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"You're afraid. Sure as fuck not a volunteer." The White Wolf says it so flatly, with an air of finality. His eyes bore straight through Jaskier as he nods, shakily. "Tell me, then, what the lords of Redania expect me to do with you, tribute."
Jaskier remembers how to breathe. He tells himself this very firmly, and wills it to be true. He meets those terrifying eyes and answers, "They thought I might… please you, my lord." He doesn't know if that's the right honorific - he'll surely be corrected soon enough. All four pairs of eyebrows go up at this response, to varying degrees. He winces. Surely he doesn't need to be any more specific?
The White Wolf takes a single very slow breath. Eskel tilts his head, asking, "Didn't you say you were a viscount?"
The old witcher's brow furrows. "They do this shit to each other?"
Jaskier looks between them, unable to determine how they're feeling. "Yes, I - it was to be a more meaningful s- gesture, that way. I am the fourth son of the Count de Lettenhove."
The sorceress leans back in her chair, and says to the White Wolf, "Well, everyone's always thought you were a monster. Now it makes them send you gifts in very poor taste, rather than overcharging you for shitty food and throwing things at you."
Shockingly, this makes the Wolf put his head in his hands. His voice is strained and muffled. "Why do they think I need help getting people into my bed." The sorceress - Yennefer? - laughs, patting him on the back.
This seems unlikely to get any less bizarre. Jaskier, still trying to parse being called a "gift in very poor taste," responds almost absentmindedly. "Well, we're not certain how long they last there."
All the warmth goes out of the room. The wolf looks up again, his mouth working helplessly. Eskel, incredulous, says, "Tell me that doesn’t mean what I think it means.”
Jaskier hesitates. “I… believe it does, my lord.”
“And your parents didn't object to you being sent off as a - what, a disposable sex slave?"
It hurts to hear it laid bare, but Eskel isn't wrong. "My father suggested it, actually. I've never been much use to him."
The White Wolf finds his voice again, softly rumbling, "Someone sent me his own son as a disposable - what the fuck."
Yennefer says, "I want to turn that man into a slug. Never got to do it to my own."
Eskel says, "I want to strangle him with his own intestines."
The Wolf says, "Yen, can you find him."
Jaskier gapes, and backs directly into Eskel when Yennefer comes at him with a knife. But she only cuts off a small lock of hair, and uses it to make a shimmering portal. She and the White Wolf walk through, and Eskel takes Jaskier out to find him rooms.
…
Conveniently, the Count de Lettenhove is in a large meeting hall with his king and assorted other nobles. They all go dead silent and stark white when they understand who has come to visit. Geralt uses every bit of his already threatening countenance to be sure his audience is aware of his displeasure. Vizimir starts to make some noises, asking what brings the Warlord south so suddenly, and Geralt quells him with a glare. Only once the silence has become sufficiently uncomfortable does Geralt speak. His quiet rumble eases no nerves.
"Did you think," he begins, "I would be pleased, that you believe people must be forced into my bed?
"Did you convince yourselves it would flatter me, that you think me a rapist, a man whose bedmates don't last long?
"Did you expect me to relish the idea that the lords of Redania would send one of their own into my keep as a ready-made victim? One of their sons?"
Yennefer places a gentle hand on the table, asking the room at large, "Which of you spineless shitheels is the Count de Lettenhove?" When no one moves, she adds, "Because no one but him has to die today."
That gets some people to gesture towards the spineless shitheel in question, and he breaks and runs. He makes it three steps before crashing into Yrden. Yen's easy drawl continues. "What do you think, White Wolf? Shall we take him back and let him die slowly? We could let the little flower choose his fate." The trapped man shakes. The noblemen at the table whisper and stare.
Geralt shakes his head. "I won't have his fear and blood stinking up my halls. If you'd like to get creative, do it here and now. Otherwise I'll just take off his head and we can leave."
The trapped man begs. He apologizes, and pleads for his life, and Yennefer shrugs. He won't be much fun. "Oh, you're right, get it over with." No sooner has she finished speaking than Geralt's sword swings wide, the spray of blood obscene and satisfying. One man watching faints.
The White Wolf walks over to Vizimir. Slowly wipes off his sword on the man's shoulder. Leans down to murmur, "I trust this won't happen again." The king swallows thickly and nods. Geralt returns the gesture and straightens. "Then we have no more quarrel with you."
Yennefer opens a portal back, and the two return home.