It was cold, yes, the thought that Jaskier could have put him down as a muse as easily as he had picked him up. But it would have been warranted, even just-- Geralt had treated him coldly for far too many years. A single year of being given it in return is nothing. If Jaskier hadn't spoken his name for another two decades, it would've been deserved.

Geralt isn't sure if he's pleased or not that the bard's reputation had haunted him, that he couldn't forget him. He shouldn't be-- it's selfish and cruel, and part of the conditions of their renewed friendship is that he won't be cruel anymore.

The bard's hand rests over his chest, above the heart that beats once for every four of Jaskier's. Perhaps every three, now; against his will, Geralt's heart picks up its pace a little as he says my muse is back.

"You'll be able to sing about more than just my hunts, if it pleases you. My brothers are less stingy with the details."

And Jaskier will have a whole winter to get the details out of Eskel and Lambert, and to put those into appropriate prose. By spring, he can have a fresh new repertoire of witcher songs to entertain the Continent and fill his pockets with coin.