least the servants were nice enough to bring food while you bathed.

They were also nice enough to leave you alone, which gave you enough privacy to cry your eyes out; something you didn't have the luxury to do since arriving in King's Landing, since being taken away from Kaer Morhen and from Geralt. You were ripped away from the life you had built for yourself and for your daughter, back to the place you were trying to keep Aemma away from in the first place.

Now that everyone in the Red Keep knew about Aemma, it was only a matter of time before the political games started, games that would use put your daughter in the center as a pawn, especially if Viserys had her proclaimed true born.

At this moment, this castle, despite its comfort, was feeling more like a prison compared to Kaer Morhen.

You needed to somehow get away, get your daughter away from all this. And Ciri too; who knows what kind of drama the small council would try and get Ciri involved in should they decide to for whatever reason to make Ciri a pawn in their games.

When you finished bathing, you got dressed and went to Aemma's room. A nurse had been holding her, apparently trying to get her to sleep, but the girl had been screaming and crying the whole time you were gone.

Much to the relief of the poor woman, you took Aemma and started to rock her; the babe calming down almost immediately.

As she started to fall asleep, you kiss the top of her head and sing her a lullaby.

There once was a lord in dark woods

Wearing a strange silver band

Around his hand

The band was charmed with ore from stars

Bidding all monsters away

Away

On that quiet eve

Among these trees

A bandit slew the good lord

Stealing that band

Off a dead man's hand

For the bandit also feared

Monsters.

"Quite a morbid tune from someone such as yourself, Little Lark," you hear Daemon's voice.

You sigh, turning around and holding a sleeping Aemma tight as you face the man who had stolen you from the safety of your old life and into the jaws of a new, dangerous life.

Chapter 14.5

Masterlist

#ciri #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #otto hightower #corlys velaryon #viserys targaryen #daemon #daemon targaryen #hotd #the witcher

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leighsartworks216 · 1 year

Text

The Viper: Rewritten

Chapter 2

Ch 1 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7

Jaskier x gn!Witcher!reader

AO3 - I recommend reading it there

Warnings: blood, violence, fighting

Word Count: 2197

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“Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!”

All suspicious, accusatory whispers about you died at the herald’s call. Heads whipped around to feast their eyes on the White Wolf of legend, to catch a glimpse of his white hair or even his dual swords. There was not a soul across the Continent who had not heard of the glorious battle at the Edge of the World - a fabulous tale of Elves and Fauns, no doubt concocted by the man next to him who carried a lute.

A bitter taste soured your mouth at the hypocrisy. They spat and scowled at your presence, but how quickly they could turn and lunge for the Nordling Witcher’s boots so that they might kiss the ground he walked on. You did your best to ignore his presence and focus on the job at hand.

No less than a week ago, Mousesack sought you out to propose a contract for none other than the Lioness of Cintra. She desperately sought a Witcher who could act as a guard at her daughter, Pavetta’s, betrothal banquet, for the sole purpose of disposing of any unwanted guests. Mousesack didn’t know who the target could be, or why, but the amount of coin he offered was more than you could shake a stick at.

So, on the day of, you appeared donned in leather and daggers, and accepted the contract face-to-face with her majesty. Before she left to settle disputes within her kingdom, she ordered you to change into more reasonable attire.

The silk and linen was unfamiliar and uncomfortable against your skin. Your heightened senses were distracted from the sensations of the fabric, though not so much you could not hear the conversation across the hall.

Mousesack and Geralt of Rivia were tucked away in an alcove, whispering to each other about court gossip and the favored bachelor. What caught your attention was not the Witcher’s deflection of royal scandals, but the druid’s sudden change of topic.

“There is another Witcher here you should meet,” Mousesack said, conspiratorially, as if he was revealing a great secret and a great danger all at once.

Geralt of Rivia frowned at the other. “Another Wolf?”

“No, no, no.” Mousesack shook his head quickly. “A Witcher from the South.”

Even from afar, you could see how that peaked his interest. “A Nilfgaardian?” He trailed off a moment, thinking. There were only two Niflgaardian Witcher schools. “A Bear?” he asked, hedging his bets.

“A Viper,” you interjected. Mousesack almost jumped at your sudden appearance, but Geralt only frowned. You turned to the druid, a slight, teasing smile on your lips. “It’s not polite to talk about someone behind their back, Mousesack.”

He chuckled good-naturedly and slung an arm around your shoulders. “My apologies; I didn’t know you cared so much about manners.” He turned back to the guest of honor. “Geralt, this is Y/N. Y/N, this is Geralt.”

Despite the easy way the druid introduced you, Geralt remained on edge. He crossed his bulky arms, pulling against the fancy garb he was also forced into wearing. The line between his brows only deepened as he looked you up and down.

“I didn’t think Vipers came this far North.”

“We usually don’t,” you agreed. You glanced at Mousesack, who seemed to be on edge from the interaction. “Mousesack tracked me down.”

“The Queen requested a Witcher to act as a guard,” he explained quickly. “They were the closest Witcher with the skillset she required.”

“Someone willing to kill humans.” It was not a question, yet the Wolf stared you down as he waited for confirmation.

You grinned at his unease. He was fighting back a scowl, though he hid it well enough. Wolves and Vipers - all Witcher schools, really - had a long standing history of distrust and conflict. With an adolescent sense of determination, you replied, “It’s what Vipers do best.”

His scowl revealed itself fully.

“Drop your trousers!”

All three of you turned your heads to a disturbance off to the side of the larger crowds. A lord had a well-dressed man - you recognized him as the bard Geralt came with - against the wall. Geralt sighed through his nose at the sight.

“I see you have business to attend to,” you teased. You ducked under Mousesack’s arm and backed away, bowing as you did so. Oh, if your mentors could see you now; you’d be reduced to sorting the library until Ivar Evil-Eye deemed it good enough. “Gentlemen.”

“Witcher…” Calanthe gasped. You couldn’t tell which one she spoke to. “Kill it.”

You should have leapt over the table. You should have drawn your blades the very second the disturbance began. You should have, but you couldn’t. Something kept your feet glued to the floor.

“No,” Geralt replied coolly.

“Viper, kill it,” she hissed, growing desperate.

The dark eyes of the animal-knight stared up at you. Briefly, you considered how grateful you were for the cover of the Queen’s throne.

Geralt half-turned to look at you. “This is no monster.”

He must have known that meant little-to-nothing to you. The Viper School was the only school to focus on hunting monsters, humans, and non-humans. Whether he was a beast, a man, or some other creature of the land did not matter. You were taught to accept all contracts on any head, and remain neutral. Above all else, take no sides.

“This knight has been cursed,” he tried again, a twinge of distress in his words.

Calanthe sighed irritably. “You’re as useless as the rest of them. Slay this beast!”

Your heart leapt forward. Your feet stayed put.

Take no sides.

Two more guards fell to the ground before Lord Urcheon drew his sword to point at Calanthe. “Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise.”

Take no sides.

In one motion, you vaulted over the banquet table and drew your twin blades. Geralt tried to grab your arm, but his fingers barely had time to brush against the silk of your attire.

One royal guard after another ran forward. Lord Urcheon skillfully deflected blows, redirecting swords with the momentum behind their swings. A guard collapsed to the floor, clasping his gut, after the knight sliced it open.

He turned and swung his sword down. It stopped dead in the air with a metallic screech, caught between two crossed daggers. Dark eyes full of fear peered deep into the focused gaze of the Viper before him.

You arched your daggers up and out, pushing his sword back. In the opening, your foot collided with his stomach in a powerful kick, knocking him to the ground. His sword skidded across the polished stone, far away from his desperate grasp.

The royal guards gathered to stand behind you as you towered over the defenseless man. Terror rippled through the party so intensely you could smell it.

You were exactly the monster they whispered about.

You flipped your daggers in your grasp. The knight’s heart raced.

Dual daggers raised into the air, smooth curves of metal glinting in the candlelight as they formed the deadly fangs of a snake.

You pitched your swing down, aimed directly for his heart.

The hollow sound of a dagger hitting the floor echoed through the room. Blood dripped down your knuckles as you stared into the eyes of the Wolf, his sword aimed at the hollow of your throat. Your silver dagger stayed in a tight grip by your side.

Movement caught your eye as the knight picked up your dagger. A protectiveness settled in your chest seeing the weapon in his hands.

“KILL THEM BOTH!”

Chaos. You and Geralt fought head to head. Lords and royal guards rushed in to stop Lord Urcheon. Sir Eist joined to help. Queen Calanthe was forced to sit by and watch. Swords clashed, blood spilled. Your heart pounded in your ears as adrenaline coursed through your veins.

Men fell left and right, but none were slain by the White Wolf. You were deadlocked. You would throw a swing at his side or neck, and he would deflect it with his sword. He would aim an attack at your chest or head, and you would dodge out of the way. Trapped in the futility of fighting an enemy matched to his abilities, he couldn’t help against the guards or lords. If he did, he would risk opening himself up to an attack from you.

His sword sliced horizontally through the air. You rolled under the blade, behind him, and whipped around to stab yours into his back. You stopped inches from driving the silver into the Queen’s neck. Her sword locked with Geralt’s. You stared, stunned, at the back of her head.

“Stop.” It was a plea. His sword slowly fell. Hers followed. “Stop!” she called to the rest of the fighting crowd.

Your eyes met the Wolf’s over her shoulder. His gaze was tense. It burned through you. Your dagger fell to your side once more, and then found its way back to its sheath.

A burst of energy shoved everyone back. Some went flying into pillars or banquet tables. The oxygen was stolen from your lungs as your back slammed against the wall.

A figure curled overtop your body, protecting you from the fierce winds brought about by Pavetta’s powers. You gasped and coughed as you fought to catch your breath once more. The figure came into focus as you did.

It was the bard. He was skinny, though not scrawny. Short, dark hair blew about and caught on his long lashes as brilliant blue eyes stared down at you. You hoped he did not see the confusion in your own.

Why would he protect you?

Shards of glass rained down as the windows shattered one by one. He pulled your head down into his chest and raised an arm to cover himself. Sharp pieces fell down your back and scattered into his hair.

When he relaxed his hold, you pulled away and pushed yourself to a kneel. The fragments dug into the rough skin of your palms and latched to the almost-dried blood that stained your hand red. You paid it no mind as you squinted to see into the vortex.

At the center stood the princess and the hedgehog knight. Loose chairs and food swirled through the air around them like a tornado destroying a village. Your eyes traced the crowd of people who all were forced to watch helplessly as Pavetta cast spells under her breath - all to protect her lover. Geralt and Mousesack were pressed against two pillars, closest to the whirlwind. Queen Calanthe and Sir Eist held each other on the floor as they hid beneath her banquet table.

Wood groaned and scraped across the floor as a table came barrelling toward the wall. As fast as you could, you pushed the bard aside and covered him with your body. You felt him flinch as the heavy wood slammed into the wall right next to you and splintered, narrowly avoiding hitting your back.

Just as soon as it started, it was over.

The wind stopped. The world fell silent. You slowly pulled away from the man to see what happened. It was dark. Every candle was out. Haloed by moonlight in the center of a circle of debris lay Pavetta and Lord Urcheon. Geralt and Mousesack stood a few feet away, panting heavily with exhaustion.

It was over.

Guilt setted, heavy and unwelcome, within your chest. Had you listened to Geralt, had you rejected your training and picked a side - All of this could have been avoided. Or, if it was truly destiny that brought the two souls together, perhaps it was unavoidable.

Your back ached as you stood. You would be bruised come morning, there was no doubt about that. The man you protected looked up at you with wide, innocent eyes. You wondered why Geralt brought him along. Surely, he saw terrible things every day on the Path; he looked far more in his element amongst the royals and elites in the world.

You reached out a hand and heaved him to his feet. He shakily nodded his thanks. But even as the Princess stood and the Queen joined her in the circle, his attention remained focused on you. He wasn’t afraid. He did not wrench his hand away or spit on you. He just stared.

Before you could ask why, Calanthe began speaking. She held hands with her daughter, seemingly forgiven. Remorse and regret settled on her features. For a brief moment, you caught her eye. You would not be getting paid tonight.

How could she, with a clear conscience, pay the person she hired to murder her daughter’s love?

A glimmer of light caught your attention. Resting within the debris was your steel dagger, a beam of moonlight reflecting off of its sharpened edge. No one seemed to pay you any mind as you stepped forward and slid it back into the sheath at your waist. You said nothing to the man as you passed him, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the hall, and slipping out of the castle.

---

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