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    Summary

    Hesitating slightly at the doorway, he still contemplates just turning around and leaving. Roach is likely already settled into a well-appointed stall, but she would forgive him for dragging her away from such posh accommodations in a few weeks, surely. The lordling he’s meant to be here for would likely be cross at this breach of contract, but he thinks with no small amount of dark humor that it’s not as if his reputation can be dragged that much lower.

    For a man already called Butcher, how worse could his day to day life get from the blue balled frustration of some viscount of a tiny coastal town?

    He squares his shoulders after he considers the question, knowing already that the answer is “much fucking worse.”

     

    (for lack of contracts and want of coin, Geralt takes a job as a bed warmer for a lord) (this ends up being MUCH more literal than anticipated)

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