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Philippa's Grace	By : ArizonaIceT Category: +S through Z > Witcher 3: Wild Hunt Views: 8358 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Witcher, this is purely for fun, and not profit

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
Philippa and Geralt decided to wake early, so that they could make it to Vizima before evening. After a quick breakfast of birds to Geralt caught, they saddled Roach, and got back on the road headed toward the city. Barring any other encounters, and Philippa’s health, it was only another 4 hours or so until they reached the city gates. One could tell that they were getting close to the city because the river actually slowed slightly due to damming around the various gates. Well, Geralt noticed at least.

Their cathartic shouting and subsequent sex romp surprisingly did wonders on their bizarre relationship. While they rode in mostly silence, it was comfortable silence. Neither of them were particularly skilled in the art of small talk, so they rode, enjoying the sound of nature. At some point, Geralt looks over his shoulder at Philippa. He takes a moment to take in her features. Even with a bandana covering her damaged eyes, she was truly a remarkable looking woman. Philippa looks up at him, and smiles back. Not her typical conniving smile, or lustful smile, but a smile of actual affection, even if minor. The wolf was growing on her

After about 2 hours of riding, the pair came across a blockade; not like the impromptu fort they encountered earlier, but rather a few guards and wood barricades. Philippa quickly transformed back into Tomira.

“Halt there.” Ordered a soldier as they rode up. “State your business.

“Just trying to make it to the city.” Geralt answered.

“And what is your business there?” The soldier questioned further.

“Meeting an old friend there.”

“Hm...you don’t say.”

The soldier stepped back and started conversing with another soldier in their native tongue. Geralt wasn’t sure why they were being held up like this. They hadn’t done anything to draw attention to themselves since they’d been on the road.

“What’s going on?” Philippa questioned from behind him.

“I’m not sure.” Geralt answered. The soldier he had been speaking to stepped forward again.

“You have very interesting hair. It stands out.” Said the soldier. Geralt raised an eyebrow at the man.

“Thanks…” He said awkwardly. “Listen, unless you have any more comments on my appearance, we’d like to be on our way.”

“Hold there.” Ordered the soldier, stepping a bit closer. “Would you happen to be one Geralt of Rivia?

Well, Geralt hadn’t been expecting that.

“I am.” Geralt answered truthfully.

“Ha!” The other soldier in the back suddenly shouted. “I told you! Just like the black haired sorceress described. White hair, scar, dour demeanor.”

Geralt perked up at the mention of a ‘dark haired sorceress.’ That could only be one person. “Dark haired sorceress? Yennefer?” Geralt asked hopefully.

“I suppose that confirms it. Though she never mentioned anything about a woman being with him” Said the soldier taking note of Philippa “Hm, no matter. He reached to his side and pulled a small coin purse from his hip, and threw it to the other soldier behind him. “You just cost me my coin, you know that?”

“What do you know of Yennefer? Where is she?” Geralt questioned. So close.

“I presume at Vizima with the Emperor.” the soldier said.

‘The Emperor?’ Geralt thought.

‘The fucking Emperor?’ Philippa panicked internally

“We were sent here to escort you to the castle when you showed up. If you showed up.” The soldier continued.

“We don’t need an escort.”

“I’m sure, but orders are orders. Please, don’t make this difficult.”

Geralt grumbled slightly. He didn’t want to have to deal with the Nilfgaardians, and he didn’t fully understand what was happening. Yennefer was working with Nilfgaard? Why? To what end? Yennefer was hardly one who got involved in matters of war unless she absolutely had to, and she certainly had no love for Nilfgaard. She hated war, yet she was in the company of warmongers.

Philippa’s mind was also racing. Yennefer defecting? Philippa did not like the woman, but she’d always seen her as a supporter of Northern Kingdom causes to a degree. And why would Nilfgaard take an interest in her? Emperor Emhyr likely had no love for the strong Northern Sorceress. Philippa was sure that Yennefer had mutual feelings for the Emperor.

Geralt didn’t want to go with them, but he also didn’t want to start a fight, especially now that he knew Yennefer was in the company of the black ones. He could swallow his discomfort and ride with them, if only for Yennefer. Geralt nodded his head, and the soldiers went to mount their horses.

“Alright. Let us be on our way. Do try and keep up you two.” The soldier said. Geralt thought of an unkind thing to call the soldier, but held his tongue.

They all rode off, headed to Vizima. There were 4 soldiers who accompanied them; two rode in front of Geralt and Philippa, while the other 2 rode behind them. Geralt had been in enough caravans to know what this was. Though they were being “escorted”, they were in a typical prisoner transport formation. Seems they would be guests of Nilfgaard whether they wanted to or not.

“So, what do you suppose awaits us in Vizima?” Philippa asked in a low voice.

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Geralt answered.

“We’re riding into a city where you have no idea what may fall upon us?” Philippa questioned.

“Don’t have much of a choice. Yennefer is there.” Geralt responded. Philippa frowned, not satisfied with that response..

“Yes, Yennefer. I must say, I’m quite shocked she would align herself with Nilfgaard. So much so where she has soldiers doing her bidding.” Philippa commented

“You don’t approve?” Geralt said looking over his shoulder.

“Hm, the exact opposite really.” Philippa admitted. “I’m actually rather impressed. Wish she showed half as much initiative with the Lodge.”

Geralt just snorted.

“Though I must say, I don’t particularly gain a whole lot putting myself right at the feet of the Black ones.” Philippa continued.

“You’re worried.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I’d be a fool not to be.” She scoffed. “The Empire is directly responsible for my current situation….well, part of it at least.”

Geralt made a low noise in his throat, understanding her meaning.

“They pinned the assassintation of Foltest on the Lodge, along with various others. They supported Vilgefortz in his mad plans. I am no friend of theirs.” Philippa explained.

“You don’t have to worry.” Geralt replied simply. “They don’t know your true identity.”

“Yes, I might be walking into the fire pits with a cloak, but it’s still a fire pit.” She replied snarkily.

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Either of you.” Geralt said sincerely. Despite herself, a small smile creeped onto Philippa’s face.

“As comforting as your droll bravado might be, not sure what you can do against the hundreds of Black ones.”

“Only bravado if I can’t back it up.”

Despite herself, Philippa laughed.
____________________________________________________________________________

They arrived at Vizima’s gates after a few hours of travel. They passed through the main gate into the Trade Quarters of the city. Vizima was a large city, upwards of 10,000 inhabitants, and a constant flow of traders due to the city's location on Lake Vizima. Been a year and some change since Geralt had been in Vizima during his battles with the Salamandra and the Order of the Flaming Rose, and his subsequent time as a vassal under Foltest, he spent much time in the city. He even briefly had a house gifted to him by Foltest, but he never furnished it and imagined it had since been occupied by someone who could make some use of it.

Gods, how he hated this city.

It was dirty, cramped, and he found most of the people to be ill mannered and selfish, and that meant something coming from Geralt. Things hadn’t changed much under the occupation of the Nilfgaardian forces. In fact, besides the heightened military presence - and the city always had a large military presence as it was - nothing had changed at all. Still loud, obnoxious, and smelled of shit.

Philippa also had a history in the city. Hell, she was there a hundred or so years ago when most of it had to be rebuilt following a devastating fire. She was there during the 7 years war, working with a network of spies for Redanian interests. She made regular trips while advisor to Vizimir II and Radovid. In fact she was also in the city during the ordeal with the Order, and non-human riots that took place. Nasty bit of business that was. She was there corresponding with Triss and Kiera, to see if the Order made any bold moves outwardly hostile to magic. She was glad that Geralt ended up resolving the issue for her. He didn’t know it, but he had saved likely months, if not years of work. Plus anything that blew up in her former lover, Dijkstra’s, face was it’s own reward.

Philippa and Geralt were taken to the stables to house Roach, and then led to the Royal Quarters of the city. It was filled with plainly non-Temerian nobility. Seems the upper echelon of Nilfgaard made themselves right at home. Suppose they had to go somewhere; better than wandering around, making the lives of the simple folk harder.

The pair were brought to the main entrance of the Royal Palace. They entered the main foyer. Waiting for them was a man in expensive looking clothes, and several servants waiting for them.

“Mererid.” One of the soldiers said, addressing the man.” This is Geralt of Rivia, and his companion.”

Mererid looked Geralt up and down, and then over at Philippa.

“I was not told that there would be a female companion.” Mererid acknowledged.

“Just my job to escort them here.” The soldier said. “All other matters fall upon you.”

“Hm. Very well.” Mererid said. He took a step closer to Geralt and smelled him. Mererid wrinkled his nose, and took a step back, face in disgust.

“Not a big fan of strangers sniffing me.” Geralt said, frowning.

“And I’m not a fan of people smelling like manure.” Mererid shot back. “My word man, when was the last time you bathed. Geralt just shrugged. “No matter. You will be bathed and groomed before your audience with his Imperial Majesty. fortunately your companion doesn’t appear to be in the same dire condition you are.”

“Wait. I didn’t come here to be groomed. Where is Yennefer?” Geralt demanded.

“The Sorceress? I don’t know; about the castle somewhere I suppose. I was instructed to greet you upon arrival, and make you decent for his majesty.”

Geralt frowned deeply. Here he was, in the same castle as Yennefer, and he still ran into roadblocks. Why hadn’t Yennefer come to greet him, instead of this foppish ass.

Mererid clapped his hands twice, and the servant girls grabbed Geralt and Philippa by their arms, and began leading them into the castle proper. They were led down a hallway, which split into the left, and right; Geralt was taken one way, Philippa was taken the other. She glanced over her shoulder, giving Geralt a sympathetic look, before being led into a room to be prepped for the emperor. Geralt grumbled as he was brought into his room for the very same.
___________________________________________________________________________

“Hey, easy. I’m delicate.” Geralt teased.

“I’m sorry sir. I’ll be sure to use a delicate touch.” The servant girl teased.

Geralt sat in the bath provided to him by Mererid, as 3 rather pretty servants washed and attended to him. Though the circumstances were less than ideal, he had to admit that this was nice. The girls were lovely, and they weren’t shy while washing him. One girl tried to get a little too friendly when washing his lower body, but she was quickly admonished by one of the older servants.

Geralt enjoyed his bath, until Mererid entered the room along with another man. He simply waved his hand, and the servants left the room. Mererid walked up to Geralt, and lightly ran his finger on the Withcer’s skin and observed it.

“Hmm. It must suffice.” Mererid stated. Geralt stood and was handed a towel to cover himself.

“Think Emhyr cares if I’m clean.” Geralt said snarkily.

“The gentleman will refer to His Imperial Majesty by his full title or not at all.” Mererid lightly chastised. “The gentleman will be seated on the bergèr.”

“The what now?”

“In that...chair.”

Geralt crossed the room and took a seat in the chair that looked like it cost more than he usually made in a month of Witchering.

“Cledwyn.” Mererid called to the attendant. “Please shave the gentleman - sideburns to half an inch.

“What’s wrong with my beard. Always thought it added to my dignity.” Geralt questioned.

“It does. Yet it also detracts from your elegance. In Nilfgaard we consider beards hard on the eyes. Especially beards infested with lice.” Mererid explained, nose upturning in disgust. The lice weren’t that bad, Geralt thought. He hardly noticed them anymore.

“Been on the road a while. Fine, do your thing. Gonna do my nails too?”

“If time permits. Sadly, the day is short, while the list of hygienic and cosmetic treatments that the gentleman should undergo is really rather long.”

“Tilt your head back, please. And sit still.” Cledwyn requested. Geralt leans back in the chair as Cledwyn prepares to shave him.

“And prepare to answer some questions” Came a voice from the door. Standing there was a well dressed man, wearing mostly black He was very pale, even for a Nilfgaardians, and his eyes were black and looked sunken in.. Geralt could tell from his demeanor that he was military.

“General, I am not certain that this is the appropriate time.” Mererid tried.

“I can't think of a better time.” The man retorted. “Men turn honest when they feel a blade at their throat.”

The man took a step closer to Geralt, and bowed slightly.

“Morvran Voorhis, commander of the Alba Division.” He introduced himself as. “Before they take you in to see the emperor, witcher, there's some information I need you to verify. It's a formality, but one that must be seen to.”

Morvran pulled out a small booklet and quill.

“Sure. Paperwork’s gotta be in order.” Geralt grunted. This shave was feeling a bit more like an interrogation to him, but wouldn’t be the first interrogation he’s had to sit through

“So, Geralt of Rivia. Place of birth -- unknown, parents -- unknown, age -- unknown... All insignificant details.” Morvran began. “Let us proceed to more recent events -- the siege of La Valette Castle. The fate of the defending commander, one Aryan.”

Ah yes, back when Geralt was an amnesiac, playing vassal to Kings.

“Let him live. No need to cut him down when he was no threat to me or Foltest at the time. Though he did set fire to the castle on his way out.” Geralt explained.

“Ahh, so that is how the blaze started. Our reports suggested the dragon was responsible.” Morvran pondered. “Moving on. You found shelter in charming Flotsam, and from there made your way to Vergen. My question is -- "how?"

Geralt didn’t appreciate his accusatory tone, but answered regardless.

“I left Flotsam with Iorveth, commander of a Scoia'tael unit.” Geralt answered. Iorveth. Geralt didn’t know if he could call the anarchist elf his friend, but their goals aligned and he was a good ally to him at the time. Geralt always wondered where the elf ran off to after Loc Muinne.

“A slayer of monsters and a slayer of men..you forge interesting alliances.” Morvran commented. Geralt could sense in the man’s voice that the General wasn’t telling him something.

“Something tells me my most interesting is yet to come. Go on, next question -- before my beard grows back in.” Geralt droned.

Morvran gave him an unamused look, but pressed on. “We shall shave you again if it does. Very well. The infamous summit at Loc Muinne. You were there. And once again meddled in the affairs of the mighty.”

‘The Mighty. What a load of horse shit.’ Geralt thought.

“Not at all. I meddled in a personal affair. Helped Iorveth lift a spell that held Saskia.”

“Yes, and in doing so gave Radovid a reason to begin his witch hunts. Congratulations.”

Geralt scowled.

Fuck this guy.

Who was he to try and place blame of a mad king on his shoulder?

“Nilfgaard recently started a war. Unprovoked. So do us both a favor and stop moralizing.” Geralt growled. Morvran didn’t look particularly threatened by Geralt, but he got a strange glint in his eyes.

“Out of curiosity-” Morvran began. “How did you and the elf lift the curse on the dragon queen?”

“Enchanted dagger provided to us by Philippa.” Geralt explained.

“Ah yes. The disgraced sorceress and kingslayer.” Morvran drawled.

“Figure the Nilfgaardians could relate with killing kings.” Geralt shot back.

“Tell me….What happened to Lady Eilhart?”

Geralt stiffened. It was minute, probably imperceivable to Morvran or Cledwyn.

Probably.

“She escaped.” Geralt answered. That was true.

“Any idea where she may have gone.” Morvran pushed, leaning forward in his seat.

“And why would I know something like that? She got out in the chaos. Probably fled the region.” Geralt lied. Morvran's eyes bored into his. Geralt knew he could lie well when he needed to. Lying was all about controlling one’s body: eye movements, voice, breathing, heartbeat. When he wanted to, he could lie as well as Dandelion. But something told him that Morvran was a man who was adept at dealing with truth and lies. The man just stared at him, face not giving away his intentions. Geralt sense the slightest movements in people’s faces, but Morvran’s was made of stone

“Our intelligence says otherwise.” The Nilfgaardian General eventually replied back. “But I suppose that’s an issue for another day.

Morvran stood from his seat, and presented the ledger to Geralt.

“I believe that is all. Your signature, please, affirming you stated the whole truth and nothing but the truth, on pain of imprisonment or death, et cetera, et cetera.” Morvran said quickly. Geralt took Morvran’s quill and signed his name. Not sure if this contract had any legal binding, but the Nilfgaards sure did love their paperwork.

“With these formalities seen to, I would ask the general to leave the room. We shall be choosing the gentleman's attire. An important matter, but one that does not require the general's assistance.” Mererid said, clearly annoyed by Morvran’s interruption of his work.

“Shame... I might've given you some advice. So long, Geralt. Good luck with your audience.” Morvran said, before swiftly gliding out of the room. Geralt didn’t think he ever heard a ‘Good luck’, sound so sinister.

His mind went to Philippa, wondering how she was getting along with all of this.
____________________________________________________________________________

Though she hated to admit it, Nilfgaardians certainly knew a thing or two about luxury.

A bath. Her first proper one in ages, one that wasn’t done in a river. She relaxed in the warm water, as some attractive young servants washed her body. She was brought back to her life before Loc Muinne, before everything went to all hell.

Despite her moment of relaxation, she was still thinking and planning her next move. She was in a very precarious, but potentially advantageous situation. Sure, she was in the proverbial lion's den, in the same castle as the empire she’s worked against for decades, but in the same vein lied an opportunity. The Emperor seemed to have made himself at home in the Royal palace, and everyone knew that home was where one kept their greatest secrets.

After her bath, the servants left her to get dressed in privacy. She was given a few outfits to pic from. Colors were a bit monochromatic for her tastes - Nilfgaard sure did love their black - but she supposed it would have to do. She quickly slid the dress on, apparently Nilfgaard women didn’t eat, since she found the dress to be rather tight around the bosom and the hips. She cast a quick spell to relax the fabric a bit, before slipping out the room. She cast On nie widzi, a spell that bent light around the caster, making them unseen to the human eye; an invisibility spell. Invisibility spells weren’t something to be used lightly. They could do a number on the caster’s body. Generally a powerful mage could hold the spell consistently for 30 or so minutes. Assuming they weren’t doing anything too physically exhausting that could take away from their concentration. Any longer than that, and the caster risked damaging their magical core and bodies irreversibly. Now Philippa was always one to push the boundaries of a spell, but she couldn’t risk it.

Her body wasn’t the only one at risk anymore.

She knew the castle well, having been there a number of times. She walked towards the south end of the castle; historically that was where the king and most important people would reside and keep their various offices and libraries. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just something that she could give her some information. She moved quietly in the halls, until she came across a room that had 2 guards stationed out front. Up until then, she hadn’t seen any rooms that had dedicated men; whatever was in there must have been of some value. She needed a way to get rid of them long enough to peak into that room. She scanned her surroundings, looking for something she could use.

A wall mounted torch. That could be used.

And a very long, and very flammable looking Nilfgaard banner right next to it.

Conjuring a magical wind, Philippa pushed the flame just enough so that it caught the bottom of the banner, and like a piece of tinder, the banner went up a blaze in a matter of seconds. The guards took notice and quickly ran to try and extinguish the fire, giving Philippa enough time to crack the door open, and slip inside. She recognized the room as the secondary library; kept many books, but was ultimately designated to house books of middling value. She walked toward a small desk in the middle of the room. She took notice of the papers scattered across the table. A few had Emhyr’s signature on them. Emhyr must have been using this room as an office at some point. This was exactly the type of thing she was looking for, however the papers weren’t things of particular note: Land acquisitions, orders of grain, minting new coins with gold supplies - Philippa was sure these would be important to someone, but it was nothing she could personally use or that interested her. Her eyes then went over to the book sitting on his desk, “The History of Abdication, 1231”.

‘Abdication now,” Philippa thought. ‘Now why would the Emperor be looking into this? Perhaps trying to force a transition of power in the remaining independent kingdom?’

She noticed the book had pages marked, and opened it to the page. It was in the section of the history of abdication in the Nilfgaardian empire.

-Barring vassal states and territories, the act of abdication has been a rare occurrence in the history of the Nilfgaardian Empire, especially of the willing variety. Going back a millennium to the very beginning of the empire, there seems to only have been 5 occurrences of abdication, 3 of which were through force or threats of violence, which will be discussed in a later section.

Focusing on the other 2 examples, we have Emperor Wilhelm van Servino in the year 449. Following a 23 year reign, the emperor chose to abdicate the throne to his younger brother, Chauncey, as he had no direct heirs. His reasoning was he wanted to live out his ‘older’ days in peace, and not be pressured by the stresses of the crown. Wilhelm was but a man of 40, and following his abdication, he died only 2 years later. It is suspected that he had some condition that he did not want made public knowledge, but it is only speculation.

Next we have Emperor Eric Judemas in the year 795. His abdication was a bit stranger by comparison. He abdicated as a result of his relationship with a woman of...lesser standings. A whore. He insisted on marrying her, but the Senate and noble houses would not allow it. So in an act of defiance, and some might say love, he gave up the crown to his son of his first wife, who died during childbirth. His son Eric II, whom was only 8 at the time, was crowned king, and his father was granted a wing in the palace to live with his wife. Unfortunately his wife left him for a high ranking officer of the military 3 years later, and he fell into a deep depression, one which he reportedly had until his death 7 years later. None of this much affected the functioning of the nation, as by this period, the Senate held much of the power and authority.

Technically abdication is a right of the Emperor, but that does not mean there has not been push back against it at times. There is at least one account of an Emperor attempting to abdicate, but through the Senate pressure, stayed on the throne. This might no longer be the case given the diminished role of the Nilgaardian senate, however-

Philippa heard movement outside the door. The guards must have gotten the fire under control. Quickly she exited the room, and started making her way back to the quarters given to her. She quickly slipped back into her room, closing the door lightly behind her, and dispelling her invisibility spell.

And no one was the wise-

“Madame? There you are? We were looking for you.”

Shit.

Philippa turned around, and there was one of the servant girls standing there.

“We came to see if you were dressed, and you were gone.”

She couldn’t very well have this girl letting slip she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

“Yes...I was just looking for my companion Geralt.” Philippa lied. “This castle is just SO big, I did not know where to look.”

The servant’s face softened, and she gave Philippa a smile.

“I can understand that madame. I get lost sometimes myself. If you needed help you could’ve just asked one of us. Here, I’ll show you the way.”

Philippa internally breathed a sigh of relief. She was in the clear. The servant began leading Philippa down the hall, and Philippa began to think. Why would the Emperor be looking into abdication? Was he sick like Wilhelm? Did he have a successor in mind? Perhaps she was reading too much into it, but this was something that she would have to keep in her mind, and potentially follow up on. Who knew where this information could lead.

Philippa was led to Geralt’s quarters. The servant pushed open the door, and Philippa was met with the freshly groomed Witcher looking very uncomfortable, and very out of place in expensive Nilfgaardian clothing.

“My my, you certainly do clean up nicely.” Philippa commented as she entered the room. Geralt glanced over at her. He fidgeted in his clothing, but gave her a slight smile. The servant girl bowed and exited the room.

“I feel like I’m going to a funeral with all this black.” He said. He took in Philippa, or rather Tomira’s form. The black dress accentuated her curves magnificently. The neckline was low cut, giving him ample view of her bust, which was quite the view even in her Tomira form. She was beautiful. “But you make it work.”

Philippa gave him a slight smile, a genuine one.

She almost looked like Yennefer in that moment.

‘Focus Geralt. Yennefer. That’s the only reason you’re here’, He reminded himself.

“If you two are finished, I’d like to get back to instructing the gentleman on how to greet the king.” Mererid interrupted

“By all means, don’t let me stop you.” Philippa encouraged.

“Now then, Please watch. Leg extended, hand flat, head down, chin to chest.” Mererid instructed, going through the motions of the bow as he spoke. “The gentleman will rehearse.”

Awkwardly, Geralt attempted to mimic Mererid’s motions. For someone so graceful on the battlefield and with heightened reflexes, he looked as if each of his limbs weighed a hundred pounds.

“Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Mererid admonished. “Once more.”

Mererid repeated the actions, then waited for Geralt to follow suit. Geralt just folded his hands in front of him and sulked “Gotta be kidding.” He grumbled. Philippa stifled a laugh behind him, earning her a glare from the moody Withcer.

“Not at all. I am mortally serious.” Mererid said gravely. “Does the gentleman know the penalty for breaches of etiquette in the emperor's presence? Two hundred lashes. I do not wish that upon him, so I will not let him leave until I am confident that he knows how to behave.”

“Come now Geralt.” Philippa interjected. “There’s really nothing to it.”

As if to show up Geralt, Philppa properly curtsied, showing off her regal nature. Geralt just rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath.

“See? The gentleman’s companion can show proper manners, then the gentleman can too. Now, again.”

Grumbling all the way, Geralt once again went through the motions of a bow. Still ungraceful, but this time matching Mererid’s actions.

“Hmm, lacking fluidity and grace. But we've learned to expect less of Nordlings. Come with me.” Mererid said, as he began to walk out the room into the corridor. Geralt and Philippa followed closely behind him.

“The gentleman will address the emperor only when asked to and using the
appropriate title.” Mererid demanded.

“Your Archmagnificency?” Geralt joked.

“I see the gentleman is in the mood for jests. I fear the emperor might not share his disposition. "Your Majesty" will suffice. Spoken loudly, clearly and with respect.” Mererid derided. “As for the lady, the lady will not address the king, unless addressed first? Is that understood.”

Philippa frowned a bit at Mererid’s tone. She had advised and cut down kings. As far as she was concerned, Emhyr should be honored to even speak to her, but there was a time and a place for that.

“Of course.” She said in a saccharine tone. “I wouldn’t even know what to say to such a great and powerful man.”

“Glad you understand.”

Mererid led them to a set of great doors, one the recognized as the audience social chamber of the king. It served as a place where the king could see guests and audiences for whatever purposes.

Mererid pulled the doors open. Standing in the room were several people, Geralt assumed nobility of some sort. And there, sitting at an expensive looking desk, was the The Emperor of the Nilfgaardian empire, Emhyr var Emreis.

He sat, lounged in his chair - only he could make lounging in a chair look foreboding, and serious - with a bored expression on his face. His head tilted ever so slightly to look at Geralt, the man he found entangled in his life and dealings for decades. His eyes shifted over slightly to Philippa disguised as Tomira. He quirked a greying eyebrow ever so slightly.

“Bow before his Imperial Majesty, The White Flame Dancing on the Graves of His Foes, Emhyr var Emreis! Bow!” announced Mererid in Nilfgaardian, going into a deep, submissive bow. Out of habit, and manners, Philippa curtsied as she had grown accustomed to in her many years in noble spaces. Geralt however just eyed the emperor, as if seeing an old rival. They certainly weren’t friends. Philippa lifted her head, and took notice of the intense game of masculinity the two men were engaged in. They might as well have pulled their manhoods out.

“Your Imperial Majesty.” Geralt finally said, not sounding much at all like he respected the title.

“As your Majesty wished..” Mererid began.

“All except the witcher will leave-” The Emperor orders. “And his...companion,”

Philippa looks at Geralt, shocked that Emhyr would keep her in the room for the audience; Geralt looks back, equally as shocked. The rest of the nobility file out of the room, leaving the pair in front of the black clad monarch.

“So many months at Foltest's court...yet you still haven't mastered the basics of etiquette.” The Emperor admonished, glaring at Geralt.

“Know what they say -- can't teach an old wolf new tricks?”

“True. However you seem to lack even the most basic of common sense, as you have not yet introduced your companion. I was under the impression you’d be arriving alone, or possibly with one of your fellow witchers” Emhyr commented, turning his head to look at the disguised Philippa. “Woman. Who are you?”
“Tomira Ibis” Philippa lied without missing a beat, going into a deep curtsy.

“Tomira…” Emhyr repeated slowly. “Hmph, and this companion of yours, do you plan to have her along for a while.” Emhyr questioned, turning back to Geralt.

“Have her along, for WHAT?” Geralt pushed. The Emperor looked at Tomira again, then back at Geralt.

“I suppose if she’s going to be with you, she might as well know what she’s getting into - My daughter Cirilla...she's returned, and she's in danger. The Wild Hunt pursues her. You will find her and bring her to me.” The Emperor said, standing from his seat and walking toward Geralt.

Ciri.

Emhyr’s daughter by blood, and Geralt’s daughter by fate.

She was back.

But how? When?

Why after all this time. Geralt didn’t let his surprise, his worry, or his secret joy show on his face. He didn’t want to give Emhyr that. Philippa was having her own mental crisis.

Cirilla. The girl of Elder Blood. The girl that had been at the center of her plans years ago. The Source. Philippa was somewhat surprised the Emperor would speak of his lost daughter so openly in front of her; as far as he knew, she was a complete stranger. Maybe he wasn’t the great tactical mind she always thought him to be.

“How many men in your army? Twenty thousand? Thirty? So why me?” Geralt questioned.

“You know why. Because she trusts you.” Emhyr answered as if it was obvious. To his credit, it was

“She trusts me, yes.” Geralt shot back, scowling at the man. “So tell me why you're looking for her. Doubt it's about making up for all those lost years.”

“For reasons of state. As always. Enough of this banter. You will agree regardless. If for no other reason than because I shall pay you. More than you customarily receive for a contract. Considerably more.”

Geralt just scoffed at the man flexing his wealth.

“Save your generosity for those whose houses your armies have razed. I'll do it for Ciri. Not for your gold.”

Philippa looked at Geralt as if he was crazy. Only he would admonish access to the wealth of the south. Geralt got quiet for the moment, and looked down in contemplation

“Are you sure? Ciri...left. Went far, far away.” Geralt said, voice a bit strange. Emhyr frowned at him.

“Do you believe I'd drag you here in the middle of a war to discuss a rumor?”

“I think anyone can be wrong, even an emperor.”

“I had forgotten how insolent you can be. I haven't the time to convince you, nor the desire, in fact. Yennefer’s letter will do that-”

What?

“Yennefer’s letter?” Geralt interrupted. “What do you mean here letter - where is Yennefer.”

A smirk spread across The Emperor’s face; a cruel one. “Yennefer left last night on official business in this matter.”

“What? Geralt growled. “Why? You couldn’t wait a damned day before you sent her out?!”

“Careful Geralt, careful. I might need you for this, but I’ve had men hung from the highest rafters for speaking to me with a fraction of disrespect you just spoke to me in.” The Emperor warned, voice deathly serious. “And she insisted she go. Perhaps if you didn’t doddle, you could’ve caught her.”

Geralt bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, standing in silent fury, at Emhyr, himself, and Yennefer. He had traveled a long way, and waited so long to see Yennefer again, and once again, like so many times in his life, she was just outside of his grasp.

“Will that be all?” Geralt asked, trying to control his temper.

“Not quite.” Emhyr said, moving back to his desk. He turned and addressed ‘Tomira’. “Tomira was it? You’ve just become privy to some very sensitive information. I’d like to know more about you.”

Philippa raised her eyebrows in surprise. She wasn’t expecting him to address her or give her an opportunity to speak. She could use this. Maybe lay a seed or two into his mind.

“Well I’m-”

“Do please step closer.” Emhyr interrupted. “Your voice is too quiet and dainty for me to hear.”
Although a bit insulted that her voice was described as “dainty” Philippa stepped forward nonetheless. She crossed the room, moving toward her desk. When she was about 3 feet away from his desk, a sudden wave of sickness fell over her. At first, she thought it was the pregnancy once again affecting her, she looked back at Geralt, who’s eyes became wide. Then she realized-

She had changed back to her original form.

“Hm. I must say, I knew you weren’t who you said you were, but I did not expect the one and only Philippa Eilhart.” Emhyr drawled. She looked at him, unsure of what to say, or how this had happened. “Come now, don’t look so shocked. I spent enough time in a face that wasn’t my own to know when someone else’s isn’t theirs.”

“How did you-” She began.

“Thin layer of Dimeritium.” Emhyr explained. “Surrounds the desk. Makes dispelling possibly cursed items easier.”

The Emperor stood, and Philippa found herself taking a half step back. Emhyr wasn’t traditionally a physically imposing man, but within him was a capacity for such violence that even Philippa had to be wary of. Perhaps even fear.”

“You know, you have been an enemy to Nilfgaardian causes for sometime now. Tell me, why shouldn’t I have you stripped, beaten, and burned at the stake. Or perhaps ship you to Radovid as a bargaining tool. You know he put out quite the incentive for your head. Quite the bargaining tool between kings.”

Philippa was not one to panic. She was a calculating woman, used to thinking several moves in advance, but even she had to admit, she didn’t know what to do here. She was exposed to one of the most powerful men in the known world.

She thought about making some move, maybe she could kill him. Strike him down before he could do anything he had planned for her, but the guards outside would no doubt be upon her in seconds. She couldn’t teleport away, it was dangerous to try and do it suddenly without a clear image of where, and the castle likely had enchantments to block teleportation from within the walls unless at designated teleporters. She felt as if the world was closing in around her, and growing darker.

Then she realized it was just Geralt, standing close.

He moved in front of Philippa, pushing her back. He gently placed his hand on her stomach. She didn’t know why, but she covered his hands with hers.

“That’s enough Emhyr.” Geralt said sternly. Geralt’s cat-like pupils narrowed dangerously, like an animal protecting their pack, their young. Phillipa felt his muscles tighten, ready to move to protect her in a split-second.

“Judging by your reaction, you are aware of the company you have been keeping.” The Emperor said, taking his seat one more.

“Yes.” Geralt answered simply.

“And for what reason would Philippa Eilhart, the disgraced Lady of Montecalvo be doing with Geralt of Rivia?” Emhyr asked rhetorically. “Protection?”

“That’s none of your business. She’s off limits.” Geralt barked

“NOTHING is off limits to me.” Emhyr replied, voice hard.

“She is, if you want Ciri found. I need her.” Geralt said. Philippa looked up at Geralt, surprised by his declaration. Emhyr frowned, and leaned back in his chair.

“How?”

“You’re asking me to scour a war town continent, to find a girl who can leap through time itself.” Geralt explained. “I’ll need Philippa’s magical expertise.”

“Yennefer tried using magic to find Ciri, and all it did was attract the Wild Hunt” Emhyr pushed back.

“She’s not a tracker. She was relying solely on magic. I am, but I can’t perform miracles and be everywhere at once. My tracking, plus the aid of magic is the best way to find Ciri, and with Yennefer gone, I need Philippa.”

Emhyr didn;t reply immediately, just stared in Geralt’s eyes. Geralt stared back, unflinching, hand still protectively covering Philippa’s stomach, The two men were in a silent battle over Philippa’s life. Finally-

“Very well.” Emhyr said, waving his hand dismissively. “Take Eilhart. Find my daughter. Do so and there will be rewards - for both of you. I recommend you keep your sorceress on a short leash though. Wouldn’t want her to get any...ambitions.”

Geralt jerkily nodded his head, and Philippa breathed a sigh of relief.

“This audience is finished. Mererid!” He called. The chamberlin entered the room, awaiting instructions. “Take them to the Sorceress’ quarters.”

Mererid bowed, and began to lead the pair out of the room. Geralt grabbed Philippa’s hand, and followed behind quickly. Philippa let out a shuddering breathe. That was close, entirely too close. She got too cocky again, and in an instance, things almost came to a horrifying end for her.

But Geralt was there.

He was becoming somewhat of a constant there.

He spoke up for her. Protected her. Maybe he only did it for the child, she didn’t know, or care. The fact remained the same that she was once again safe, because of him.

“You alright?” He asked suddenly, pulling Philippa from her thoughts.

“Yes...yes I’m fine.” She answered. “I underestimated Emhyr once again. That was my own”

“One can never know what goes on in his mind. Trying is like diving into the deepest, and darkest cavern.”

“How poetic…..how are you though?” She found herself asking. “I know you were hoping to see Yennefer.”

Geralt breathed out deeply through his nose.

“I know this much - that letter better be fucking good.”

They arrived at Yennefer's quarters, and the room glowed with her presence. Various magical trinkets, books and scrolls….and it smelled of lilac and gooseberries. Geralt went to the desk, and on it found a letter, sealed, with his name on it. He quickly tore it open and found two pieces of paper.

The first was of Ciri. A life like drawing of her...how she looked now. Ciri was a woman of 20 years now; the last time Geralt saw her, she was only still a girl of 15 or 16, just coming into her own. Now she was unmistakably a beautiful young woman, ashen haired and scarred, just like he was.

His little girl had grown up.

The second piece of paper was a letter from Yennefer.

-Geralt,

If you’re reading this, then that means we missed each other. Shame we couldn’t meet face to face, and you don’t know how sorry I am I had to leave you like this before even reuniting, but you must understand, I had to.

Ciri, our little Ciri is back. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but our little girl came back to us. But she’s in danger. I don’t know how much Emhyr has told you, but the Wild Hunt is after her. I’ve spent these last months using every bit of magic I know to try and find her: locating spells, haruspicy, geomancy, anything. The Wild Hunt sensed this, but I thought I tricked them, I thought I was clever. I was wrong.

That’s why I need you. You're the best tracker I know. I know if any one can find her, it’s you.

Ciri has been reported to have been seen in Velen, and there’s rumors of her being in Novigrad. In Velen, there is an agent named Henderik who can help you pick up the trail. Reports in Novigrad are unconfirmed, just rumors and sightings. But you’ll have an old friend to help. Triss Merigold.

I’m sure you two will be happy to see each other.

As for me, I’ll be headed to Skellige Island. Reports of magics of unheard of levels. I’ll be making several stops before then, to try and buy you time and keep the hunt from pining my location down again. Maybe we’ll run into each other.

Geralt. Find Ciri. She needs us. She needs you. Don’t be a hero. When you can, come find me.

Speak to the Ambassador var Attre; he usually works in the room next to mine. He can help fill you in on the details of the war and regions.

And Geralt,

I hope to see you soon.

Yen.-

And there it was.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting from her message. He wanted to be mad, mad that she didn’t stay and see him, mad that she didn’t contact him earlier...but her reasoning, her logic made sense.

Too bad he was never a logical man.

“Everything alright?” Philippa called behind him. He’d honestly forgotten she was there, so wrapped up in Yennefer’s words.

“Fine.” He lied, setting the letter down. “Looks like we’ll be going to Velen.”

“Velen? That region was hardly the most hospitable place before the war, can’t imagine what it’s like now.” Philippa commented.

“We’ll find out in a moment,” He replied. Geralt and Philippa walked out of Yennefer’s quarters, and in the next room, standing by the fire was the man he presumed to be the ambassador. The ambassador looked at Geralt, and unlike most of the Nilfgaardians and nobles in the castle, he didn’t look immediately disgusted by his presence; a small victory. The ambassador looked over at Philippa with a surprised look on his face.

“Ambassador var Attre? Yennefer suggested I ask you about current events. The war, and so on.” Geralt addressed the man.

“Of course. The emperor's servants keep no secrets from each other, and I must say, the emperor is greeting quite the spectrum of servants.” The ambassador said glancing at Philippa. “Shows just the extent of his influence I suppose. If you will, let us approach the map.”

They walked over to a map laying flat on a table. It showed the northern kingdoms, or what remained of it. On it, were 3 chess piece sized figurines of kings to represent conquered lands.

“How's the war going? I mean, apart from the fact that Nilfgaard's triumph is imminent?” Geralt asked sardonically. The ambassador looked over his shoulder, making sure the room was empty before he spoke.

“I assume this to be a private conversation. We've no witnesses, so let's dispense with propaganda, even that shrouded in irony.” He said plainly. Geralt could appreciate a man who spoke direct. “Our offensive was going splendidly -- until winter came. Aedirn was in such disarray that we encountered no resistance. We had reached the Pontar before the first snows. Only a weakened Kaedwen remained...and Radovid's Redania, which had ignored the rest of the North's pleas for help. We thought they'd sue for peace, perhaps even submit to vassalization. We waited for spring, certain of victory.”

“Radovid? Submit?” Philippa said incredulously.

“Hmph. I could’ve used your backing earlier.” the ambassador chuckled grimly. “Might’ve saved us some time and good men. Yes. A vain hope, I agree. Radovid sent no peace envoys, nor did he advance on our position. Instead, he trudged over the snow-bound Kestrel Mountains...and attacked Kaedwen, his ally. This attack took the Kaedweni by surprise. They were still mourning the loss of their king. Rudderless and dejected, they laid down their arms after a few lost skirmishes -- and joined Radovid. And so by spring, instead of two weak enemies we had only one powerful one.”

Philippa had to hand it to Radovid, he was showing to be a rather brilliant tactician when it came to war. She’d have been proud of him if she didn’t long to see him screaming in agony. Though she supposed the feeling was mutual.
“What about Kovir?” Geralt asked.

“Kovir values its neutrality. Enough not to lend its armies or, more importantly, even its coin to either side.” the ambassador replied. This didn’t surprise Philippa. Kovir was always an outlier in the Northern Kingdoms, rarely picking sides. That was one of the reasons Philippa wanted to put a magical ruler on the throne, by marrying off Ciri - a neutral state that worked toward the progression of magic. It’s a decision that she….has come to not look fondly on.

“Returning to the war,” The ambassador continued. “This spring there was a massive battle in the marshes of Velen. Massive, yet indecisive. Both sides suffered enormous losses. Unprecedented, even. Radovid has retreated across the Pontar. He's safe for now...until reinforcements come from the south. Then Emperor Emhyr var Emreis will deal with him once and for all.”

Couldn't you just go home? Save everyone a lot of marching. Not to mention a few human lives.” Geralt said. The ambassador almost gave him a sad look.

“I'm afraid the stakes are too high to fold now. We can only go all in.”

The sunk cost fallacy of man.

“Hm. How do things look in Velen?” Geralt questioned.

“As bad as ever...perhaps worse.” He said gravely. “This land never flowed with milk and honey, and now it flows with blood. Armies have swept through it several times, trampling fields, looting granaries, burning villages. Famine grips the populace.”

“But with Radovid’s forces back across the river, surely your forces could bring some order to the area?” Philippa found herself asking. She didn’t love the idea of Nilfgaard occupation, but order of any kind was better than chaos.

“Yes, one might think that, but our forces are spread thin as it is, and Velen is chiefly swampy forests that are difficult to control. We've had several patrols never return to their camps. Thus, we've temporarily delegated authority in this region to a certain Nordling, a former low-ranking officer in the Temerian army, one Phillip Strenger. Better known by his nom de guerre, the Bloody Baron. I advise you well -- avoid him.”

“Any news from Novigrad? Is the free city still free?” Geralt followed up.

“Yes, although everyone knows this won't last.” The ambassador explained Radovid is in Oxenfurt, and the emperor is here, in Vizima. At Novigrad's doorstep, both. And both require coin and ships. Novigrad can provide these. Which is why the mood in the city is rather...well, on edge.”
“Meaning?” Philippa interjected, sensing something in his voice. The ambassador seemed to be thinking over his next words carefully.

“How do men deal with fear?” He asked rhetorically. “They seek reassurance...and scapegoats. The Church of the Eternal Fire understands this perfectly. And so it promises to improve the lives of its flock by pointing out the guilty. Who started the war? Who profits from it? Why, it's obvious -- mages, elves, dwarves. In a word, any and all deviants. I've been stationed in Novigrad for thirteen years. First as a consul, then as an ambassador. I've seen a great deal -- cruelty, cynicism, greed. But what is happening there now concerns me greatly.”

“How bad is it?” Philippa asked, voice straining.

“We only have vague reports from agents. I couldn’t accurately say-” The ambassador tried.

“Guess.” She demanded sternly.

“...Based on our reports, the magic user population has been cut nearly in half, either from being killed, captured, or fleeing the city. Elves and dwarves are also being purged, but not with the same severity.” The ambassador admitted. Philippa hadn’t realized that her fists were balled up so tightly, that her knuckles were white. She tried to suppress her rage, her distraught, as she learned that Oxenfurt, a place formerly known for it’s free thought and haven for magic, was exterminating them. She was brought back to Loc Muinne - hundreds of her peers, some just learning the art, the way of magic, cut down, and horrifically killed. She remembered hearing all their screams.

“Guess Nilfgaard got what it wanted. A weakened North. Destroying itself from the inside out.” She said, voice flat, but the accusation was clear. The ambassador had enough grace to look contrite.

“I will admit, our hope was for instability. I can not deny that. But what is happening now...We might keep our magic users and non-humans under a close eye down south, but we don’t codone outright genocide, and we don’t tolerate fanatcism.” The ambassador defended. “And I hope that helps you understand why we’re the best hope for the North.”

“Philippa.” Geralt said softly, placing a hand on her upper arm. “Maybe you should go back into Yenn’s quarters...to calm down. I’ll fill you in.”

Philippa didn’t reply, but turned and exited the room. Geralt watched her leave, feeling sorry for the sorceress. The two talked a bit more, about Skellige, about the best path into Velen, and how to correspond with the Nilfgaardian agent. Once he got all the information he thought was relevant, he bid the ambassador farewell, and returned to Yennefer’s quarters to check on Philippa. He closed the door behind him, so that they would have some privacy. She was leaning against Yennefer’s workstation, appraising the image of Ciri.

“She’s grown up.” Philippa said simply.

“Yes.” Geralt responded, He didn’t really know what to say, so he settled on. “Are you okay?”

Philippa didn’t answer his question. Truthfully, she was far from okay. So much in her life was out of her hands. Her exile.

Her pregnancy.

And now, she found herself an agent of Nilfgaard. So much, so fast.

But once again, she had a constant.

Geralt.

“You defended me in there. With the emperor.” She said sytrangly. Geralt quirked an eyebrow at her changing the subject.

“I told you, I wouldn’t let anything happen to either of you.” He said, eyes falling down to her stomach.

“Still, I owe you thanks. I owe you my life...again.”

“You don’t have to thank me for keeping my word. Comes with being a decent man.”

“I think we both know being a decent man is a rare trait these days. And even decent men don’t do something for nothing.”

As Philippa spoke, she brought her hands to the shoulder of her dress, and tapped lightly. She glowed slightly, as the fabric of the dress began to fade and disappear. Geralt’s eyes grew a bit as Philippa’s nude form came into view.

“Philippa…” He said slowly. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just giving you a reward.” She said with a sly smile. She leaned back and hopped up on Yennefer’s table, setting her ass on the wood surface, and Yennefer’s various documents.

“I told you, you don’t owe me anything.” Geralt said. Despite his words, he walked forward towards her slowly, manhood filling with arousal.

“Come now Geralt, no need to be coy. We are well past that.” She breathed out. Slowly and sensually, she spread her legs open, giving Geralt a clear view of her shaved, glistening cunt. He stepped closer again, now only inches from her.”

“But-”

“Gods Geralt, only you would attempt to talk your way out of a woman willing and wanting for you.” She said with an exasperated laugh. “We’re going to be stuck together a while. Indulge a little. Now - come and get it.”

That was all the pushing Geralt needed.

He closed the distance between them, capturing her mouth with his. He ground his clothed cock against her center, making her shudder.

“Yessss.” She hissed into his mouth as she grinded back against him, enjoying the blissful friction. One of his hands latched onto her right tit, and began to massage and knead it. With his other hand he pushed his velvet pants and underwear down, letting his cock hardening cock bounce free. He rubbed himself against her core, feeling skin on skin. He groaned, and she made a noise deep in her throat.

“Dammit Geralt, you’re always a tease. Fuck me before I hex your balls off!” She cried needily. He just chuckled and latched his mouth onto her neck, causing her to gasp. He swiped the head of his cock on her opening a few more times, before lining himself up with her slit, and slowly entering her. She moaned as he slowly filled and stretched her. He took his time filling her, slowly gliding into her, feeling her tightness around him. When he finally reached the hilt, he just himself there as Philippa squirmed.

“Geralt….Please.” She begged. She squirmed and tried to thrust her hips upwards up into Geralt, but he held her at bay with one hand on her hip. “Ger-MPHFF!”

She was cut off by him pressing his lips to hers again, as he slowly began to roll his hips.

This was different from their previous romps, which had all been rough and fast, full of pent up anger and frustration.

This was...more intimate.

Geralt’s hips pumped into with controlled, long strokes. He would run his hands over her sides and breast, feeling what skin he could. Phillipa locked her ankles around his hips, pulling him deeper into her. She let her hands roam to his white hair, as she gasped and moaned. If Philippa still had eyes, they’d be boring into his.

“Geralt...Geralt...Geralt…” She moaned as he began to pick up the pace. Yennefer’s table screeched at his thrusts, and her papers fell and scattered to the floor.

She felt her peak overtake her, her cunt clenching around him, and her legs shaking. “Fuck!” She yelled out., throwing her head back. Geralt used the movement to lean forward, and clamp his mouth on her right nipple. He suckled and gentley nibbled at it, causing her to moan even louder.

“Geralt….Geralt stop.” she gasped. Instantly he stilled his hips, and looked at her with worry in his eyes.

“Something wrong? Am I hurting you?” He asked in a panic.

“Gods, gods no.” She said with a breathy laugh. She unwrapped her ankles from around his hips, and pushed him back. He pulled out of her, cock shiny with her juices. She hopped off the table, nearly tumbling because her legs were so weak from her orgasm. On shaky legs turned around, and bent over, propping her elbows on the table, presenting her backside to him.

“Just giving you a change in scenery.” She teased over her shoulder.

Geralt’s nostrils flared and he grabbed two handfuls of her plump ass, and dropped to his knees. Philippa squealed as she felt her asscheeks pulled apart. Before she could say anything further, Geralt dove his head between her legs, pushing his tongue into her cunt. Philippa let out a strangled moan as he began lapping at her folds. Geralt’s tongue was longer than most people’s - element of his mutations - and it was dexterous too. He was able to move his tongues in ways Philippa didn’t think was possible, tasting every bit of her twat. She pushed her hips back, trying to ride his face and get more of his tongue, which he was happy to oblige; Geralt was a generous lover. He actually enjoyed pleasing women with his mouth, a trait few men had shared in Philippa’s history. Philippa came again, HARD. Her juices ran down Geralt's chin, as he lapped at her like he was drinking from the fountain of youth.

“How are you so perfect at this Geralt?” Philippa gasped. The man was a sex god. She didn’t say that though. He didn’t need to know the extent of her neediness. Geralt just smiled and wiped his chin before standing back up. He aligned his cock with her entrance and reentered her in one swift motion. Philippa let her head fall to the table, enjoying his hard strokes as he fucked her from behind. Despite his gruff nature, Geralt was a very vocal lover, grunting and groaning as he moved his hips. She liked to hear the low whimpers that came from his throat, the ones he didn’t think she could hear, making sure to clench around him even more, hoping to elicit another one from him.

His thrusts were becoming less and less controlled, and more rushed and frantic. She knew that he was close, she was too.

“Come on Geralt…” She moaned wantonly. “Do it. Cum for me. Cum.”

He grunted loudly, and that same whimper she liked escaped from his throat. He hilted himself in her fully, his cock swelled as he unloaded into her. Another massive orgasm tore through her, causing her legs to go even weaker. She nearly fell to the ground, but Geralt caught her around the stomach and held her up. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the warmth and feel of each other. Finally Geralt spoke.

“We should probably rearrange Yennefer’s desk.”

“Geralt, I feel like I shouldn’t have to say that it’s rather rude to mention another woman, while you have another in your arms.”

“But-”

“Geralt.”

“Yes?”

“Do be quiet, and take me to bed.”
_________________________________________________________________________

The pair slept into the late morning. After their romp in Yennefer’s chambers, they had Mererid show them to their room, and bring them some food. They ate, discussed the plan ahead of them, and fucked some more. They eventually fell asleep, wrapped up within each other.

Mererid woke them up, informing Geralt that the castle blacksmith wanted to see him about his gear. Not liking other people touching his stuff, Geralt got dressed quickly, and followed the servant. They arrived at the blacksmith, who had a forge right outside the castle.

The blacksmith was a Dwarf by the name of Branson. He wore a blacksmith apron and goggles, with his long beard plaited across his chin. When he saw Geralt and Mererid arriving, he stopped what he was working on, and greeted them.

“I’m assuming you’re Geralt,” He said with a smile.

“Aye, that’s me.” Geralt replied. Branson extended his short arm to Geralt, who took his hand and shook it. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“If that will be all gentlemen, I will get back to my duties.” Mererid said, turning and walking stiffly back to the castle.

“That man walks as if he has a stick up his ass.” Branson laughed.

“Likely the emperor’s septor.” Geralt joked.

“Ha! I like you. You’re not uptight like these black ones.”

“Mererid told me you wanted to talk about my armor.”

“Ah yes. I’ve been instructed by the emperor to get you a new set.”

“You’re going to make me armor?”

“MADE. In reality I just repurposed some armor I already had made for someone else. Some noble’s son. Went and got himself beheaded on the battlefield trying to play warrior.” Branson explained. “Mererid gave me your approximate dimensions, and after some minor adjustments it should fit you like a glove.”

The dwarf walked to the back of his forge and rummaged around in a trunk. He pulled the armor out, and presented it to Geralt. It had a padded jacket as the bottom layer, with a short black and gray striped gambeson to cover it. The shoulders were reinforced with pieces of steel, and hardened leather. The gauntlets looked strong and flexible, and the leather pants included knee and shin protection. Geralt took the amor, and slipped into it quickly. It fit him well

“Hm, not bad.” Geralt commented.

“Well you sure know how to give a tradesman a compliment.” Branson jibbed sarcastically. “I also sharpened your swords. One steel, and one Silver? You a witcher by any chance.”

“What gave it away, they glowing yellow eyes?”

“Ha! I was going to say the face that looks like it took a few beating from an ogre.”

“Have something that needs Witchering?”

“Not me. But I have a friend who lives in a village, right outside of the city. They’ve been having some problems with some bugger of some sort. Nilfgaardians too busy keeping the city on lockdown to do anything about it, Think it’s beneath them.”

Geralt thought about it. They were technically destitute, and If they were about to venture into Velen. They’d need the coin.

“I’ll look into it.” Geralt assured. Branson gave him a jolly smile.

“Many thanks. Oh, and before you go, the emperor asked me to give you one more thing.”

Branson walked to his work table, and pulled out a black cloth, with something in it. He handed it to Geralt, who raised an eyebrow.

“Why the dramatics?” Geralt asked. Branson just shrugged.

“I was told that your company, whoever that is, might not like that you have these.” The dwarf explained.

Geralt unwrapped the fabric, and in his hands were a pair of Dimeritium shackles, and a small piece of folded paper. Geralt unfolded the paper, and written on it was simply “Just in case.”

Geralt frowned at the shackles. He knew the implications. They were to be used on Philippa, as a form of last resort. He didn’t need them. At least, he didn’t think so. Philippa had no reason to try and betray him, it wouldn’t be rational. It would put her in more danger than it was worth.

Though he was sure of her allegiances in Vergen.

Truth was, despite the last few days they spent together, and their flashes of passion, Geralt still couldn’t say he really trusted Philippa, and with good reason. Yes, he wanted to keep her and his child safe, but he also knew of her boundless ambition and scheming.

He rewrapped the shackles in the cloth, and thanked Branson, before making his way back to the castle
____________________________________________________________________________

With his armor and weapons returned, and a quick meal, Philippa and Geralt were soon ready to hit the trail towards Velen. Philippa got herself ready, while Geralt spoke with the Ambassador var Attre about any final details they needed to know about Velen.

“Ambassador.” Mererid interrupted, entering the room. “The elf is here to see you.”

“Ah yes. Show him in” The ambassador requested. Mererid waved his hand, and from around the corner, walked in a familiar face.

Iorveth.

Geralt’s eyebrows rose in surprise at the sight of the war torn elf. Iorveth looked at him, and his one eye widened in surprise, and then it fixed itself into a glare.

“Looks like you two are already acquainted.” The ambassador noted. Iorveth took a step forward, and Geralt did as well.

“Iorveth.” Geralt said.

“Geralt.” Iorveth replied. “Surprised to see you in the presence of the Nilfgaardians.”

“Can say the same for you.” Geralt retorted, folding his arms over his chest.

“Looks like we might be allies once again.” The elf said, not very much sounding like an ally.

“Hm. We’ll see.” Geralt shot back.

“Gentleman” The ambassador interjected. “If you’re quite done, I do need to speak with Iorveth on matters of state. So if you will please, let’s go to the next room”

The elf glared at Geralt for a moment longer, before following the ambassador into the adjacent room, closing the door behind him. Seems Nilfgaard was pulling out all the stops for this war. Moments later, Philippa entered the room, travel attire ready. She saw Geralt's face and asked-

“Something the matter?”

“No. Just saw another familiar face.”

“Who?”

“Better if you don’t know. Come on. Let’s get to Roach and get out of here.”

Philippa didn’t very much appreciate being dismissed like that, but she didn’t push. Besides, she could just read his mind later anyway.
____________________________________________________________________________

With Roach packed and saddled, they pair road out the city, on the road to the war torn Velen. The Nilfgaardians gave Philippa her own horse, a gray mare. They rode side by side, at a gentle pace. Geralt’s mind was set on the road ahead of them. Velen was unknown territory. He had no idea what chaos would be there, or if the lead would even be helpful in leading him to Ciri. But like many things in his life, he was willing to risk the unknown for what he cared about. He couldn’t go about it with the same reckless abandon that he usually did. He was responsible for Philippa now...and his child. He had to keep them safe before all else. Geralt’s life was always one of contradictions.

Philippa’s mind was also on the road ahead, but in a more figurative sense. Ciri. The special girl being back reopened so many possibilities for Philippa and her grand visions. And then there was Nilfgaard. Though she hated to admit it, the Southern empire gave her opportunities. She spent so much of her life fighting them for the North, but now the North had all but rejected her. Rejected magic. Nilfgaard - maybe it was an opportunity to make things right in the balance of man, kings and magic. Emhyr was a powerful man, but all powerful men could be influenced.

It was just the matter of showing them what they wanted.
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Philippa's Grace