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Summary
They shouldn’t have waited so long to make their way up north to Kaer Morhen, Geralt knew. The paths were slick with ice and the wind bit straight through their clothes, no matter how many layers—normally Geralt would have left three weeks ago, before the season really turned.
But Jaskier had had that competition in Lyria, and when he begged Geralt to stay, well, he couldn’t really say no to those big, pleading eyes, could he? And it had been worth it, to see the way he lit up with joy when they announced his first-place award. So he didn’t regret staying, but he did feel remorse now, when he saw how blue Jaskier’s lips and fingertips were, when he could feel him violently shivering against his front.
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