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

The Emperor's Decree, the Spymaster's Wrath

The smell of wet stone and pine resin clung to Cintra's crumbling battlements as Geralt guided Roach through the arched gatehouse, Anya's small hands gripping his wolf medallion like a reins substitute. Behind them, Vivienne's carriage wheels screeched against uneven cobblestones, the white-knuckled grip of her fur-cloaked arm visible through the parted curtains.

"Look Papa! The towers have teeth!" Anya pointed at jagged merlons where ravens perched like sentries.

"Arrow slits," Geralt corrected, leather gloves creaking against Roach's reins. The courtyard's faded lion mosaics triggered memories of a different Cintra—roaring fires, Calanthe's venomous wit, Pavetta's haunted eyes.

Palmerin's armor clanked as he dismounted beside the carriage. "Steady, Your Grace. The steps are—"

Vivienne emerged without assistance, her ermine-trimmed cloak sweeping the mud. "I've scaled worse in court heels, Sir Palmerin." Her gaze swept the weathered keep. "Though perhaps not since my wedding day."

Anya squirmed in the saddle. "Can I ride Gregoire's shoulders up? Pleasepleaseplease?"

Geralt swung down, calloused hands circling his daughter's waist. "You'll walk. Empress' rules."

The throne room's moth-eaten tapestries billowed in the draft as the herald's voice boomed. "Announcing His Grace Geralt of Rivia, Duke of Toussaint! Her Grace Vivienne de Tabris, Duchess of Toussaint! And Lady Anya de Tabris, in the presence of Her Imperial Majesty, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Empress of Nilfgaard, Queen of Cintra, Princess of Brugge, Duchess of Sodden, Heiress of Inis Ard Skellig and Inis An Skellig, Lady of Attre and the Flame of the South!"

Cirilla turned from directing servants hanging Nilfgaardian sun banners, one hand resting on her swollen abdomen. The pregnancy glow did little to soften the tactical assessment in her eyes as they flickered over Vivienne's court-perfect curtsy.

"Geralt." She caught Geralt's forearm before he could kneel, her grip betraying a swordsman's strength beneath silk gloves. "Since when do wolves bow?"

Anya peered around Geralt's leg. "They said you killed a griffin with no sword!"

Cirilla's laughter echoed off vaulted ceilings. "And who's this fierce lion cub? Last I saw you couldn't lift a spoon."

"Did the griffin really eat three horses?"

"Four. The fourth was my fault—tried to bribe it with apples."

Yennefer entered then, dark silk flowing around her as she came to a sudden halt. Her sharp violet eyes flickered with surprise before settling into their usual guarded expression.

"You're early," she said, voice measured. "You were expected tomorrow."

Geralt straightened. "I didn't feel like waiting." His gaze flicked to Cirilla's belly. "Wanted to see how she's holding up."

Cirilla grinned. "I'm managing."

Anya tugged at Vivienne's sleeve, whispering something. Vivienne smoothed her daughter's hair, nodding, before Anya turned to Cirilla with open curiosity. "They say you're a better fighter than Papa."

Silence stretched in the chamber, then a burst of laughter escaped Cirilla. She glanced at Geralt, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Do they?"

Geralt crossed his arms. "I've heard worse lies."

Cirilla knelt—slowly, carefully—until she was at eye level with Anya. "Well, your father has experience. But I might be faster."

Anya considered this seriously before nodding. "Fast is important."

"Very." Cirilla tapped her nose. "And smart. But I think you'll be better than both of us one day."

Geralt watched the exchange, arms crossed, his gaze flicking between them. The tension in the room was subtle but present, an undercurrent beneath the pleasantries. Yennefer hadn't greeted him, hadn't acknowledged Vivienne, and yet her attention remained on Anya, as if memorizing every detail.

Cirilla reached out, resting a hand lightly on Anya's curls. "You'll like it here. When the baby is born, you can visit often."

Anya beamed. "I'd like that."

Geralt let the moment settle before speaking again. "How far along?"

Cirilla exhaled. "Not long now. A few more weeks, maybe less."

Yennefer's gaze flicked to her, concern evident for the first time. "You shouldn't be walking so much."

Cirilla rolled her eyes. "I'm pregnant, not dying."

Yennefer's lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more.

By nightfall, the great hall had come alive with warmth and candlelight, the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread weaving through the corridors where once only whispers of power had lingered. Servants scurried to refill golden goblets with wine that caught the fire's glow, while musicians' melodies danced around the white sun and roaring lion tapestries billowing in the draft. Yet even as laughter and the clatter of plates rose to the vaulted ceilings, the shadows of unresolved words clung to the edges of the feast, waiting.

At the center of it all, Anya de Tabris sat between Dandelion and Zoltan, her bright eyes darting between the two as they took turns trying to outdo each other with wild tales and exaggerated gestures. The bard, dressed in his usual flamboyant silks, leaned in conspiratorially. "You see, my dear Anya, when I faced down the wyvern of Hagge, I had nothing but my wit and a rather unfortunate potato I had snatched from a fleeing peasant's basket. But, being the genius that I am, I—"

Zoltan snorted into his tankard. "Genius, is it? More like you tripped over the damned potato and landed in a pile of manure before the beast even noticed you!"

Anya let out a peal of laughter, her small hands clapping in delight. "Did you really?"

Dandelion placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep offense. "My dear girl, would I ever embellish the truth?"

Zoltan guffawed. "Lies flow from your mouth like ale from a tapped keg!" He took a hearty swig before ruffling Anya's hair. "Don't believe half of what this peacock tells you, lass. Now, let me tell you about the time I bested a cave troll in arm wrestling—"

Anya gasped. "A real troll?"

"Aye, ugly as sin and twice as strong," Zoltan declared. "But no match for Zoltan Chivay!"

Dandelion leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. "She'll believe that nonsense but doubts my wyvern tale? The injustice."

Vivienne, watching from across the table, smiled before rising. "Anya, it's time for bed."

"But—"

"No 'but'," Vivienne said softly, holding out her hand. "You'll have more stories tomorrow."

Anya pouted but obeyed, slipping off the bench and giving Zoltan a quick hug. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart, lass," Zoltan assured her, patting her on the head.

Dandelion bowed dramatically. "And I shall regale you with the true tale of my heroic deeds—free from Zoltan's slander!"

Anya giggled as she took Vivienne's hand, her other hand wrapped around Zoltan's so-called "gift"—a butter knife he'd hilariously dubbed Dragon's Bane.

"Will there be monsters in the guest tower?"

"Only if you count snoring chambermaids," Vivienne said, her smirk softening as Geralt met her gaze across the hall.

The hall, once roaring with conversation, grew quieter. Dandelion and Zoltan, recognizing the shift, exchanged glances before rising to leave as well. The bard clapped Geralt on the shoulder before departing, throwing him a knowing smirk. "Try not to be too stubborn."

And then, Geralt and Cirilla were alone.

Cirilla reached for the bottle of vodka on the table, tilting it over Geralt's cup. The clear liquid poured smoothly, less refined than the famed Sangreal of Toussaint, but it carried its own weight of nostalgia. She poured one for herself and lifted her glass slightly.

"To old times," she said.

Geralt took a sip. "Strange, isn't it? We've come a long way from inns and rat-infested roads. Now, we sit here, rulers of lands."

"History remembers rulers more than heroes. Strong or weak, good or cruel, their names remain. If we want to shape the world into something better, we must play on this scale."

Geralt leaned back, watching her over the rim of his cup. "Is that what happened with Sodden?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "Of course."

He studied her, the flickering firelight deepening the lines of his face. "You've changed."

"I have." She exhaled, something close to a laugh, but bitter.

After a pause, Cirilla took a deep breath. "I don't remember Calanthe's embrace. Not Pavetta's either. Not the warmth, not the safety. Nothing of them lingers. But Emhyr? I remember his hands on me. His mouth. The way he fucks me. That stayed. What does that tell you?"

Geralt said nothing.

"Being a ruler isn't about collecting taxes or hoarding power. It's about giving people something better to live for."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Who better than me? If you despise the failures of past rulers, then become one. War is over, but peace is fragile. Emhyr is old. He stays in Nilfgaard's Golden Tower more often now. It's only a matter of time before he passes, and when he does, Dijkstra and Philippa will seize their chance. Redania and Kaedwen already move like wolves circling prey. They call it solidarity, but they're building outposts across the north—you tell me what they plan to do with that."

Geralt stared into his drink. Her words weren't wrong, and that troubled him more than he cared to admit. He took a slow sip before speaking. "So you asked me to support you regarding Sodden. Vattier is rather convincing."

"And what do you say?"

Geralt exhaled through his nose. "The nobles in Toussaint press me to accept. It's a difficult offer to refuse."

"Then don't refuse it."

Geralt's eyes narrowed. "You're willing to give Lower Sodden to Toussaint?"

Cirilla's lips curved, but there was no humor in her expression. "It borders Toussaint, and its roots tie closer to the north than Nilfgaard. Who better to govern it than you? It secures stability—makes sure the north doesn't see it as another foothold of the Empire, and Nilfgaard doesn't see it as a liability."

"Clever."

She smiled slightly. "I try."

The throne hall of Beauclair Palace breathed with the rustle of silk and the clink of armored heels as Geralt stood before the throne, Vivienne's hand a steadying warmth on his forearm. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, fracturing into shards of gold across the marble floor where nobles from every corner of the duchy stood flanked by Ducal Guards in vine-etched breastplates.

"Announcing the arrival of Sir Peter Saar Gwynleve, emissary of His Imperial Majesty, Emhyr var Emreis!"

All eyes turned to the grand doors as they creaked open. Sir Peter entered with measured steps, dressed in a black and gold uniform adorned with the imperial sigil. He stopped a few paces from the dais and bowed deeply.

"Your Graces, I bring greetings from His and Her Imperial Majesty. I come bearing an imperial decree of the highest order."

Regis, standing to Geralt's left. "Sir Peter, you honor Toussaint with your presence. I trust our hospitality has met your expectations?"

Peter placed a gloved hand over his chest, bowing his head slightly. "Your court is as generous as the songs say. It is my privilege to stand before such a distinguished assembly."

Vivienne glanced at Geralt. Geralt could feel the tension in her posture, but her face betrayed nothing. He understood why. Nilfgaard did not give gifts freely. The Emperor's "offers" were seldom without purpose.

"I come with a decree from Their Imperial Majesties, a testament to the Empire's recognition of your rule. The Emperor and Empress have deemed it fitting to bestow upon Toussaint a great honor—one that reflects the trust placed in its Duke and Duchess."

A murmur rippled through the court. Guillaume, standing near Palmerin and Damien, exchanged a glance with them. Orianna's gaze was sharp, calculating. Even Lambert, arms crossed near the pillars, shifted slightly, sensing the weight of what was about to come.

"By order of His and Her Imperial Majesty, Lower Sodden shall henceforth be integrated into the Duchy of Toussaint as its rightful de jure territory."

Rumors had whispered through the courts of Nilfgaard's plans for the borderlands. Still, to have it spoken aloud, to hear it laid before them as an imperial decree, was something else entirely.

"It is recognition of Toussaint's prosperity. The Emperor trusts you will govern Lower Sodden as wisely as you have ruled these lands."

Geralt stared at him. He felt it then—that same weight, that same gravity that had settled over him the day Anna Henrietta named him Duke. A Witcher was not meant to rule, yet here he stood, faced with the burden of yet another crown.

Geralt had spent years as a hunter of monsters, a wanderer of the roads, bound to no land but the path before him. But the path had changed. Cirilla's words echoed in his mind. History remembers rulers more than heroes.

But the decision was already made.

"Toussaint accepts!"

His voice cut through the hall, steady and firm. The words settled, final and absolute. A shift passed through the assembled nobles. Some nodded, others glanced at each other, measuring the consequences of what had just been done.

Peter inclined his head, satisfied. He reached into his coat and produced a sealed parchment, stepping forward to offer it. Regis took it, breaking the wax seal with practiced ease. His eyes flicked over the words, then he handed it to Geralt.

The paper was thick, the ink fresh, the imperial seal pressed deep into the parchment. Authority, written in black and gold.

"The decree will be ratified in Nilfgaard, but as of this moment, Lower Sodden is under Toussaint's rule. The Emperor and Empress send their regards. They trust you will govern well."

Geralt gave a slow nod. "Tell them their trust will not be misplaced."

Peter bowed. "Then my task here is done."

He turned sharply, his cloak sweeping the floor as he strode toward the great doors. The moment he passed through them, the murmurs began anew, the nobles speaking in hushed tones. The court was already shifting, calculating, adjusting to the reality of new borders and new responsibilities.

Sigismund Dijkstra sat behind his great oak desk, hands clenched into fists, the scars across his knuckles stretched tight. The firelight cast deep shadows over his face as he read the parchment again. Then again. And each time, the words punched him harder in the gut.

His lips twisted into a snarl before he slammed the parchment down, rattling the ink bottle beside him.

"What the actual fuck is this horseshit?" His voice cut through the chamber like a jagged blade.

Philippa Eilhart, lounging against the stone wall with all the indifference of a cat watching a mouse strangle itself in a trap, turned her head. The firelight gleamed off the faint shimmer of magic where her eyes should have been. Her lips curled into the barest smirk.

"Oh, do tell, Dijkstra. Did the price of grain rise by a tenth? Or did some greasy merchant dare to shortchange your tax collectors?"

He grabbed the parchment and threw it at her. "Read it. Out loud. So I can hear just how fucking ridiculous it sounds."

Philippa caught it midair, unfolded it with deliberate slowness, and skimmed the lines. Her expression remained carved from stone.

"Toussaint formally integrates Lower Sodden. Duke Geralt announces completion of military restructuring. The Order of Verdant Night expands into Northern affairs. Lower Sodden declared stable under Toussaint's governance, securing Redanian trade routes." She flicked the parchment back onto his desk. "What a tragedy. Shall I fetch a violin to accompany your weeping?"

Dijkstra shot up from his chair, ignoring the pain in his leg as he loomed over her. "That fucking butcher ruined everything." He jabbed a thick finger at the parchment. "Everything we fucking built, every goddamn plan we set in motion—gone! Taking hold of contested land with Nilfgaardian blessing—land we should be locking down with Meve, not handing over to a glorified grape farm."

Philippa exhaled slowly, tilting her head as if examining a particularly dull puzzle. "Dijkstra, you do have a talent for overstatement. Lower Sodden has always been a festering pile of shit no one could tame, and Nilfgaard knew it. They played their hand well—better than you, it seems."

His fist slammed onto the desk. "Better than me? They didn't outplay me, Philippa. That fucking Emhyr got lucky. He let Geralt do the dirty work, let a man with Northern roots tame Lower Sodden for him. If Nilfgaard had sent one of their black-clad pricks, the whole region would have gone up in flames again. But no. A 'hero,' a White Wolf, a 'man of the people'? The dumb fucks in Lower Sodden ate it up."

"That witcher made me a cripple, nearly ended my life in Novigrad. He protected Dandelion while that lute-playing prick looted my vaults." Dijkstra's nostrils flared as he added.

Philippa raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"And it didn't stop there, did it? Geralt helped Vernon Roche escape Novigrad when I had him right where I wanted. I could have liberated Temeria, could have broken Nilfgaard's grip on the region if only that bloody butcher hadn't interfered."

Philippa exhaled through her nose, shaking her head ever so slightly. "And yet, here we are. Geralt on his cushioned throne, sipping Beauclair's finest, while you stew in your own bile. How poetic."

Dijkstra dragged a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his temples. "If you're about to say 'I told you so,' I swear to every fucking god in the sky, I'll—"

She cut him off with a smirk that could freeze fire. "I wouldn't dream of it. But let's address reality, shall we? You can scream betrayal all you want, but we have to move on and think of something."

He let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "If Emhyr had balls, he'd have burned the place down a decade ago. Instead, he needed a fucking dog to do it for him. And Geralt? He's wagging his tail like a good little mutt, thinking he's some noble ruler instead of the Emperor's glorified kennel keeper."

Philippa leaned forward slightly, the smirk never fading. "And what would you have done, Dijkstra? Send assassins after the White Wolf? March into Toussaint waving the Redanian banner, just to be skinned alive by Nilfgaard's entire war machine? Oh yes, brilliant strategy. Perhaps I should start composing your funeral speech now."

Dijkstra's fingers dug into the wood of his desk. "We're not helpless. We still have Meve. We still have Kaedwen. And Redania isn't some backwater duchy that takes orders from Nilfgaard's golden throne."

Philippa's voice dropped to a razor's edge. "For now."

He went rigid, nostrils flaring. "What the fuck does that mean?"

She rolled her shoulders, examining her nails as if bored. "It means, dear Dijkstra, that Nilfgaard isn't finished. They've won Lower Sodden without a fight—Cirilla's talent, if i may say."

Dijkstra's jaw clenched. "You think I don't fucking know that?"

"I think you know it very well," she said, voice smooth as glass. "You just don't want to admit you were outmaneuvered."

He let out a slow breath through his nose, the veins in his forehead pulsing. "We're not done."

Philippa's smile was a viper's. "Oh, of course not. But tread carefully, Dijkstra. I'd hate to see Redania become the next Lower Sodden."

Silence stretched between them. The fire crackled. The parchment lay on the desk, damning and undeniable.

Dijkstra finally reached for his glass of cherry cordial and took a slow, deliberate sip. The burn of alcohol did nothing to dull the rage.

"Fuck Geralt," he muttered, voice low and venomous. "And fuck Nilfgaard."