🍷 Being Pregnant with Geralt of Rivia’s Child at Corvo Bianco 🍇
Considering that Geralt can find a letter suggesting he has regained fertility (Oxenfurt, The Witcher 3) - provided he took the experimental potion in The Witcher 2 - I thought some headcanons should find their way to virtual paper.
1. The way he finds out
He notices before you say a word - your scent, your heartbeat, the subtle change in how you sleep.
He doesn’t ask; he waits until you tell him, because that’s how he shows respect now.
When you finally do, he simply nods once and murmurs, “Then we’d better get the cellar in order.”
That’s his version of joy.
2. Work retired, habits not
He’s given up contracts, but not routine.
He still oils blades at dawn, just slower, mostly out of muscle memory.
You tease that he’s polishing ghosts; he answers, “Keeps my hands steady.”
3. Toussaint mornings
Mist over the vines, swallows screaming above the roofs, Regis arriving with wine he swears you can drink “in moderation.”
Geralt snorts, pours you half a cup, and says, “If a vampire says it’s safe, it probably is.”
4. His version of care
No fussing. No hovering.
Instead: roof repaired before the rain hits, floors swept, stable stocked, extra blankets by the hearth.
He never says “for you,” but every task smells of quiet devotion.
5. Talk of lineage
You catch him once in the courtyard, staring at the vines.
When you ask what he’s thinking, he says, “Never thought anything with my blood would grow roots.”
It’s not sadness - it’s disbelief softening into peace.
6. Old friends visiting
Lambert brings jokes too crude for polite company. Eskel brings bread. Regis brings philosophy.
They all look at you the way soldiers look at a cease-fire - hopeful but cautious.
Geralt calls them idiots, pours another round, and looks content.
7. Naming
He refuses grand gestures.
When you ask what he’d call the child, he shrugs: “Something that sounds good shouted across a vineyard.”
You realize later he already tried the names out while pruning vines.
8. Nights at Corvo Bianco
He still wakes sometimes, blade half-drawn, until your breathing reminds him there’s nothing to fight.
You fall asleep again to the sound of his heartbeat, steady as a forge bellows.
9. The birth
He doesn’t leave the room.
Too many people he’s loved have vanished behind closed doors.
When the child finally cries, he goes very still, the way he does after killing a monster - like the world has shifted and he’s recalibrating to a new kind of silence.
10. Afterward
He spends long hours on the porch, child asleep on his chest, wind moving through the vines.
If you ask what he’s thinking, he answers, “Nothing trying to kill us. Feels unnatural.”
But he’s smiling when he says it.
