Not quite all, but enough. Enough that he has an idea of what it's about, and who the players in it are. Jaskier, like Dandelion, wears his heart directly on his sleeve, and Geralt has heard enough about his alternate universe self to have a pretty good idea who the garroter, jury and judge is.

He leans against the wall with his arms loosely crossed, not far from Jaskier's window. Watches him as he rambles a little about gentle hearts and the magic of poetry; it's not the words that Geralt is paying attention to, though. Bards can talk and talk until their throats are hoarse and still say nothing at all. What they can't hide, though, is their scent, and behind all that chatter about compliments to his talents, there's still sadness.

"She probably didn't want to bother you."

Hence the whole fleeing to the scullery thing. Besides, few people like to be seen when they're crying; no one cries prettily, not if they're doing it in earnest.

"Her sweet kiss, huh?"

It's a good song, really. The kind of thing that would get Jaskier a lot of coin if he played it at just the right time, when the audience was in the right kind of mood. With certain crowds, a maudlin ballad about lost love and heartache could open purses just as well as a bawdy song.

"If you want my opinion, the subject of your song's an idiot."