If Jaskier wants something amorous out of Geralt, he ought to try better foreplay than bringing up Blaviken. There's nothing that would kill Geralt's already slow-rising cock better than mentioning one of the greatest clusterfucks of his exceptionally long adult life. He might have been amenable to the idea of a little quick fooling around before getting out on the road, even if that wouldn't be nearly enough time for him to get anywhere with it, but now? All amorousness is gone.

"Hm."

A simple grunt as a response is likely a poor comfort for Jaskier, but Geralt's mood has been soured and he wants to finish his damned lunch and get out onto the road as soon as possible. He'll feel better once they're past Rinde and on the other side of the fucking Kestrels, well on the way toward the only place he's ever been able to call home. He likely won't be fine until they're actually inside the fortress and the snows are at least chest-deep on the trail, rendering it completely impassible.

He finishes eating in silence, except for Jaskier's soft humming. When done, he taps Jaskier's thigh and tells him "Up," so that he'll vacate the witcher's lap. If the bard's business in Oxenfurt is concluded, there's no reason for them to linger.

"The horses are ready. Get your things, we're wasting daylight."

The last things that Geralt has to grab are his swords and his potion bag, retrieved from the trunk where he had stored it. Then-- to the horses, and eastward to Rinde.