There it is-- sweetness with a bitter twist at the end, that hint of envy. The Geralt of his world had really done a number on him, hadn't he, if this is the end result. Jaskier should have no need to be envious of Dandelion. Hell, he should have no need to doubt his place at Geralt's side, or his place in the witcher's affections. It should have been obvious, the easiest truth of Geralt's life.

It's the least you deserve.

It had taken Geralt a very long time to believe that he deserved anything good or kind at all, that there is value to him beyond his ability to slay monsters or perform a designated task. It had taken time and the efforts of more than a few people-- Dandelion among them-- to make him believe that he is more than an efficient tool to be used and then set aside. More time even than that to convince him that he is allowed to have good things, like daughters and terrifying sorceresses and a bard who whispers poetry to him at night when he thinks he's asleep.

"She drops by whenever she feels like it," he replies, because it's the truest answer he can give-- Ciri goes wherever she pleases, whenever she pleases. "Every other month or so, usually. And she wants to come back for the winter, when Lambert and Eskel will be here."

A full house for the winter. He could probably convince Yen to drop by for a little while, too, since Ciri will be here, and that would be the majority of his odd family, all in one place.

"She'd like to hear you sing. I've told her about the banquet, but you'd tell it better."