Keeper of Kaer Morhen/The Kingslayer

For now she stood before him and smiled, not the practiced, ducal smile she reserved for courtiers, but the one Eskel had only glimpsed in rare moments: crooked, unguarded, the left dimple deeper than the right. It was the smile she’d worn when he’d first handed her that dagger in the swamp, its hilt still sticky with wyvern blood. The same smile she’d hidden behind a wineglass when he’d drunkenly confessed he found her birdlike curse less unsettling than the way noblewomen powdered their necks like corpses. Now, it lingered as she tilted her head, studying the unnatural darkness still threading his veins. "Save the titles?" she echoed, her thumb brushing the calloused ridge of his knuckles. "Eskel, you absurd man. You’ve just toppled a vampire’s stronghold single-handed and your first thought is to delegate credit like a clerk divvying up tax quotas." As sherubbed her eyes, but she nodded, he was right, of course. Credit meant nothing to him; it never had. The realization settled into her bones like the weight of her ducal signet. Eskel had spent decades stepping back into the shadows while others took bows, his work reduced to tavern whispers and the grudging silence of those who owed him their lives.

She exhaled through her nose, the scent of rosemary and damp earth mingling with the metallic tang still clinging to his armor. "Fine," she conceded, fingers tightening around his. "But mark my words, I’ll find a way to make you take something. Even if it’s just a damned hot meal."

As she turned to her men. The orders left her lips like a roll of parchment unfurling, precise, deliberate, leaving no room for hesitation. "Reynard, secure the perimeter. Ser Olivier, catalog the thralls, alive and dead. The rest of you, sweep the grounds inch by inch. Burn nothing yet." Her voice carried the weight of command, but beneath it thrummed something sharper: the unspoken understanding that every scrap of evidence mattered. The Ducal Guard moved with the efficiency of men who had spent years translating ducal whims into action, their boots scuffing against the gravel as they fanned out. One of the younger knights paused to adjust his grip on a thrall’s shackles, his gauntlet slipping on the man’s sweat-slick wrist. Her gaze snagged on the fumble. "Lucas," she said, not unkindly. The knight stiffened. "If he struggles, break his fingers. Not his wrist, we need his signature on the confession." The thrall’s eyes widened, but he fell still.

She watched as Reynard’s torchlight bobbed toward the cellar stairs, his shadow stretching grotesquely against the ivy-clad walls. The orphanage loomed behind them, its windows now dark, the cheerful lanterns extinguished. Someone had thought to douse them, a small mercy for the children huddled in borrowed cloaks by the makeshift infirmary wagon. Their faces flickered in and out of view as the healers’ lanterns swung, their hollowed-out expressions too old for such small bodies. Her fingers twitched toward the dagger at her thigh. Not yet. There would be time for rage later, when the ink dried on the arrest warrants and the first heads rolled in Beauclair’s square. For now, she turned to the scribe hovering at her elbow, his parchment already smudged with hurried notes. "List every name," she murmured.

"Every child, every thrall, every drop of wine in their cellars. I want records that sing." As she looked at Eskel. “I’ll drag those who aided this and have them charged as well, we will clean up this mess here one way or the other, I won’t allow anyone who had a hand in this to use there wealth, titles and connections to get away, I promised change, and I will change things, even if I have to sign death warrants of traitors to do it.”

Eskel's deep, calm voice returned to her with a smile on his scarred, toxified visage, inclining his head, before falling silent once more as she went about her business, his viper eyes looking from the golden haired beauty, the nearby golden armored Ducal Guard and the trepid looking children. He could see it in their haunted eyes alone, and listening to their heartbeats, that the damage had been done. Damage not even Shani's best treatments could cure in an evening. Some of her staff had arrived at the orphanage to help with the children, while the redhead young woman remained back at the clinic preparing to receive them there. He wished children could forget the horrors they endured, but it was so very rarely the case. At the very least these ones stood the best chance of recovery, with the care they would receive, and the comfort and assurances of the Duchess herself. He sensed Vivienne's numerous troops combing over the entire orphanage, above and below, tearing the place apart for more evidence. When the Duchess' accented, resolute voice spoke up again to him, vowing justice for what had been done to the children, his marred features smiled back at her. It was always welcome to hear... the justice would be of no comfort to the children, too young to understand such a concept, but if anyone deserved it, the innocent like them did. And it would send the right message to the citizens of Toussaint. He would see to it that as many of the blood suckers paid for their crimes as possible, before the remainder fled the duchy or burrowed so deeply underground that even he couldn't follow. They had hundreds of years of atrocities to pay for... and he intended to maximize the punishment as much as he possibly could. The Witcher nodded again, speaking up to her once more... looking between her, the children and to the main door of the orphanage... where his task awaited him and Scorpion outside, little as he desired to depart from her company. Necessity called.

"Justice is a rare thing to behold, in this world. Even in a life as long and well traveled as mine, I haven't witnessed it nearly as much as I'd have liked. I look forward to watching you dole it out. Until then... I have some of my own to deliver as well. My quarry won't hunt itself. We can meet at Shani's clinic, come morning's light... we both should have accomplished our tasks by then. The children will need you there anyways."

She breathed out unsteadily, her body relaxed, a satisfying hum coursing through her, her mind blissfully devoid of anything except the sensation of him pressed against her back, the warmth still coiled deep within her. She absently flexed her liberated wrists, enjoying the sting where his grip had left its mark on her skin. The silence enveloped them, comfortable in its own right, interrupted only by their slowing breaths and the faint sounds of the tavern below. She should feel exposed like this, sprawled beneath him, held down by his weight, his cock still nestled inside her, but she didn’t. Odd, isn’t it? She had spent years fighting for control, for dominance, for the upper hand in every circumstance, yet here, with him, she could yield without trepidation. Perhaps it was because she understood he wouldn’t confuse it with weakness. Perhaps it was because she knew he’d never demand more than she was prepared to offer.

The music swells around her as she remains seated upon the dais, overlooking the sea of guests all hiding behind their masks. She’d never heard of such a tradition before, hiding one’s face at a feast. Robert had told her that he’d heard the tale from an Essosi woman, no doubt one of his whores, and he had thought it a fascinating theme for his nameday feast. And so, here she sits, face concealed by an elegant golden mask adorned with carvings of each great house’s sigil. Her golden tresses are expertly concealed by a flowing auburn wig. She intends to remain completely anonymous tonight.

Emeralds instantly fall upon him seated alone across the room. Despite the wolf’s head mask he wears, she knows it is him. She knows not his name, nor had she spoken to him since his arrival in court three weeks ago. But there is something alluring about him and the mysterious air that surrounds him. Even with that hideous scar that marrs his face.

It does not take her long to spot her husband, who is leaving the hall with a woman on each arm. She knows he will be gone for the rest of the night. And so, she rises, approaching the man in the wolf mask.

A hand sharply swats the serving girl away once the goblet at the Empress’ side is filled. The girl tended to linger too long after completing her duties, particularly when Jaime was present.

Cersei detested anyone looking at him.

Her irritation, however, is swiftly dulled by the loud voice of the master of ceremonies, announcing that the day’s games are about to commence. The Empress sits up in her throne then, a jolt of excitement rushing through her at the prospect of what is to come.

It has been three years since father had passed, leaving the rule of Nilfgaard to Cersei and Jaime. Never before had the empire been ruled by two, let alone by a woman. But she and Jaime were one being…Jaime had refused to rule unless she had been crowned alongside him. Of course, Jaime’s position was far more respected, the organisers of the games seeking his counsel each year. But Cersei was bored, and the organisers was incredibly easy to manipulate. Most men were, her brother most of all.

The manticore had not been an easy thing to acquire, many of her men dying in the attempt. And yet finally, mere days ago, a brave soul had captured one, the man rewarded with a visit to the Empress’ bedchamber. And now, she sits upon her throne above the arena, watching eagerly as the gladiators for the day line up, staring in horror as the creature emerges from the gate. She hears Jaime curse under his breath, causing her to roll her eyes. She would sway him later.

Emerald eyes watch in awe as man after man makes an attempt upon the Manticore’s life. And man after man soon falls to the sand, in varying degrees of dismemberment. All except one.

He had piqued her interest on the first day of the games. A fierce warrior, covered in scars with exquisite, cat-like eyes. She had heard him speak once or twice, yet she could not place his accent.

She watches on as he steps towards the creature. He raises his hand and in an instant, the creature is upon its back, the lone gladiator swiftly mounting it and slashing open its belly, guts spilling to the sand beneath it. Cersei had never seen anything like it.

After the day’s game, she excuses herself from Jaime’s company, immediately making her way down into the bowels of the amphitheater where the gladiators resided. The guards eye her curiously, but quickly obey her request to speak with the day’s victor.

To reward his acquiescence, she leans over and presses a lingering kiss to his lips, a hand delicately caressing his cheek.

“Thank you, Witcher,” she smiled, almost genuinely. “You proved yourself when choosing Caellad…although he proved himself to be a fool in the end…”

She feels Rhaena tense at the mention of the elf, but a gentle squeeze of the woman’s hand seems to calm her.

“Leave us,” Cersei says to Letho. “Rhaena will come to you in due course once I am ready for you to escort me to the ball.”

Several hours later, she stands before the long mirror clad in a sheer black gown, leaving nothing to the imagination. The shape of her body, her breasts…all entirely visible beneath it. It was a gown Rhaena had gifted her, one she had had sent from Zerrikania, and this was the first opportunity Cersei had had to wear it.

To compliment her gown, she leaves her long golden curls flowing down her back, a golden crown adorning them atop her head. Dark makeup accented her emerald green eyes and to finish, she wore an elegant lioness mask which shielded the upper half of her face, leaving her dark red lip visible.

When Rhaena returns with Letho, she slowly makes her way over to him, giving him the time to feast upon her with his gaze.

"Probably best it worked out as it did. Life like mine ain't exactly conducive for raisin' children. Least unless you want 'em to turn out like someone like me. Can't say many would, long term. We Witchers are more of a short term thrill. Regardless, shouldn't take you long to find the substitutes I chose for ya... or them you, lookin' like that. You always did have an eye for talent. Quite a variety to them, reckon they'll provide what you're after."

Skeletal hands claw at silks, at bare skin. Each time the queen swats one away, another takes its place. Soon enough, all she can do is lie back, accept her face, accept the fate of the babe as it is torn from her.

She sits bolt upright, nightdress drenched in sweat as reality slowly returns to her. She is in her chambers, alone. Yet one horrid truth remains. A hand pressed to the flat of her belly confirms it. She had lost the babe two moons ago, the final piece of Jaime that she clung to.

Her nightmares had grown worse since and now, most nights, the dead came for her. Jaime had left to fight them but…what if the living lost and the dead march south?

When Jon Snow had came to King’s Landing to tell Cersei of the threat, Qyburn had insisted on finding a Witcher for court. She had heard tales of Witchers, both good and bad. Still, he might be of use, especially as her fears are beginning to worsen.

And so, later that day, she sends for him, giving him audience in her chambers. When he does arrive, she rises from her seat, holding out a hand so that he might kiss it.

She clutches the cloak tighter about her frame, drawing the hood up over her head to at least try to keep the snow out of her eyes.

Rhaena had thought she would grow used to the chills that winters on The Continent brought. It had been near four years since she had fled from Westeros, where she had been condemned to a life of poverty in King’s Landing. She’d had no clue where she would end up when she stole away into the belly of a merchant ship, and it would seem that had the crew- she would later learn that their original destination had been Essos, but wild storms had sent them adrift and now here she was.

She’d traversed her way through this strange new world, eventually settling in a small village close to the mountains of Kaedwen. Of course, without a coin to her name, she had had to find work quickly, but the village’s pleasure house had employed her the moment they had laid eyes upon her. It was not something she particularly enjoyed, but it earned her enough to purchase a small homestead on the outskirts of the village.

The storm had set in as she was returning home and quickly, she had lost her bearings in the blizzard. She’d ended up in the forest that circled the village, entirely blind to the true way home. She paused for a moment, dark eyes casting this way and that to look for something familiar. But so thick was the snow that she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face. And she did not see the creature until it had knocked her to the ground, sharp claws pressing into her chest as it pins her down. All she can see now is teeth, growing ever closer as it leans down to take the death bite-

Suddenly, she hears the swing of the sword through the icy air, the thud of the creatures head as it lands close to hers, and feels the warm spray of blood across her face. Eyes remain shut for several moments before she slowly opens them, gaze falling upon the man in the dark red cloak, who stands above her.

Eyes wide with fear, she scrambles to her feet. Beneath the hood, she can make out yellow eyes and a large scar that marrs his face. She’s seen him around the village from time to time- she cannot recall his name, but she knows he is one of the elusive Witchers who spend their winters nearby.

She keeps her movements slow yet passionate, making love to him right there in the heated water. The pleasure of his magical aura as strong as ever, continuing to send her into climaxes every few minutes. She recalled when first they had fucked after her transformation, she had feared the effects would wear off, that she would grow accustomed to the powerful vibrations. And yet now, she knew she never would, each intimacy only seeming to surprise her with the intensity of climax he would bring her too.

And right now, she needed the distraction more than ever.

Breaking their kiss to gaze into his eyes, she finds his hand with hers and slowly guides it down between her parted legs, pressing his fingers to her clit. Cursing in Myrish at the powerful sensation that immediately increased her pleasure tenfold.

Before long she is bouncing fiercely stop him, the water from the tub splashing upon the stone floor with the force of her movements. Finding herself now in that place she could only get to with him, enjoying one seemingly endless climax.

She digs her nails into his shoulders and chest as she rides him, crying out in heated pleasure so loudly she fears it is likely the trolls in the mountains Eskel had told her of would startle.

“Fuck…”

Soon enough, however, her position in her knees begins to bring her some discomfort, the hard metal of the tub far from the most comfortable surface. And, far from wanting to separate them, she merely draws a portal about them which deposits them immediately atop the bed near the tub.

When her back met the bedrolls, the wool rough against her bare skin, she arched instinctively, not from discomfort but from the sheer novelty of being handled. Kings had knelt before her; armies had shattered against her will. None had ever simply taken her like this, as if she were a thing to be claimed rather than a power to be appeased. She had heard the hymns, seen the altars built to dragons, temples where priests whispered her name like a prayer. But this was no supplication, no trembling devotee seeking blessings from the divine. Eskel worshipped her with the reverence of a man who knew exactly what she was, yet chose to touch her not as a goddess, but as a woman. His mouth moved over her breasts with a slow, deliberate hunger, his tongue tracing the curve of each before drawing a nipple between his teeth just enough to make her gasp. She arched into him, fingers knotting in his hair, her hips rolling against empty air.

“Hymh …”

It was greed, yes, the kind that coiled low in her belly, hot and insistent. But not the greed of hoarded gold or conquest. This was the avarice of touch, of discovering that the calloused hands of a witcher could map her body like uncharted territory, finding ridges of scar and scale with equal fascination. His lips travelled lower, kissing the taut muscle of her abdomen, pausing at the dip of her navel as if savouring the taste of her skin. She shuddered when his breath ghosted over the sensitive juncture of her thigh, her legs parting instinctively.

"Eskel …" 

His name came out ragged, half-growl, half-plea. She could feel his smirk against her inner thigh, the scrape of stubble contrasting with the soft press of his lips. Then his tongue dragged a slow, molten stripe up her centre, and her thighs clamped around his head on reflex. He chuckled, the vibration sending another pulse of heat through her, and pinned her hips down with one broad hand while the other slid beneath her, fingers splaying against the small of her back to tilt her closer to his mouth. As she moaned, the sound twisting mid-breath into a dragon’s roar, raw, unbridled, shaking the earth beneath them. Birds erupted from the trees in a panicked cacophony of wings, rabbits bolted into the underbrush, and somewhere in the distance, Sabrina the mare stiffened, ears flattening against her skull. The firelight shuddered as though the air itself had trembled, casting jagged shadows across Eskel’s scarred back as he knelt between her thighs. His grip tightened on her hips, holding her steady as her claws, half-extended in the throes of pleasure, dug furrows into the bedroll beneath her.

She barely registered anythung. The world narrowed to the heat of Eskel’s mouth, the wicked precision of his tongue, the way he mapped her like a battlefield he intended to conquer. Another roar built in her chest, but this time she choked it back, teeth sinking into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang bloomed across her tongue, a grounding counterpoint to the dizzying pleasure coiling tighter in her gut. As she arched against Eskel’s mouth, her spine bowing like a drawn bowstring, every muscle taut with pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. The paradox of it burned brighter than dragonfire, that a creature of scales and immolation could be reduced to this: trembling, gasping, utterly human in her vulnerability. His tongue circled her clit with a precision that spoke of decades honing his craft, not in killing, but in this, the art of unraveling her. She fisted her hands in the bedroll, fabric tearing beneath her claws that grew in, as another wave of sensation crested. 

Could a witcher truly do this? Could mortal hands make a dragon forget her wings?

She had known conquest before, the crush of armies beneath her claws, the way kingdoms bent like saplings in her grip. But this was a surrender she had never fathomed. Eskel’s thumbs pressed into the hollows of her hips, holding her down as his tongue delved deeper, coaxing her toward a precipice she’d only ever glimpsed in solitude. The heat pooling in her belly was different from the furnace of her draconic heart; this was liquid, molten, seeping into her veins like honeyed poison. Her thighs trembled around his shoulders, not to cage him, but to anchor herself as the world tilted. Her teeth sharpened against her will, the points elongating like tiny daggers as pleasure coiled tighter in her belly. A growl vibrated in her chest, half warning, half surrender, as her claws fully unsheathed, shredding the bedroll beneath her. She barely noticed. Every nerve burned white-hot where Eskel’s mouth moved against her, his tongue tracing patterns no mortal had ever dared attempt. The scent of her own arousal mixed with woodsmoke and the musk of his skin, intoxicating as aged whisky.

“You truly are, the first.”

She felt a lump in her throat as she watched Eskel come back, the torchlight illuminating the eerie shine of his eyes first, two slitted embers gliding toward her through the smoke-laden corridor. His steps were silent, not a whisper of boot on stone, only the slow drip of something dark from his gauntlets. The Ducal Guard moved aside for him like reeds yielding to a river's flow, their gleaming armour reflecting fragmented glimpses of his advance: a flash of silvered pauldron here, the hilt of a sword stained with blackened blood there. When he finally emerged into the full light, the reality struck her: the effects of the potion. His veins were starkly visible beneath his skin, as dark as ink spilled on parchment, his pupils reduced to mere pinpricks. A child whimpered behind her, pressing tiny fingers into the folds of her skirt.

As she embraced him fiercely, her fingers sinking into the worn leather of his armor as if she could penetrate it and connect with the heartbeat beneath. The scent of him, iron, sage, and the sharp tang of potions, overwhelmed her senses, a familiarity more intense than any blade. She didn’t recoil at the blood smeared across his chest or the way his breath caught when her grip tightened. For a fleeting moment, the orphanage, the children, the lingering odor of decay, it all faded away. There was only the solid presence of him against her, the undeniable proof that he had come back. Alive. Then she kissed him. Not a simple brush of gratitude, nor the superficial peck of nobility. Her lips found the hollow beneath his cheekbone, where the darkened veins pulsed with an unnatural warmth. A shiver coursed through him, surprise, fatigue, something undefined, and she stayed close, inhaling his scent. The act was raw, impulsive, a deed done before reason could step in. When she withdrew, her thumb swept away a line of dirt from his jaw, leaving a clean path behind. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice heavy. For the children. For returning. For the years he had dedicated to becoming the weapon that now stood guard between Toussaint and its horrors.

She thumb lingered on Eskel’s jaw a moment longer than necessary before she turned to the Ducal Guard, her voice cutting through the whispers like a knife through silk. "Reynard, take Ser Olivier and four others, bring up every child from the basement. Gently. They’ve endured enough fear tonight." The captain’s gauntlet struck his breastplate in salute, but his eyes darted to Eskel’s darkened veins, the way his shadow seemed to twist unnaturally against the torchlit walls. Vivienne stepped between them, her emerald skirts obscuring the view. "Now," she added, in a softer tone. The command wasn’t directed at Reynard. It was meant for the tremor in his fingers. As she watched her men depart, Reynard’s sturdy frame vanishing down the cellar stairs, his torchlight engulfed by the darkness, and turned her attention to Eskel. The effects of the potion lingered; his veins still throbbed black beneath his skin, his pupils narrowed like a serpent’s. He remained still, a figure sculpted from shadow and silver, yet she noticed the slight quiver in his fingers as they hovered near the hilt of his sword. It was exhaustion, not fear. Always exhaustion. She moved closer, the hem of her skirt brushing against his bloodstained boots. "You performed admirably," she said, her voice soft enough for only him to hear. Not a compliment, not flattery. A truth, as undeniable as the moon’s influence on the tides.

"You are indeed a man above all others; I am once again impressed. You always manage to assist others, saving countless lives. At this rate, I might run out of titles, medals, and gifts to bestow upon you. But for now, this is a victory in itself. The vampires that escaped, I have complete faith that you will track them down."

"Nobody and nothing I would sooner be taking these risks for, Vivienne."

The Witcher stepped back slightly, arms leaving her when she turned to address the visibly startled Ducal Guard, giving them their orders, to which they snapped to attention again and began to carry them out swiftly, doubtless eager for a quick withdrawal from the unexpected, awkward scene. He watched their departure, and looked about the surroundings of the orphanage now teeming with her troops, tearing the place apart for further evidence, as they doubtless would the lower levels. They had already possessed a good deal of material on the activities of the leeches, but it would all be beyond a doubt with the material collected at the orphanage. Nobody anywhere in the land would be able to deny it when shoved in their faces, including those among the nobility, merchants and others who were in league with the blood drinkers. Exposure was the best cure for any conspiracy at work... and this would do the job. Even so, a great deal of investigation, footwork and bloodletting remained ahead of them, and especially ahead of himself, the physical work of rooting out the problem before the land could be considered to be liberated once more. The Black Sun Princess had been straight forward and honest in her aims, at least... an honest tyrant could be toppled relatively easily, while the Vampires in the shadows were a much more embedded sort of problem, a rot lurking and spreading within the entire system. There was always a worse monster to be found, in this world of theirs. When Vivienne drew close to him again, her accented voice washing over him, he withdrew from his contemplation at once and looked back to her, absorbing it all... her praise, the smile on his unpleasant visage deepening within the shadows. Down at their sides, his hand took one of hers again gently, their fingers intertwining.

"Best to save the titles, medals and gifts for these knights who earn them. This is their land they are fighting for, after all... I'm merely the hired tip of the spear and a tracking bloodhound. I'll have to assess the grounds, then head to the woods and follow their trails. Doubtless they have tunnels leading out to them on the surface. Caverns out there as well. I can mark the positions down on a map for your troops to follow up on, and thin the herd as much as I can. Topple some of the caverns. Still, this place is a total loss for the leeches... the first of many, if I have anything to say about it. None of your naysayers will be able to close their eyes over this. You'll probably want to haul the entire aristocracy into your court, and sort out who can be trusted."

The music swells around her as she remains seated upon the dais, overlooking the sea of guests all hiding behind their masks. She’d never heard of such a tradition before, hiding one’s face at a feast. Robert had told her that he’d heard the tale from an Essosi woman, no doubt one of his whores, and he had thought it a fascinating theme for his nameday feast. And so, here she sits, face concealed by an elegant golden mask adorned with carvings of each great house’s sigil. Her golden tresses are expertly concealed by a flowing auburn wig. She intends to remain completely anonymous tonight.

Emeralds instantly fall upon him seated alone across the room. Despite the wolf’s head mask he wears, she knows it is him. She knows not his name, nor had she spoken to him since his arrival in court three weeks ago. But there is something alluring about him and the mysterious air that surrounds him. Even with that hideous scar that marrs his face.

It does not take her long to spot her husband, who is leaving the hall with a woman on each arm. She knows he will be gone for the rest of the night. And so, she rises, approaching the man in the wolf mask.

A hand sharply swats the serving girl away once the goblet at the Empress’ side is filled. The girl tended to linger too long after completing her duties, particularly when Jaime was present.

Cersei detested anyone looking at him.

Her irritation, however, is swiftly dulled by the loud voice of the master of ceremonies, announcing that the day’s games are about to commence. The Empress sits up in her throne then, a jolt of excitement rushing through her at the prospect of what is to come.

It has been three years since father had passed, leaving the rule of Nilfgaard to Cersei and Jaime. Never before had the empire been ruled by two, let alone by a woman. But she and Jaime were one being…Jaime had refused to rule unless she had been crowned alongside him. Of course, Jaime’s position was far more respected, the organisers of the games seeking his counsel each year. But Cersei was bored, and the organisers was incredibly easy to manipulate. Most men were, her brother most of all.

The manticore had not been an easy thing to acquire, many of her men dying in the attempt. And yet finally, mere days ago, a brave soul had captured one, the man rewarded with a visit to the Empress’ bedchamber. And now, she sits upon her throne above the arena, watching eagerly as the gladiators for the day line up, staring in horror as the creature emerges from the gate. She hears Jaime curse under his breath, causing her to roll her eyes. She would sway him later.

Emerald eyes watch in awe as man after man makes an attempt upon the Manticore’s life. And man after man soon falls to the sand, in varying degrees of dismemberment. All except one.

He had piqued her interest on the first day of the games. A fierce warrior, covered in scars with exquisite, cat-like eyes. She had heard him speak once or twice, yet she could not place his accent.

She watches on as he steps towards the creature. He raises his hand and in an instant, the creature is upon its back, the lone gladiator swiftly mounting it and slashing open its belly, guts spilling to the sand beneath it. Cersei had never seen anything like it.

After the day’s game, she excuses herself from Jaime’s company, immediately making her way down into the bowels of the amphitheater where the gladiators resided. The guards eye her curiously, but quickly obey her request to speak with the day’s victor.

The empress barely notices the Witcher lying quite awake beside her, the sensation of Rhaena driving her so forcefully into the bed beneath her having taken over all of her senses in that moment.

Cersei is the first to lose control, writhing and trembling beneath the handmaiden as her drawn-out climax washes over her. Rhaena follows not far behind, slipping the toy out of both herself and Cersei, letting Letho watch the arousal spill from both of them. Before long, Rhaena collapses atop Cersei, kissing her deeply as they both recover.

“Mm…” Cersei sighs. “If only you were a man…I would wed you right this moment…”

Rhaena smirks softly, nuzzling her before she turns her attention to Letho.

“I’ve come to ready the empress for the masquerade ball this evening,” she says.

Cersei smirks at Letho as she slowly sits up, though still tangled in Rhaena’s embrace.

Skeletal hands claw at silks, at bare skin. Each time the queen swats one away, another takes its place. Soon enough, all she can do is lie back, accept her face, accept the fate of the babe as it is torn from her.

She sits bolt upright, nightdress drenched in sweat as reality slowly returns to her. She is in her chambers, alone. Yet one horrid truth remains. A hand pressed to the flat of her belly confirms it. She had lost the babe two moons ago, the final piece of Jaime that she clung to.

Her nightmares had grown worse since and now, most nights, the dead came for her. Jaime had left to fight them but…what if the living lost and the dead march south?

When Jon Snow had came to King’s Landing to tell Cersei of the threat, Qyburn had insisted on finding a Witcher for court. She had heard tales of Witchers, both good and bad. Still, he might be of use, especially as her fears are beginning to worsen.

And so, later that day, she sends for him, giving him audience in her chambers. When he does arrive, she rises from her seat, holding out a hand so that he might kiss it.