Geralt shrugs.

"She'd be offended that you're afraid of someone more than her."

And possibly amused, as well. To think, there's someone out there that Jaskier hates more than Yennefer of Vengerberg-- Geralt wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't heard it from the bard's own mouth.

As Jaskier talks about his estranged family, he riles himself up more and more, going from anxious to angry. It's an improvement, really; anxiety is just a step off of fear, and Geralt hates the smell of fear on Jaskier. But it's no wonder that he didn't like talking about his family and childhood, considering that it seemed to have made him miserable. There was no way that Jaskier was going to settle down and be a perfect little lord, not unless his father had tried to beat every bit of what made Jaskier Jaskier out of him.

The bard became what he wanted to become, his destiny be damned. Geralt can't find fault with that.

(A long, long time ago, a boy who would become a witcher had wanted to be a knight.)

Geralt's voice stays even, but the corner of his mouth tics upward in a hint of a smile, giving away the fact that he's teasing.

"You are a brat, Jaskier, but not because your father's a count."