For starters, all the tack fell to the ground in a lumped mess and a jangle of metal bits against cobblestone. The damned gold horse snorted as if affronted by that-- instead of Jaskier's lyrics-- and danced back a few steps. Meanwhile Geralt simply stood and held his arms slightly out to the side as a limpet the exact size, weight, and smell of Jaskier attached to his body. Finally he moved a hand in and clapped the bard on the back a few times. The warm, slightly acidic feeling in his chest was pushed down, and away. "You're welcome. Now pull yourself together."

The rancher had said that the horse was broken but Geralt had been around horses for almost a century and one look at that horse told him that 'broken' was a loose term. Getting it back to the inn would be easy but he was sure that he'd get at least one more good night's sleep while Jaskier tried to saddle the thing properly within the confines of a stable.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that he might have gone along with this because it would provide amusement. He doubted that the Akhel-Teke would prove as amenable to Jaskier's hand as Roach was, despite the way the horse fawned over him. Whom would lead who was the real question here. "Let's get it back to the inn."