Chapter Text
At this point the existence of bastard children surprised no one. In actuality the most surprising child of King Foltest of Temeria, son of Medell, was not the accused younger la Valettes. Nor was it Adda, even with her status as a former striga, and though Alva was not part of the court anymore a half elf daughter was also nothing of note. No, the most surprising child of Foltest with his copper spun curls, soft cheeks, and charming smile was the daughter of his late wife and twin sister of Henselt of Kaedwen.
Princess Arabella had never been one to shy away from the more masculine roles of what would be expected of her once she became Queen and at thirteen was now accompanying her father to the battlefield. Ballistae and catapults line the area as they siege the la Valette castle. Her hands are jittery, but she shakes it off. The Witcher had not left his tent which was also occupied by Triss and though she owed her leg to the sorceress Arabella had become wary of mages.
There were orders being shouted, the weaponry itself was loud, and everything was overwhelming. The sensory experience however did not stop her from catching a conversation. She turned to see her father and a Nilfgaardian ambassador. Her father smiled when he saw her.
"Rhenawedd! How's everything holding up?" He asks.
"The soldiers are fraught, but that shouldn't be too much of an issue. The siege tower is prepared for the assault today." She does not smile back, it is unneeded. She does, however, look at the Nilfgaardian ambassador. It does not add much to her nerves.
The witcher, late to the party, arrives and her father glances back to him. “Finally! Traitors of the realm boil tar on the walls while you dally with the royal advisor!”
“How may I assist you sire?” says the Witcher.
“We mount an assault today,” Her father informs. “And you’ll be at my side. Follow me gentlemen, let's not keep the traitors waiting.”
There is a large crash to the side of them but Arabella does not flinch, neither does her father. The Nilfgaardian however almost falls over.
"Sire, you said we were out of range,” the Nilfgaardian exclaims.
"That was a ballista, excellency. Its arm strengthened with bronze plates and strung with horsehair. It can propel heavy bolts up to a mile away. A deadly and very costly weapon," her father explains. "An experienced crew can cock and release two bolts each minute! Yet it has one flaw."
"Your Grace, please take cover!" The ambassador pleads.
"The recoil of the arms is so strong upon firing…" her father continues as if he had not heard the man. Their own ballistae releases a bolt. "That the weapon shifts. It simply cannot hit the same spot twice."
"I had no idea your grace was a learned military engineer." The Nilfgaardian says as he stands and the three of them continue on.
Arabella stays put for a moment but her father motions for her to follow. It takes a moment for her to catch up but she walks at his side proudly.
"I'm not, I gave the baroness those ballistae two years ago for her birthday," her father says coldly.
She snorts, "You know, I much prefer trebuchets, they're more effective against walls which are the main issue when it comes to sieging castles such as the traitor's. Historically the trebuchet used manpower to swing the arm, those were smaller to accommodate such. The trebuchets we are using follow a similar but less labour intensive model by using a counterweight to swing the arm, it serves a different purpose all together. The traction trebuchet, the smaller one using manpower, is used to disperse and kill infantry behind the armoured lines. Our trebuchets are for walls."
The ambassador blinks at her. "And where does her highness come about such knowledge?"
She smiled, "among my studies, unlike my father, military engineering is a fascinating subject to me and I spent some time with my uncle in Kaedwen learning about them firsthand."
Arabella notices behind her the Nilfgaardian slow to walk with Geralt and drop his voice to converse. She does not turn to look at them but slows to keep within earshot. Her father keeps going unbothered.
He walks up to the soldier, as he is prone to do, and announces himself with, "what do they call you soldier? Wait! You served with me at Brenna and our foray into the Pontar valley! Norman Sador, still an arbalist?"
"Yes sire! Fate has not been kind to me."
"Ha! Norman Sador, for your years of faithful service to the crown I appoint you decurion of the arbalists." He pats his shoulder and turns, motioning to the other two in his party. "Onwards gentlemen! No reason to dawdle."
Her father was always one to keep close attention on his surroundings, Arabella knew. She bounced on her heels lightly.
"Say father," she says as she walks next to him.
"Hmn?"
"I was thinking, you know, since I'm almost fourteen. Have you considered who I was to marry?"
Her father clasps his hands behind his back. "rhenawedd we've discussed this."
"I think an alliance with Redania would be mutually beneficial is all! After all…" she glances back to the Nilfgaardian ambassador.
"Not now Bells," he mutters.
The ambassador speaks up, "forgive my candour your majesty, but uh, I must ask: What fate awaits the royal bastards when…." He trails off.
Arabella flinches.
"They're my children," Foltest hisses, very characteristically lacking the patience for the implications. "If I hear ‘bastard’ one more time, someone's going to die. Painfully."
"Your Grace, forgive me, but the laws of succession are irrefutably clear."
"Excuse me? You would strip me of my right to the throne?" Arabella interjects before her father gets the chance to lose his temper.
"It's just…"
"Just what? I will be Queen and my siblings will lead lives where they don't have to suffer at the hands of a woman who means to use them as pawns on the board when they are deserving of more, what could you possibly have against that?" She smiles venomously.
"You're not married."
"And she's far too young for such considerations now. That is a future consideration, ambassador." Her father says bitingly. "Must I remind you that my grandmother, Bienvenu la Louve of Temeria, was Queen in her own right, not consort?"
"I still think-" Arabella says, trying to circle back to the conversation of marriage.
"You know my answer." He dismisses.
"But we could-"
For the first time in the conversation his tone to her goes sharp, "Don't argue with me Bells. I've made up my mind."
She sighs. "If you say so."
"Your Grace, might I request your permission to leave?" The ambassador asks.
Foltest smiles, "you have it."
Once the ambassador is out of earshot her father turns to Geralt. "Black ones in my camp before a battle? What has the world come to. Nothing would make me happier than returning his shrivelled head to Emhyr in a sack. But Triss Merigold insisted I be patient and courteous. Was I?"
Arabella bounces on her heels idly. "You lost it a little there at the end, father."
He glances over at her and scrunches his nose up at her teasingly. "Do you find yourself amusing?"
"Certainly!" She beams.
"Some days it feels like I am raising a royal jester and not the future Queen of Temeria," he rolls his eyes.
"A jester on the throne wouldn't be much different from now, oh I can hear it. Arabella of Temeria just like her father. Or not, we'll see how my scandal tally adds up."
He looks back at Geralt, "teenagers… you should feel lucky. Gah, buggar what folks say, they talk about Adda no end."
Arabella gave a pained smile. "Ah, Temerian rumours and gossip. If I were to change one thing, it'd be that."
"Not even Arabella is safe from it! Can you believe that? Her mother died in childbirth and she's the spitting image of me there's no denying it and still they talk and question." Foltest seethed.
"It's alright father, it's not that bad."
He frowns and shakes his head. "It's what it is, now for the battle. I want you at my side today, then you may go where you please."
"Thank you sire," says the Witcher.
He turns, "where are you aiming, imbecile?! Soldier! Spyglass."
Arabella sighs, "here we go again."
“What is going on up there? The gods! Count Etcheverry! Catch Bells.” He tosses the spyglass and Arabella catches it with ease. “Aim for the rogue with the red plume, not six months ago he swore eternal friendship to me!”
“Ah the joys of Temerian court,” the Princess mutters, looking through the spyglass.
“Quickly! How much higher?” Her father asks.
Arabella sighs, “one and a half degrees father.” She watches through the spyglass as the ballista bolt is launched and collides into it.
“Did we hit the bastard?” Foltest asks.
“You have so little faith in me? Even after my time in Kaedwen?” Arabella raises an eyebrow, “Of course we did father.”
“Ha! One less traitor! Time to attack. Follow me witcher.” He announces, not bothering to specify his daughter was to run after him. It was a given.
As they ascend the tower Foltest and the witcher discuss the Baroness’s fate. Her father was prepared to forgive the Baroness, it made Arabella’s blood boil. ‘They have tricked her, she doesn’t know what she’s doing and has been turned against me.’ It was almost desperate. She knew her father loved Maria Louisa, as much as that man could love anyone else. It was foolish. The words out of his mouth next however set her off the edge.
“Children need a mother.”
“I think I’m doing perfectly fine, as is Adda.” Arabella spits.
Foltest glances down at her, “perfectly fine? You wish to marry the King of Redania. Your mother would’ve had my head at such a notion.”
“You wished to marry your sister. I think you have no room to talk!” She does not shout, but the anger does bubble through in her voice. Her father just sighs.
They flood the walls. It causes blood to rush to Arabella’s ears, but she follows her father as ever.
“Lord Seuxen, you shall push for the centre isle and bring down that gate!” Her father orders.
“It's a good day to kill your majesty! Follow me, gentleman, for Temeria!” He cheers.
“Lord Swann, you and your men shall follow me. We must capture or otherwise deal with Aryan la Valette in order to break the defenders’ morale!” He announces.
Arabella watches, anxiously. Looming dread setting in with the battle.
Triss Merigold and the Witcher are standing next to her, Arabella realises. Something settles uncomfortably in her chest as she remembers promises made and forgotten by the Royal Advisor. The conversation between the Witcher and the Mage makes her roll her eyes and wish she was back home, tucked away in her study with books on monsters or archery.
“What of the Baron?” Yells one of the soldiers.
Her father pleas, the special forces shove the man over the side and lower the drawbridge. Out walks Vernon Roche, giving his report. It is all terribly trivial to the Princess. She just wants this siege to be done, to go home and nap in her bed with her down stuffed pillows and frog plushies.
Rhythmic flapping turns her attention away from her thoughts of soft feather beds and stuffed frogs that convene as a council to decide the fate of traitors—death obviously—and to a large beast.
“MOTHER MELITELE!” She shrieks.
Her father, knowing her fear and seeing the large monster himself, gives an order. “Cross! Quickly!”
“Protect the King!” Shouts Vernon, as if it needed to be said.
Arabella breaks out into a sprint. When she turns back the soldiers behind them have been squished and charred. She blinks. “I thought dragons were extinct…”
“Dragon! Take cover!” Orders a soldier.
“Before the brute turns my army to cinders!” Adds her father. In any other circumstance she’d roll her eyes and remark on how he was a drama queen, or well, King. But the Princess takes off in a sprint through the fighting and under cover to avoid the dragon.
“To the tower!” Orders Triss. “Back up! I’ll open the gate.”
She blasts a hole in it, Arabella makes the mistake of looking back. The sight of the dragon seizes her in fear and she runs after her father. The fear is not unwarranted, chunks of the tower fall around her, and she fears for a moment she will be squished but Triss nullifies the threat.
“The bridge is burning! Quickly this way!” Shouts Vernon. She doesn’t need to be told twice and takes off sprinting again. The dragon however sets itself in front of them. She grabs her fathers arm.
“Dad…”
Soldiers with ballistae fire at the dragon, missing but distracting it.
“Dad if we die here, I just want you to know I love you,” she says quietly.
Her father steadies her, “We’re not going to die.”
She’s not so sure.
Anaïs's auburn hair was pin-straight and browner than red but it was still red Arabella knew as she ran her fingers through it. She held the child to her chest shielding her from the pooling blood matting copper spun curls and empty ice blue eyes that had looked at her fondly moments earlier. Blood rushed in her ears, pulsing and making it hard to hear. The Witcher's hand set itself on her shoulder overtop a scar hidden from the world from the last time something like this had happened.
Guards flooded into the room, looking to the Dauphine for answers.
"Your Majesty, what happened?"
She blinked slowly.
"Your majesty-"
Oh, they were talking to her. "Arrest him."
The Witcher did not struggle, but betrayal flashed through his eyes for a split second. She remembered vividly the letter she'd gotten after the Redanian coronation with its description of empty steel grey eyes permanently stuck in betrayal and horror, crimson ichor matting raven hair. Blood pooled around the corpse, flashes of Adda’s hands stained red made her feel dizzy. I couldn’t tell where the blood stopped and my silk brocade began, said the letter. She blinked slowly, where did the blood stop and his heraldry begin?
She could taste bile in her mouth, but she choked it back. Anaïs and her brother needed someone strong. Temeria needed someone strong.
Her fingers stopped brushing through Anaïs's hair. "Keep Boussy out." She ordered sharply. "Anaïs look at me."
Her sister looked up at her. She had dark brown eyes that she heartbreakingly recognised as similar to Dove's. Dull and empty and filled with tragedy. She held her face in her hands, "I'm going to walk you out of the room, okay? Do me a favour and don't look back."
"Please don't make me go with her," She croaked out with a shaky voice.
Arabella brushed her fingers over her cheekbones. They were Adda's cheeks, they were her cheeks and their father's. "You're not going back to Maria Lousia, Rhenawedd. You're safe with me. How about this, I'm going to carry you. Do you want to be carried?"
"You would?"
"I will if you let me."
The child hesitated for a moment, then wrapped her arms around her shoulders and Arabella lifted her up into her arms. Her leg threatened to buckle under her weight and shoulder ached. She shifted her weight onto her good side and carried her out of the room. Guards closed the door after her.
Taking the castle itself was easy. Shoulders squared, she looked to her left, then her right. The witcher would be interrogated, the traitors eliminated, then she would go home and—
Her shoulders shake, she cannot be in this castle longer. She retreats back to camp, and wakes to the smell of smoke and ash.
A summit in Loc Muinne had been called with the recent news of not one, but two assassinations. Arabella did not mourn the loss of Demavend, not that she could have if she gave any sort of a damn about the slimy worm of a man with the crippling numbness that had plagued her in the weeks following the siege.
Red and grey streaked curls and stern blue eyes looked back at her in the mirror, shooing off Emmelyla with a sharp lecture before the handmaid could even dare to bring a brush to her hair which perfectly imitated her father's.
Her grandmother fluffed her curls softly and started parting her hair to braid. She had a firm grip, but not the stranglehold Emmelyla would've put on her scalp. "Loc Muinne, you know they will discuss regency."
She blinks slowly, "a mistake if you ask me."
"Why so?" Her grandmother hums. "You're only thirteen.
"I'm almost fourteen. By the time I am crowned I will be fourteen. It would be…"
"It would be in your best interest."
"So says you," she breathes. She does not wince with the tug of her curls that her father had been so careful about making sure she never had to endure because that would be weakness.
"I know this is hard for you, but you mustn't have such an attitude. Have you thought about—"
"Radovid," she cuts in sharply. "I am to marry Radovid."
"Stennis would—"
"I am going to marry Radovid. Stennis, Melitele bless him, is not prepared to be King of Aedirn let alone Temeria. Radovid is."
"He is Redanian. What about a nice noble boy from Kaedwen, it would really cement your place there." Her grandmother offers.
"I am not having this argument, the decision is final and I will not cave to you like father."
"Your father was a disaster when he inherited the throne. I did what was best for him and Temeria." She bites back at the implications.
"I'm sure you did, but I am not my father. Anaïs will be married off to a Kaedweni should the time come but I will not." Arabella says, exhaling slowly.
"I just don't think you've thought through the consequences of putting a Redanian on the throne," her grandmother chastises.
She toys idly with a statement ring of two frogs kissing in Novigradian jade. "Is this because of the old families?"
"Yes, it is."
She extends her hand looking at the rings that cover her fingers, a ruby ring next to the jade which is next to an emerald ring. "Ah, I see. You are a coward. It is simple, they will accept Radovid, or they accept the subjugation of the black ones. Stennis is overwhelmed as it is."
"And where do you hear that?" Her grandmother's hands do not falter, but she sees her tense.
"I have my sources," Arabella says as she examines her cuticles.
"And what do these little birds say, ma petite reine?" She asks, finally looking up from the braid to her eyes in the mirror.
She spares the reflection a glance, then flicks back to her nails. "Now that Demavend is gone, well…"
"Ah," she takes a deep breath. "You're right, you're not your father."
"Meaning?"
"Your father wanted to make mistakes and cause scandals and did so with habitual pleasure as you know."
"And me?"
"Bienvenu would've been proud of such a political mind."
"And you?" She prods.
"I worry, reinette." The dowager Queen brushes her fingers over her freckled cheeks for a moment.
"What for?" Arabella asks, leaning into her uncalloused hand for a moment before it retreats back to her braids.
"Radovid is a particular kind of boy. I worry about the influence that might have on you."
"You did not worry about my mother and how she may influence dad."
Her shoulders dropped, "I was lucky to get someone willing to marry him after the scandal with your sister."
"You don't trust him," she observes.
"He is…" Sancia trails off and ties off the first braid moving on to the next section. "Violent."
She cannot stop herself from laughing, "violent?"
"You would say he's not?" Her grandmother raises an eyebrow.
"I think of him as violent by necessity. It is a mask he wears like father's airheaded persona. It is inherently political in nature. No, my uncle is a violent man, Radovid is just a King."
Sancia sighs, "we shall see. For your sake I'll hope you are correct. We are heading to Flotsam, yes?"
"Yes. Where is Adda?" Arabella asks shakily.
"She will meet us in Flotsam. Why?" There is sudden suspicion in her voice.
"I cannot lose another sister."
Her grandmother finishes off the second braid and drapes them over her shoulders like a child. Arabella stares at the twin braids and auburn curls framing her face then takes a white ribbon and pulls them up taping them through securely. Her grandmother does not protest but her eyes that look just like her father's look at her sadly.