#the wonky pink socks are definitely for vesemir xd
In many ways, Kaer Morhen was exactly as Jaskier had pictured it: The ancient, crumbling stone walls of the keep; the dark, high ceilings of the main hall; the pleasure of watching an array of fine men stripped shirtless and training in the courtyard, sweaty and buff, strong and elegant in their movements.
In other ways, however, winters in the witcher castle were not at all like he had imagined. The main hall was no longer dark and foreboding in the evenings when the fire was lit - instead, it was warm and cosy, with fur rugs thrown over the benches and logs crackling merrily away in the ample fireplace. Vesemir would cook enormous batches of hearty stew, seasoned with herbs collected from around the keep, and the witchers would gather round the long wooden table to eat and tell stories together.
And then there was the knitting. That had been most unexpected.
Jaskier had expected the sword training, and the fitness drills, and the alchemy lessons. But coming down to the hall to find Vesemir lecturing the witchers on the finer points of wool crafts - that was not something he had ever envisioned.
Geralt was methodically working on a thick woolen blanket with an elaborate braided design, an expression of calm contemplation on his face. Eskel was beaming proudly as a jolly bobble hat took shape before him. And Lambert was scowling intently at a pair of bright pink stockings, slightly misshapen.
Vesemir must have caught the amused look on Jaskier’s face. “Making and mending warm clothing can be a matter of life and death in a cold climate, bard!” he chided. In a low voice, he added, “And it makes them happy to create something for once, instead of destroying.”
Jaskier nodded and slipped onto the bench next to Geralt, peering at the soothing, methodical movement of his hands. “How’s it work?”
“Just like this,” Geralt held up his needles, the soft yarn stretched between them, looping one part over another over and over again, forming a neat row of plush, squishy fabric. The blanket looked thick and warm, obviously made with love and attention.
“It’s beautiful,” Jaskier said with a smile. It was beautiful to see Geralt like this too, relaxed and at ease, the faint hint of a smile on his face. For once, his shoulders were loose, without the weight of the world on them, the repetitive flow of his movements almost meditative.
“I’m glad you think so,” Geralt said, blushing at the tips of his ears and focusing on his stitches. “It‘s a gift for you.”
