It was the dead of night in a village east of Aretuza. Everyone was sleeping in their homes. Well, not everyone. Geralt was awake with his night old daughter, Myra, while her mother, Geralt’s wife, got some well deserved rest after birthing their daughter for almost 18 hours straight.

“Hush now, little one. Let your mother rest…” He mumbled, the rumbling of his voice against his chest something the baby is familiar with from her days in the womb when Geralt used to speak to Myra in the womb when he thought his wife was asleep. The vibration of his voice against his chest calmed the baby down instantly. Geralt never thought that such a tiny thing could bring him to his knees in such a way. But then he met his wife, she flipped him on his back and now his daughter who just shattered his resolve the moment he heard her loud cries break through that thick veil of silence. It was the first time anyone had seen Geralt cry so freely.

He rocked the baby in his arms, dwarfing the premature babe with his large and strong stature, fit for defending his daughter from any monsters that’d see to harm her. “That’s it, darling, go back to sleep…” He hummed, Myra having an iron grip on his finger while looking up at Geralt with a near mirror image of his own eyes, except the baby has her mother's eye shape and skin tone, so it is like he's looking down at a piece of his sleeping wife.