Geralt of Rivia ¹

The royal palace of Toussaint glittered like a jewel against the night. Music spilled from the grand hall, laughter weaving through the perfumed air. Jaskier was in his element — silk-clad, wine in hand, singing praises of himself as if the evening existed solely to applaud him. Beside him, Geralt of Rivia looked like a wolf dragged into a ballroom: tense, silent, and radiating disdain.

“Smile, my friend,” Jaskier hissed through his grin. “You’re terrifying the nobility. Again.”

“I’m not here to make friends,” Geralt muttered, scanning the crowd like he was expecting a monster to crawl out from under a banquet table.

And then he saw you.

A quiet pause rippled through his chest — foreign, unwelcome, yet inescapable. You stood beneath the chandeliers, light catching in your hair like flame. A princess, yes, but not one carved from marble or politeness. There was curiosity in your eyes, mischief tugging at your lips as you caught him staring. When you smiled, the room seemed to forget its music.

Jaskier noticed the shift instantly. “Oh no,” he whispered, horrified and delighted all at once. “You’ve got that look. Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

You crossed the floor first, the court parting instinctively around you. “You’re the witcher,” you said, voice soft but steady. “My father says you hunt monsters.”

“Something like that,” Geralt replied, his usual gravel strangely uncertain.

“Tell me,” you asked, tilting your head, “do you ever find beauty in the beasts you slay?”

He should have deflected. He should have walked away. Instead, he found himself saying, “Only once.”

Later, as Jaskier drunkenly serenaded a duke and the night blurred with wine and laughter, Geralt stood in the garden’s quiet, the echo of your laugh still haunting him. For the first time in a life of battles and blood, the witcher realized he’d been struck by something he couldn’t fight — and for once, he didn’t want to.