Geralt just looks vaguely bemused at the finger that gets waggled in his face. Jaskier's deeply upset by the implication that he loses to Valdo Marx, even in a different world, and to be honest? Dandelion had been so deeply upset with himself that he had failed to best his rival that he'd fallen into a pit of melancholy until Geralt had met up with him again. Mostly, he thinks, because everyone else had gotten tired of listening to the bard bemoan his tragedy and wanted new ears to wring sympathy from.

"Dandelion wasn't invited to play at Cintra's court, though I'm sure he'd be beside himself with envy to know that you were," he says. "I was there because Calanthe hired me to take care of a monster problem that she claimed would show up at the banquet. Made me attend the thing disguised as a knight."

Sir Ravix of Fourhorns. Well, once upon a time he had wanted to be a knight, and, like all childish dreams, he should've known that it would be a shit gig.

"Did it end the same for you? With Duny rushing in, the fight, Pavetta's magic?" He huffs, like just remembering the night is an annoyance. "Should've known the coin was too good for a simple job. Working for royalty is more of a headache than it's worth."

He sets the bottle of wine down-- the label says Butcher of Blaviken, a joke that Geralt can appreciate now that he's thirty years away from the title carrying any weight-- and hands a glass over to Jaskier. Bards need things in their hands, otherwise they'll just gesticulate all over the place.

"I wouldn't have wanted Dandelion there, anyway. The fight after Duny arrived was chaotic, and he could've been badly hurt in the melee. He's decent with a dagger now, but he wasn't then."