Geralt would much prefer to not travel like this, pushing the bard and their horses to exhaustion on a forced march from sun-up to well after sundown. It's a miserable pace, and he has some concerns that if it lasts for too much longer, Jaskier may run the risk of illness-- it hadn't been that long ago that he'd been badly injured, and though he'd healed well, he shouldn't be straining himself.

He'll rest at Kaer Morhen. Geralt will find him an appropriate room-- he'd want to put him somewhere away from an external wall, for warmth, but knowing Jaskier, he'll want a view-- and get him wrapped up in furs and tucked away into a proper bed, feed him up well. A few days of that and he'd be back to his usual prattling and incessant lute-strumming. He'll be excellent company for Ciri, much better than a group of old witchers.

But for now, he has the bard leaning back against his chest, apparently trying to absorb as much of his body heat as possible.

"Not exactly," he replies. "The supplies are a... courtesy. Whoever uses the cabin last makes sure it is stocked enough for the next. There are few human hunters who will come this far up the mountains, though, and no later than early autumn. What we're eating now is probably the leftovers from one of Eskel's or Lambert's hunting trips, to stock up Kaer Morhen's larders for winter."

He takes another bite of the jerky, grimacing a little at how much effort he has to put into chewing the damn stuff.

"Judging from how fucking tough this venison is, Lambert."

His youngest brother never was all that great at curing meat, thank gods he's got other talents. Geralt washes it down with a swig of vodka, savoring the warmth that blossoms in his chest.

"So, we are not taking anything that isn't ours to take. I'd say your virtue is still intact, but I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face."