The dean pats Jaskier's back and Geralt has the urge to reach out and break his wrist for it. It's a brief urge, here and gone, and the old man seems completely oblivious about the fact that something he said made Jaskier go pale and his scent shift from embarrassment to anxiety. He's gone quickly enough, and the bard tries to recover his customary cheer as they leave for his apartments. His scent can't lie nearly as well as his face can.

Geralt stays silent while they walk, until Jaskier brings it up of his own accord.

"Hm."

The bard is forthcoming on nearly all subjects, seemingly content to prattle away on whatever topic catches his fancy at that moment. He's been relatively reserved on the topic of his childhood, though, dropping only a few little anecdotes and comments about the life he had before he went to Oxenfurt. It hadn't taken long into their acquaintance for Geralt to guess that he had come from some kind of good breeding-- it was written into his mannerisms, his knowledge of courtly etiquette, his taste for fine things. A minor lord's son, he would've guessed if pressed. It hardly matters, because if Jaskier had any interest in whatever titles or estates he might have a claim to, he would've gone for them by now.

"Fine. Why do you look like you're staring down a wraith when someone mentions your father?"