Ah, yes. The horse has a name. Geralt had forgotten. He watched the thing for a moment longer, prancing-- frolicking-- and wasn't comforted to realize that his gut instincts about the horse were already proving to be the correct ones: this horse was going to be trouble. "Get," he said, fingers curling around the window frame for a moment to help ground the thoughts that were reminding him that he'd given up a ruby for that idiotic gold devil, "downstairs. Now." And then he was turning around to do the same, shoving his shirt-ends into his pants and throwing open the door to the room before he'd even rebuttoned them. He dealt with the buttons as he took the steps two at a time.

No one was on the steps, unsurprisingly, because they were all gaping like beached fish at the windowpanes in order to get a look at Jaskier's new horse. Geralt put his shoulder to the door with perhaps a little too much force, spilling himself out into the early evening light. There were a few more opportunistic men closing in on the fountain with smiles on their faces and their arms out. Not one of them looked like they were upstanding citizens in even the meanest of senses. "Away from the horse," Geralt snarled out in front of him, across the square. He didn't have his swords and his fly was done up wrongly but he didn't look any less menacing for it.

Alright, perhaps he was driven on a little more forcefully by the lingering ache in his balls, but certainly the men deserved it for the attempted horse theft.