He would have objected to Geralt's assessment, that he had sent an actual child, but a teenager wasn't a far cry better. He held his tongue as the Witcher twisted and shifted to sit--thet he could manage that much was, in itself, a grand improvement but it had Jaskier glowering before long.

"Yes, yes," Jaskier agreed and, now that his cock wasn't about to be announcing him as he entered every room, he picked past the bathtub and headed for the door. He cast one last, assessing look at the Witcher--if he tore out any stitches, Jaskier would go positively feral, that he knew--before ducking out into the hall.

The innkeeper's wife gave him a terrified look when he came down, like he was being followed by some grim spectre, but dutifully nodded and went about cooking as Jaskier made his requests. The boy he had sent to fetch the head was downstairs, crowing about the whole experience with his friends--you'd think he'd fought the damn thing for how he spun the story. (Still, Jaskier was fond of tales of heroics and listened while he waited.)

When the innkeeper's wife finished, nearly half an hour had passed, and the plates she had piled up were heavy enough that he had to ask her to help him take them up. She declined, made some excuses about cleaning, but that boy jumped right to service and all but clamored up the stairs after the bard.

Jaskier returned with three plates, one with a whole stack of bacon and eggs, one with two loaves of bread and a bowl of butter, and one with cold smoked fish and hot slices of ham piled high--which so happened to be the one carried by his helper.