Disclaimer:
This work is a fan fiction inspired by The Witcher universe, originally created by Andrzej Sapkowski and expanded by CD Projekt Red. All characters, settings, and concepts are used in a transformative and creative manner. This story is not affiliated with or endorsed by the original creators.
Genre: Romance and Tragedy
Between Wolf and Empire
The moon cast jagged silver beams across the rumpled silk sheets, illuminating the entwined bodies of Geralt and Vivienne. Their chamber was quiet save for the rhythmic creak of the bedframe and the sharp, shared breaths that filled the air. Geralt lay beneath her, his calloused hands gripping Vivienne's hips with a possessiveness tempered by awe. Her golden hair clung to her sweat-slicked shoulders as she moved above him, each roll of her hips deliberate, her back arching like a bowstring drawn taut.
Vivienne's breasts swayed with her motions, their peaks hardened by the cool air and Geralt's rough touch. His thumbs brushed over them, squeezing gently before trailing down her ribs, mapping the heat of her skin. She moaned, low and throaty, her nails scraping his chest as she ground herself against him, taking him deeper with every rise and fall.
"Fuck, Vivienne…" Geralt growled, his voice ragged. His hands slid to her thighs, urging her faster. The muscles in his neck corded as he fought to keep his rhythm steady, but her tightness—the way her body clenched around him with every descent—threatened to unravel him.
Vivienne's lips parted in a gasp, her head tipping back. "Look at me," she demanded, her tone commanding even now. Geralt's eyes snapped to hers, pupils blown wide, his usual stoicism shattered. She tightened around him deliberately, drawing a groan from his throat as her hips circled, milking him with practiced precision.
The door, left ajar by a curious hand, framed a sliver of the scene. Anya stood frozen in the shadows, her breath shallow. At six years old, she understood little of what she saw, but the intensity of it gripped her—the way her father's hands dug into her mother's flesh, the primal sounds neither of them bothered to stifle.
Vivienne's back glistened, muscles flexing as she rode Geralt with a ferocity Anya had never seen. Her mother's cries grew sharper, her movements erratic, until suddenly Geralt's hips jerked upward, his grip bruising as he held her still. A guttural snarl escaped him, his release pulsing inside her as Vivienne's body shuddered, her own climax wringing every drop from him.
Anya's eyes widened. She saw the tension in her father's thighs, the way his abdomen tightened like coiled steel, but nothing spilled from where they were joined—Vivienne's body kept him sheathed fully, her muscles fluttering as she drew out his pleasure.
Vivienne collapsed onto Geralt's chest, her breath hot against his skin. He stroked her hair, his other hand still splayed possessively over her lower back.
"You're insatiable," he muttered, though his voice held no reproach.
She laughed, the sound warm and throaty. "Says the man who begged for this."
A floorboard creaked. Geralt's head turned toward the door, his senses sharper than any wolf's. "Anya."
Vivienne tensed but didn't move, her body still draped over his. "Come here, cœur."
Anya crept forward, her nightgown swirling around her ankles. She avoided their eyes, fixating instead on the sweat-damp sheets.
Geralt sat up, unashamed of his nudity, though he pulled the blanket over Vivienne's hips. "You shouldn't spy," he said gruffly.
"D-Did you fight?"
Geralt exchanged a glance with Vivienne. No lies, no shame.
"No, pup," he said, rough voice softening. "This is… how we show love. When words aren't enough."
Vivienne knelt, cupping Anya's face. "It's like dancing. Sometimes love is quiet, sometimes loud. But always private. Understand?"
Anya nodded, though her brow furrowed. "But… you looked angry."
Vivienne laughed, a rich, warm sound. "Passion isn't pretty, cœur. But it's real. One day, you'll understand."
Geralt tugged Anya's braid gently. "Bed. Now."
As she left, Vivienne whispered, "And knock next time."
The Belgaard vineyards simmered under a midday sun, rows of fat purple grapes glistening like bruises. Count Liam swirled wine in his goblet, watching Matilda prune a vine with hands still soft from noble birth. A breeze carried the stink of fermenting casks from the cellar—a stench he'd grown rich ignoring.
Boots crunched gravel.
Lambert emerged first, his leathers stained with something darker than dirt. Eskel flanked him, eyes scanning the trellises like he was pricing each vine for auction. Ducal operatives fanned out behind them, swords sheathed but hands resting on pommels.
Liam's goblet trembled. "What fresh hell is this?"
Matilda dropped her shears. "Liam—"
"Shut it." Lambert snatched the goblet, downed the wine in one gulp, and spat at Liam's boots. "Tastes like piss strained through a peasant's socks."
Eskel unrolled a parchment sealed with Geralt's wolf-head crest. "Count Liam de Coronata. By order of the Duke: tax evasion, smuggling, conspiring with foreign powers to undermine Toussaint's sovereignty. You're done."
"This is madness!" Liam's voice cracked. "My trade agreements are legitimate!"
Lambert kicked over a wine barrel. Amber liquid seeped into the soil. "Legitimate my arse. Mining ops in Lyrian territory. Even found receipts from a fucking Rivian arms dealer." He leaned in, breath reeking of cheap ale. "Queen Meve's pet, ain'tcha? Bet she promised you Toussaint's throne if you kept Geralt's coffers empty."
Matilda clawed at Liam's arm. "Tell them it's lies!"
Eskel gestured to the operatives. "Take him."
Liam jerked back as shackles snapped around his wrists. "You think Geralt's reforms will last? The nobles will eat him alive!"
"Doubt it." Lambert wiped his dagger on Liam's doublet. "See, nobles? They're like dogs. Kick 'em hard enough, they learn to lick boots instead of bite."
Matilda collapsed to her knees, silk skirts pooling in the dirt. "Please—"
"You keep the vines," Eskel said. "After you repay every stolen crown."
Liam spat at Lambert's feet. "Mutant filth. When Meve hears—"
Lambert's fist connected with Liam's jaw. The count crumpled, blood blooming across his perfect teeth. "Oh, I'll send her your head in a wine crate. Let her taste what failure costs."
Operatives dragged Liam toward a waiting carriage. He thrashed, voice rising to a shrill scream. "This isn't over! You hear me? Not over!"
Lambert watched the carriage vanish down the dust-choked road. "Fuckin' nobles. All bark, no balls."
Eskel crouched beside Matilda, offering a handkerchief she didn't take. "Cooperate, and you'll keep your title. Fight us…" He nodded to Lambert cleaning blood from his knuckles. "Well. You've seen how we handle fights."
The operatives melted back into the vineyards. Lambert scooped up Liam's abandoned goblet, filled it from a leaking barrel, and saluted the trembling countess.
"To new management," he grinned, draining the cup.
The grand throne room smelled of beeswax and ambition. Geralt slumped in the ducal chair still warm from a morning of petitions, his boot propped on the armrest in open defiance of courtly decorum. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, painting Anya's laughter crimson and gold as she barreled down the aisle clutching a fistful of cornflowers.
"Papa look! Blue ones!" She vaulted into his lap, petals scattering across tax scrolls.
Vivienne followed at a regal pace, her smile sharpening as nobles lingering near the exit eyed the child. "Found these near the old windmills. Gregoire nearly had apoplexy when she scaled the ruins."
Geralt plucked a twig from Anya's hair. "Takes after her mother. Stealthy as a wyvern."
"Stealthier. That one stole Barnabas's wig last week."
Their banter died as Palmerin appeared in the arched doorway, his armor clanking. "Apologies, Your Grace. A… guest."
Geralt's jaw tightened. Court had just adjourned.
Vattier de Rideaux glided past him like smoke, his black cloak swallowing the sunlight. The head of Nilfgaard's Imperial Intelligence bowed, his gaze lingering on Anya. "Charming. My youngest grandson wields a sword better than most men. Sixteen this spring. A fine match for—"
"She's six," Geralt growled.
Vattier's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Shall we chat where tiny ears won't hear treason?"
Vivienne scooped up Anya, ignoring her indignant kick. "Come, cœur. Let's feed your flowers to the goats."
The throne doors boomed shut. Vattier drifted to the window overlooking Toussaint's vineyards. "Your Count Liam's been exchanging letters with Rivia. Odd friendship for a man whose ties hail from Lyria."
Geralt leaned forward, the chair groaning.
"Meve endorsed his bid for duke before Anna's death. Curious, given her campaign in Lower Sodden." Vattier traced the stained glass lion devouring a grapevine. "Weak Toussaint means strong north. Strong north means…"
"War."
"Stability." The spymaster turned, his face carved from shadow. "Emhyr prefers you on this throne. But should you falter…"
Geralt stood, silver hair catching the light as he descended the dais. "Tell your emperor Toussaint's not a pawn."
"Everything's a pawn." Vattier's cloak whispered against marble as he retreated. "Even queen and empress."
"Cirilla struggles to maintain order, Upper Sodden's integration into Cintra has proven… turbulent. The Empress requires stability. Perhaps, Geralt, you could assist her in that matter?" Vattier added.
"No," Geralt replied, tone flat. "Liam is already imprisoned, he will answer for his crimes. I'll write to Meve—Toussaint will work to ease tensions. My rule here could benefit all sides. If nothing else, I can at least keep things neutral."
Vattier made a sound, something close to amusement but lacking warmth. He stepped away from the window, hands clasped behind his back, and regarded Geralt with the cool detachment of a man who had already weighed every possible outcome.
"Your ascendancy is not by mere chance," he reminded him. "Emhyr ensured it. Anna's will may have named you as her successor, but it was Nilfgaard's endorsement that secured your rule. No one opposed you because no one dared to, not when Emhyr had already made his decision clear."
Geralt remained still, absorbing Vattier's every word. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Vattier was right.
Vattier watched him, as if waiting for some sign of acknowledgment. When none came, he simply inclined his head, as though Geralt's silence was agreement enough.
"Cirilla is Empress," he continued. "You rule Toussaint. That ties you to Nilfgaard, whether you like it or not. Never forget that."
Geralt said nothing.
"Emhyr has taken an interest in your Order of the Verdant Night," he said. "Your efforts in dismantling the Hanse have not gone unnoticed. But troops need gold. Trade agreements could…"
Anya's giggles echoed from the courtyard, mingling with goat bells. Geralt watched Vivienne lift her onto the stable fence, cornflowers clutched in tiny fists. The wolves were circling. But wolves forgot—witchers didn't break.
They adapted.
The ducal chambers smelled of beeswax and chamomile tea gone cold. Vivienne sat cross-legged on the four-poster bed, her silk nightgown pooling like moonlight around her. Anya sprawled belly-down beside her, kicking bare feet in the air as she scowled at an illuminated manuscript.
"Boring!" The child flopped onto her back, cornflower eyes wide as saucers. "Why's it all treaties and harvest counts? Where's the monsters?"
Geralt leaned against the doorframe. "Monsters don't get history books."
Anya launched herself at him, tiny fists clutching his shirt. "Tell me about the Beast! Mama says you chopped its head off. Whoosh!"
Vivienne arched a brow. "I said no such theatrics."
Geralt deposited Anya onto the bed. "Beast wasn't that big. Just… clever. Hid in shadows. Ate naughty kids who sneaked into the wine cellars."
"Liar! It ate Lord Chevalier's face!" Anya crossed her arms.
The memory of Dettlaff still lingered in the corners of his mind, coiled like a serpent. He could see the beast even now—the unnatural grace, the hunger in its gaze, the cold certainty of death in every movement.
Anya frowned. "Was it scary?"
Geralt leaned back against the headboard, stretching his legs. "Depends on who you ask."
"I'm asking you."
A pause. Then, deliberately, he tapped her nose. "Not scarier than a child who doesn't listen to her mother."
Anya squinted at him. "That's not an answer."
Vivienne smirked, but said nothing. She let the silence stretch, watching as Anya tried to puzzle out whether she was being teased.
Geralt tugged the quilt over Anya. "Sleep. I'll tell the rest tomorrow."
Anya frowned. "But you didn't finish the story."
"Tomorrow."
"Promise?"
He nodded. "Promise."
Satisfied, Anya burrowed into the blankets, tiny fingers curling against the fabric. Within moments, her breathing evened out, her small frame rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Geralt watched her for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose and stood. Vivienne had moved to the dresser, brushing out her hair in slow, deliberate strokes. The candlelight caught in the silk of her nightgown, making it seem almost translucent. She met his gaze in the mirror.
"Like what you see?"
Geralt huffed a quiet chuckle. He walked toward her, stopping just behind. The warmth of him seeped through the thin fabric at her back.
Vivienne kept her eyes on his reflection. "What did Vattier want?"
Geralt dragged a hand down his face, glancing briefly at the bed before answering. "Nilfgaard wants to grant me Lower Sodden. Integrate it with Toussaint."
Vivienne stilled. Then, slowly, she turned. Her gaze was sharp. Eyes widened in disbelief.
"A fucking what?"
Anya rolled over, cornflower crown askew. "Papa… promise…"
Geralt sat alone on the grand throne of Toussaint, absently swirling a goblet of Sangreal in his hand. The deep red wine caught the flickering light of the torches, its surface shifting like blood under a moonlit sky. The palace was quiet at this hour, courtiers and officials having faded into the hush of midnight. The distant hum of the city barely reached the high-vaulted chamber.
His thoughts drifted to earlier that day when Anya had eagerly taken his hand, dragging him toward the stables as she chattered about their visit to Dunn Tynne. The fortress, once a symbol of corruption, now housed the Order of Verdant Night—Lambert and Eskel's domain, where assassins, spies, and warriors honed their craft under his banner. Less like witchers, more like shadows cast by the ducal crown.
Efficient. Ruthless. And necessary.
Griffins no longer circled Toussaint's rolling hills. Wyverns had vanished from the rocky cliffs. Bandits who once infested the caves and strongholds now thought twice before staking claim to the land. Toussaint was a land of peace, but peace had its price.
Anya had admired it all, her wooden practice sword clutched tightly in her small hands. She had insisted on sparring with Eskel, declaring she would be stronger than Papa one day. Vivienne, of course, had protested. Manuscripts over blades, she had said. Anya had pouted but relented, only after Geralt promised to train with her himself.
He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the goblet.
Six years old. That was how old Anya was now. Which meant Vivienne had mere months left to live.
His throat tightened at the thought. He had never spoken of it aloud, not even to Vivienne. The moment she had chosen to transfer her oriole curse to an egg rather than another soul, she had accepted her fate. No pleading, no regret—just resolve.
She had given up decades of life so another wouldn't have to suffer. It was that kindness, that selflessness, that had drawn him to her. With Yennefer, it had always been storms, passion burning too hot, too fierce. With Vivienne, it had been warmth. Family.
A voice, smooth as silk yet sharper than a blade, cut through the stillness.
"You forgot my part in this tale."
Geralt's head snapped up, his free hand moving instinctively to Aerondight. His eyes narrowed as a figure stepped from the shadows, his presence more a disturbance in reality than a man of flesh and blood.
Gaunter O'Dimm.
The merchant of mirrors leaned lazily against a marble pillar, a smirk playing at his lips, his hands clasped behind his back. His polished boots barely made a sound against the floor as he stepped closer, his movements deliberate, unhurried.
"O'Dimm." Geralt's voice was low, edged with the same warning growl he used before a kill.
"Now, now," O'Dimm tutted, feigning offense. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"
"We were never friends."
"Ah, you wound me." O'Dimm's smirk widened as he spread his arms in mock surrender. "After all, I've done nothing but help you."
"I don't recall asking for your help."
O'Dimm chuckled, stepping closer, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Didn't you? Or have you forgotten that little matter of your… restoration?" He gestured vaguely in Geralt's direction. "Without me, there would be no Anya. No gift so grand for dear Vivienne. No ascension to this throne." He turned, gesturing to the opulent chamber, to the gilded ceiling and the velvet banners bearing the sigil of Toussaint. "You sit here, Geralt, because of me."
Geralt's grip on Aerondight didn't loosen. "I never asked for you to meddle in my life."
O'Dimm gave a slow, knowing smile. "Meddle? No, no. I simply gave you what you wanted. And I asked for nothing in return, did I? No hidden consequences, no tricks. Tell me, have you suffered from my generosity? Has Anya fallen ill? Has Vivienne's love turned bitter? No, you have only gained."
Geralt's jaw tightened. "I don't believe you know what purity means."
"And yet," O'Dimm said, voice smooth again, "you cannot deny my hand in your happiness. You are proof of my benevolence, Geralt. No curses. No debts. Just… friendship."
Geralt's golden eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"
"Want? Why must you assume I want something?"
"You don't deal without purpose."
O'Dimm exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Very well. If you must hear it aloud… consider this a reminder. A small token of my generosity. To prove that I am not the villain you paint me to be."
Geralt remained still, waiting.
"To show my goodwill," O'Dimm continued, his voice dropping to a whisper laced with something almost… kind, "I have granted Vivienne another three years of life."
The words struck Geralt harder than any blade.
O'Dimm smiled. "No price. No trick. I simply thought it would be cruel to let a child so young lose her mother."
Geralt's grip on Aerondight loosened, his mind racing through every possible deception, every hidden cost. O'Dimm only dealt in contracts, in precise wording, in loopholes.
"Why?" The question came slow.
O'Dimm's smile deepened, his dark eyes watching Geralt with something like amusement. "Let's call it… a gift. To remind you that I am not your enemy. That I, too, can be merciful."
Geralt stared at him, the crackling torches casting sharp shadows across his face.
"Three years," O'Dimm said, stepping backward toward the shadows. "Enjoy them."
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he was gone. The silence of the throne room returned, but it no longer felt the same.
