Jaskier draws his hand up to his mouth and kisses Geralt's scarred knuckles, and the witcher gives him that exasperated what the hell are you doing kind of look that he's most certainly quite familiar with by now. Apparently the bard's peculiar forms of demonstrative affection aren't going to end now that he's aired his romantic feelings. Geralt is easily led to the table, desk, because lunch is there and he would very much prefer to have a full stomach before they leave. He sits and his lap is soon appropriated by Jaskier, which is... fine, if a bit cumbersome, and Geralt puts an arm around his hips to keep him steady. He draws the line when Jaskier tries to feed him.

"I can feed myself, Jaskier."

He's not an invalid, nor is he one of those couriers that swoons on a chaise lounge before their doting lover. He'll eat his damn stew like the big grumpy brute that he is, because he's godsdamned hungry.

"We'll follow the Pontar east," he says, pulling the other bowl of stew within eating range. "To Rinde. Then we'll cut north through the southern pass of the Kestrel Mountains, to Ard Carraigh. There will be no more stops from there until Kaer Morhen."

It won't be an easy journey, but it's a necessary one, and the fastest route that he can plan. If they're lucky, the weather won't be too bitter by the time they reach the trail leading up to the keep, but Geralt doesn't like to bet on his own luck.

"We'll have to keep a good pace. It's been getting colder here than I'd like, and it'll be colder in the mountains. I've only been caught once in a blizzard on my way to the keep, and it's not something I want to experience again. Nearly killed me."

And if it was nearly the death of a witcher, it would certainly be the death of a bard. If they dawdle too long, or the snows come too early, they wouldn't be able to risk the trip up.