[And unbeknownst to Geralt, he intends to make that a reality one day. It may take ages, but shall have it. In this space he's crafted for everyone and no one in particular, where there could be calm finally found. After all, the four of them run rampant through Bleobheris: the wolves along the bannisters; the rich lilacs and buttercups growing around its roots, in the gardens outside, and etched into the walls of the bedrooms; and the swallows carved into the ceilings of nearly every room, flying together in flocks that spread out wide through the wood.

It only makes sense. They came from the same world, the four of them. And like it or not, Destiny has inextricably tied them together with little red strings.]

He doesn't need walks. He isn't a dog. Gods, Geralt, have you never had a clever animal before?

[Jaskier gives him a laugh, squishing soft, salty brie between crackers that have slid onto the table, seemingly from nowhere.] Oh? Really? And what are you going to do if my deeply beloved pet gryphon takes a snooze on your snout? Turn him into a hat?