Dandelion, too, has been compared to a peacock, and while Geralt would be inclined to agree just based on the fact that he's about as vibrantly dressed as one, he can say that Dandelion has never attempted to peck him to death for feeding him, which is more than he can say for the flocks of peacocks that have decided to call Corvo Bianco their home. The little bastards hate him and he can't, for the life of him, figure out why, and just has to assume that it's because he's a witcher. And thus he is burdened with the task of tending to a flock of birds that never mastered the concept of not biting the hand that feeds them.

Jaskier wags a finger at him. It's so familiar that Geralt is almost pleased at the fact that he's being scolded. He's terribly offended about the name on Dandelion's behalf, and Geralt watches him with an expression of deeply fond amusement, just like he would if his bard was sitting in front of him, lodging the same complaints.

"Mostly I was thinking about how a bunch of nobles were going to pay two hundred crowns apiece for wine named after a man they despised," he says. "Though I can see that you aren't as amused by that as I am."

And, really, the only people who are ever going to see a bottle of this stuff are nobles with enough coin to buy it, and Geralt has never given a shit about what nobles think, present company excluded.

"And it's not bad."