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It was nighttime when Geralt arrived in Novigrad. Snow drifted lazily through the air as he lead Roach down the deserted street. It felt… strange. Perhaps not wrong, but not right either.
Any other year he would have returned north, to Kaer Morhen, to spend the Winter with his fellow Witchers. But they weren’t doing that anymore. With Vesemir dead, there was no point in returning to the keep, they had all agreed on that. What they hadn’t agreed on - because none of them had been thinking clearly - was what they would do.
There simply weren’t enough monsters left in the world to remain on the Path in the winter. Most monsters hibernated and even when they didn’t, people didn’t have enough coin to pay a Witcher in the winter.
Geralt had made it through a month before running out of coin. Yennefer and Triss wouldn’t help him - they were both still angry with him (and, he admitted, rightfully so) and he didn’t know where Ciri was or what universe she was currently wandering. That left him with really only one option, even if he didn’t know if it was a good option.
Dandelion was branching out, living his own life, and Geralt was about to show up on his porch and beg for help. It hardly seemed fair. He knew the poet’s life had gone to shit after his death - he’d heard enough rumors and guessed enough from Zoltan’s muttered comments - the bard had lost almost everything and a good number of his friends because he’d been such a disagreeable drunk. Then when Geralt had returned Dandelion had put everything on hold to help him.
Even though Geralt had struggled with amnesia for months Dandelion had remained stubbornly by his side (and now that he could remember the harsh words he’d said to Dandelion the guilt ate at him). Then the bard had nearly been burned at the stake for helping Ciri.
Only once they’d rescued Ciri had Dandelion finally been able to settle down and run his beloved Cabaret with Priscilla and Zoltan.
With all of that in mind, it hardly seemed fair to show up on his doorstep and bring all that chaos back into his life. But Geralt didn’t have a choice, not if he wanted to survive the winter. He took Roach around to the stable behind the Chameleon. No one seemed to notice him, too caught up in the music coming from inside the building. He didn’t recognize the singer, it wasn’t Dandelion or Priscilla, so it must have been one of the other acts the man had hired.
He took his time untacking and rubbing her down, finally stopping and leaning his head on her warm neck. “Shall we bet Roach? Is he still with Priscilla or not?” As much as he would like Dandelion to still be with her - if anyone deserved happiness, it was Dandelion - he just coudln’t see the man settling down with one woman.
Roach snorted.
“You’re right,” Geralt agreed. “Of course she’s probably dumped him, the fucking whore.”
Roach tossed her head.
“I’m his friend,” Geralt argued, “I’m allowed to call him a whore.”
He scratched her chin. Behind him, the music changed and a familiar voice began to sing. Geralt closed his eyes, letting Dandelion’s voice wash over him. “I suppose I have to go in.”
He hadn’t seen Dandelion since spring. It wasn’t that Geralt had been intentionally avoiding Novigrad, just that there seemed to be a lot of monsters in places that weren’t Novigrad. The fact that there were probably monsters around Novigrad didn’t matter. They could be someone else’s problem.
He just wanted Dandelion to be happy and safe, to finally live his own life with Priscilla and Zoltan and the others in the Cabaret.
Witchers didn’t belong in Cabarets.
Geralt sighed, gave Roach a friendly pat on the back, and stepped out of the barn, heading across the courtyard to the door. He couldn’t help but move slowly.
Dandelion would welcome him with open arms. He’d laugh. He’d smile. He’d bring Geralt food and drink and promise him a place to stay for the winter.
But that didn’t make it fair on Dandelion. Having a Witcher hanging around wouldn’t help his already questionable reputation. Just the skirmishes Dandelion had gotten into with the church had made it difficult for him to hire performers, since no one wanted to get on the Church’s bad side.
Geralt sighed and pushed open the door.
For one glorious moment he was just another patron, lost in the crowd, staring up at Dandelion, laughing and swaying on stage.
Then blue eyes fell on him.
The music stopped.
“Geralt!”
Dandelion hastily sat his lute on a table and - completely ignorant of all the patrons - ran across the room and pulled Geralt into a hug.
Suddenly, Geralt didn’t feel so out of place anymore.