Jaskier follows his orders without arguing, and as much of a contrary little shit as the bard could be when he put his mind to it, he at least has the good sense after twenty years to listen to Geralt in an emergency. And this? This is an emergency. There are two more men behind the first, stepping over the fallen body of their comrade to get at him. Geralt parries the first, delivering a swift kick to his middle while his blade is knocked wide. One swift stroke of the blade opens him up from hip to shoulder, spilling his guts on the floor. The other hesitates at the brutal efficiency in which his ally was killed, and Geralt cuts him down just as quickly.

Chop their dicks off, Jaskier yells to him. While Geralt agrees with the sentiment, he's got bigger problems than just avenging their ruined evening. One of his strikes had bisected the assailant's coin purse along with his body, and the currency that spilled out was undeniably Nilfgaardian florens.

None of these men could leave this place alive. Geralt couldn't allow them to report back to Nilfgaard and betray their location, because the moment that they know he's been spotted in the north, they'll send more. They'll keep hunting. And Ard Carraigh is too close to Kaer Morhen.

Geralt goes down the stairs, into the common room of the tavern. More of them are waiting for him, and thankfully most of the normal patrons seem to have cleared out. The witcher takes care of them. By the time he's done, the floor is slick and there's a commotion starting out front, likely from everyone telling the city guard that there's a madman inside slaughtering people.

He runs back to their room, just in time to hear the whistle from below the window, a lower version of his call for Roach. He swings his scabbards over his shoulder and grabs his potion bag, then vaults out of the window and onto the waiting horse below.

"Go!"

A command both for Roach and Jaskier, to start galloping down the road out of town, heading further north.