Chapter Text
“And that,” Jaskier says, head held high in the fading orange glow of the sunset, “Is my vow.” His nose scrunches, “Vow? What is this, a wedding?” The words are promptly scratched out on the paper. He stares a moment, sighs, nabs the page from Letho, then scrunches up the whole thing and tosses it into the fire.
“We’ve been at this for hours,” Letho points out, not unkindly.
“Yes, well, it has to be perfect!”
“Don’t think no one cares.”
Jaskier scoffs at the insinuation, “Of course they care, are you kidding? There is going to be a scribe there taking down my every word. It will be put in Lettenhove history books! I’m a bard, I’m not going to sound like an imbecile.”
“Tired of writin’ all this shit down for ya.”
“Oh boo hoo, the big strong Witcher doesn’t want to use his bulging muscles to lift a quill. Well, unfortunately for you, you offered to help and I haven’t the use of my hands. Now,” Jaskier straightens himself up again, “Starting fresh. Ready?”
“This has to be done by dawn,” Letho reminds him.
Jaskier glares openly, “Shush, Witcher. I’m a Count now, you have to respect me. Now, where was I? Ah, yes.”
Letho rolls his eyes, he’s never respected a Count once in his life, but he’s not about to tell Jaskier that.
–
“Thank you all for coming,” Jaskier greets with a dip of the head, a sign of respect to all in attendance, “As many of you know, it has been a week since my parents passed, and while we continue to mourn, the County and its people must continue on. I hope to make this transition as easy as possible.”
Letho watches Jaskier smile, it’s strained but kind and it doesn’t suit him, not really, but it’s about as close to a genuine smile as he’s seen in the past week.
“For those of you who have yet to meet me, my name is Jaskier. Once a bard hailing from Oxenfurt, I returned home to Lettenhove at the behest of Alfred and Juliette to carry out their last wish of seeing me once more before they passed. It was the intention, at the time, to pass on the Estate and her titles to my cousin, Ferrant.”
Jaskier pauses to mutter, “May he rot in Hell.”
“However,” Jaskier continues on a moment later, “It was brought to my attention that the plans he had for the good people of Lettenhove were not good at all. He made an attempt on the lives of not only myself but Letho of the Vipers as well,” he gestures with a hand - still bandaged - to where Letho stands just off to the side of Jaskier, “And in defence of myself, I was forced to take his life. It was found, shortly thereafter, that he had been poisoning Lord and Lady Lettenhove. A public announcement was released yesterday from the chief mage of the Duke of Kerack that verifies all of this and has been posted in the square for any and all to see . So,”
Jaskier takes a breath, licks his lips, and readies himself for the final part of his little speech, “I am not… it has been a long time since I was here last. I do not know you nor your struggles, and yet I am to take up the mantle my parents left for me. Until now the Lettenhove house has had two advisors for the city, but I would like to increase this number to six. It’s important to me that the people are heard. So, there will be an election in one month’s time. The details of which will be published in tomorrow’s paper so you may all have them at the ready. If you do not know how to read, there will be a barker whom I have asked to walk the streets to explain the proceedings.”
He looks down at the cobble he stands on, almost meekly, “I wish to do right by you all. I wish to run a fair county; a county that welcomes all. I want to make it clear that I will not tolerate discrimination of any kind. We are to be united, and I will do my best to make certain each and every one of you is heard, considered, and taken care of as best as I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I will try, and for now that is the best that I can offer. I hope that you all are able to rely on me in time, and that I can serve you well.”
It’s delivered with much more confidence than when he was practicing in his rooms. Letho had watched him recite the words into the mirror no less than ten times since last night, and he appreciates what that says about the character of the man these people will now call their Lord.
The people applaud and cheer, as they would were he performing as a bard, Letho assumes. He wonders if the haunted look in the man’s eyes is from the trauma of the past two weeks alone, or if the sound is familiar to him. Letho wonders if it will be enough to sate him.
–
Jaskier collapses back into his office chair with a heavy sigh.
After his speech he’d spent much of the afternoon being congratulated and offered condolences in equal measure by people of the county who seemed to genuinely care. Letho thinks they looked hopeful for what new leadership may bring.
Before he has a chance to truly relax, however, the doors to his office are pushed open without even a knock and two figures stride inside.
“I don’t know why you’re following through with this election idea,” the first says, nose in the air like the haughty little cretin is. A weaselly, balding man with what remains of his hair pulled back into a greasy rat-tail - clothed in golden silks, named Archibald (Letho had watched Jaskier visibly restrain himself from laughter upon learning the man’s name) sent by the capital as an emissary. “It’s imbecilic,” he continues, “What do you need the opinions of the common farmers for?”
“A council is an excellent idea, Reginald,” the other figure insists; a younger gentleman with carefully braided black hair and skin as dark as the wood of a walnut tree named Cassian.
“It’s Archibald,” Archibald hisses, indignant.
Cassian ignores him, “It lets the people have a voice, makes them feel heard, and allows Master Jaskier to better serve his people. I’ve proposed such a thing to your father for many years.”
“I saw in the meeting minutes,” Jaskier agrees, looking rather weary despite his attempt at a warm smile, “It’s what gave me the idea. I haven’t been here for many years, I need the opinions and help of the people to know and understand their needs and wants.”
“Lord Pankratz would have never-” Archibald begins, only to be cut off rather forcefully by Jaskier.
“I am Lord Pankratz now,” he pushes up from his chair, “And I will run things how I see fit. If you have a problem with it, you can see yourself back to the capital.”
The man’s mouth snaps shut, but his face is scrunched in anger and Letho takes that as his cue to intervene, “Jaskier’s had a long day,” he nods to the door, “He’ll make time for ya ‘gain tomorrow.”
Archibald glares, but wisely holds his tongue despite his obvious disdain. A good thing too, because Letho has seen Jaskier when he gets too tired, and when he is defending Witchers or people who need defending in general and the boy can be downright vicious.
Jaskier yawns as though to accentuate the statement and Letho snorts at the look of disgust Archibald gives him. Cassian bows, “As you wish, sir. Shall we rise in the morning to aid you with anything?”
“Actually,” Jaskier pushes himself to stand, “Would you deliver the voting notices to the homes? The ones for them to fill out with their top three choices for each section of specialties so we can narrow things down for the actual vote? I feel like having a representative of the Estate doing it will make us seem more approachable. I would do it but I’d like to go down to the cells tomorrow and look over all the prisoners, see if we can release any of them or perhaps make use of any of them. I read in Oxenfurt that-”
“With all due respect,” Archibald interrupts rudely, “Releasing criminals is even more imbecilic than a council of commoners.”
“As I was saying,” Jaskier ignores the comment and continues on, “While studying law in Oxenfurt, there were several studies done that indicated that rehabilitation and reintegration of criminals into society proves far more effective at reducing crime rates than imprisonment and capital punishment. I’d like to try that here. It’s one of the new systems I’m looking at implementing. I’ll be writing up some documents in the coming week or so that will be presented to the council once it’s been established and we will move on from there. For now, I’d like to be sure there’s no one jailed for petty crimes or things that can be made up for with a few coppers.”
“You would just- just forgive them?” Archibald sputters, face going red with his rage. Letho clenches his jaw tightly to avoid grinning at how ridiculous he looks, all plump and red like a tomato.
“Sure,” Jaskier shrugs, “I don’t mind if someone stole bread so they didn’t starve. I would rather my people not starve, really, if they need to steal just to stay alive then that’s a failure on our part as the leaders of the county. And anyways, if the baker is really that upset, well, I’ll have the thief work for them for a few weeks to make up the difference and maybe put a few coins in their pocket. A win-win.”
“Ridiculous,” Archibald huffs, turning on his heel to stalk out of the room, “Ridiculous!”
Letho finally gives in to the urge to grin; he really has found himself a good one.
–
As it turns out, there are two people in the city jails that have done exactly that, stolen food to keep from starving, when Jaskier goes to visit.
One is an elderly gentleman who asks Jaskier who he is three times, then lovingly refers to him as his grandson for the remainder of their conversation. Jaskier learns he’s been in the prison for three years. Anger flares through him - how dare they keep someone for such a long time for such a small offence - until the guard explains that the man has no family, no one to take care of him, and he can’t care for himself. He’s become something of a mascot, apparently. He’s fed and clothed, and one of the guards takes him for a bath every other day. It’s fine, but it highlights the need for some sort of end of life care system in Lettenhove. A prison is no place for an old man, no matter how well he’s treated.
The second is a younger Elven woman with honey skin and dark hair that sits curled against the back wall of her cell and flinches when the door to her cell opens. She meets Jaskier’s eyes with fear, her gaze immediately darting away. She’s covered in bruises and lash-marks - lacks any clothes aside from a filthy pair of underwear that do little to cover her.
The guards tell her that Ferrant had come to visit her fairly often, and while they were not permitted to know or see what he was doing, they had heard her screaming and crying.
He crouches in front of her, leaves his hands where she can easily see them, “Hello Sabina,” he greets. He doesn’t dare smile, worried the gesture will be seen as not taking her predicament seriously, “My name is Jaskier.”
Her eyes flash with recognition, “Jaskier? The bard?”
“That’s right.”
She sneers at him, “What, here to make songs of my suffering?”
“Not at all,” he assures her, “Actually, I’d like to talk to you about how you ended up here and see if we can’t come to an agreement on how to get you out.”
“Out,” she parrots back, incredulous.
“That’s right,” he sits on the stone floor in front of her, folding his arms in his lap. It reeks of urine and blood, the floor is filthy with it, mixed in with the hay and moss that litters the decaying stone. He makes a mental note to add ‘Prison Renovation’ to his list of things to do...
“Have you got family here?”
“Why? So you can let that pig torture them, too?”
Jaskier blinks, and takes a moment while he shoves down the urge to reassure her with smiles and cooing adoration. He’s not a bard anymore, he has to remember that. Has to treat people differently now so they don’t misunderstand him - can’t be mistaken to be using his position to force anyone into anything. He is not that kind of man.
“I heard what my cousin did to you,” he admits, voice quiet so only she will hear. Panic flashes across her expression, but he carries on, “I assure you, I am not like him. I’ve made sure that he has been removed from any future interactions with you, or anyone else.”
“You-” she flounders a bit, “You had him banned?”
“I had him executed,” he corrects, “For treason.” He’s not going to admit to handling the blade that did it himself. It doesn’t matter - Ferrant is dead.
“Oh. And you - what? Took his place?”
“I am the current Count of Lettenhove,” Jaskier agrees, “And I’d like to set some things right.”
Jaskier learns that Sabina’s family were the ones Letho reported back slaughtered by hunting dogs. The ones who tried to run from Ferrant, the ones the Elves of the city told them about. Were afraid of following. They were poor, Sabina had already been in custody when they tried to flee, and were all she had.
“What are you good at?” Jaskier asks, scratching his chin, “If you were to be given any job, what skills do you have?”
“I was a whore,” Sabina admits, not at all shy about it. She hasn’t reason to be; Jaskier thinks she’s quite lovely. She’d be popular, “But in my free time, I do enjoy tending garden and cooking.”
“And if given a choice,” he presses, “Would you want to return to working as paid company?”
She shrugs, “It was fine, but Novigrad is not the place for me to be any longer. I wanted to start fresh here.”
Jaskier hums, chews at his lip a bit.
“Well, the house staff got rather thin while my parents were sick. I could really use more hands. It’s nothing flashy, but perhaps you’d consider working in the kitchens? They would teach you to cook properly, you’d have to serve me and the council as well as the guard. But you’d have a room and food included in addition to a salary of 10 crowns.”
“10 crowns a week?” She repeats, eyes wide, “That’s - more than I’ve seen since I moved here.”
“”No, dear,” he corrects, “10 crowns a day.”
It’s a bit above standard, he knows most noble houses pay 25 a week. He is adamant that people are worth more than that.
Sabina comes home with him, as does Bert, the old man. He decides that Sabina’s primary job will be caring for him while he finds a more permanent solution. He wonders if there’s like… an orphanage but for old people.
He’s just gotten Bert settled - after helping Sabina and Rose, one of the other maids, bathe him and dress him in his father’s sleeping clothes - when Captain Piers bursts into his office followed by a rather unimpressed looking Letho.
“Can I not get five minutes to sit down before you burst into my office unannounced, Captain?” Jaskier demands, before the man even speaks. The captain’s mouth is open, features irate, but his jaw snaps shut and his brows crinkle in fury. He licks his lips - looking like he’s sucked a lemon - the image makes inner Jaskier giggle like a gleeful child.
“Pardon, sir, but the mutant-”
“Letho,” Jaskier interrupts, “His name is Letho, and he is a dear friend. You will address him with respect.”
“Letho,” Piers repeats, voice full of venom and disgust - like Letho’s name itself is a glass of chunky milk he’s accidentally sipped - “Has decided to join my training sessions with the new recruits, and while I have no qualms with it watching, its unsolicited advice and attempts to undermine my authority are entirely inappropriate.”
Jaskier glances at Letho, who grins back at him.
“Letho has been wielding a sword since before you were born, Captain,” Jaskier responds, calm as can be, “I would think you to jump at the chance to learn from such a seasoned warrior.”
“We have trained our boys the same way for years,” Piers spits, “I don’t need help from some mutant that thinks it knows better than me!”
Jaskier frowns at the language, but considers the situation. Men like this usually only learn one way, so…
“Very well,” Jaskier rises, “A wager.”