He didn't feel like he was ready to die-- aside from perhaps hunger-- and it showed in the way he dropped annoyed eyes to the tent in Jaskier's trousers, clearly as peppy in the mornings as the man himself, and simply closed his eyes with a groan. "Just stop... talking. It's the morning of whatever day it happens to be. I need something to eat." He'd thanked the man the day before, hadn't he? Then he certainly didn't need to do it again.

He opened his eyes slowly. "I didn't... say anything. About your singing last night. Did I?" Geralt thought he had dreamed about it, though nothing he could clearly recall. He'd been in Oxenfurt and it had been snowing, or else the song that he had been listening to was that awful ballad the bard had named Winter that was about nothing but the properties of love's tendency to freeze. Jaskier had spent almost a month of the road trying to write that; it had been a taxing month. But in the dream he'd definitely been in Oxenfurt.