[ They're all lucky, in truth. Geralt's concern is not about Istredd. The man can lie in the grave he dug for all he gives a shit. It's about the consequences of hasty action, of choices that haunt you for decades whether they are right or wrong or somewhere in between. A lesson he's learned tenfold. He supposes that isn't something he can always protect Ciri from.

He still wants to try. He sure as fuck doesn't want Ciri to be the first to discover what happens when one of the Summoned is killed by another from an opposing territory.

If it comes down to it, he'll bear that burden. Not her. ]

I know you're not. [ It is not the man she fears. It's what he may do. The layers of unknowns that Istredd represents. Geralt doesn't say it; she knows, he thinks, and he isn't trying to make her feel worse by laying her innermost thoughts bare, true or not. ] I promise what needs to be done, we'll face it together. But protecting our home, our place, in this world—it also means making sure we don't invite the sword of the nations directly upon us. At least not without some sleep and a bit of time chopping up the risen dead first. Hm?

[ Talk, as he well knows, can only resolve so much boiled over tension. Sometimes one simply needs to take off a few limbs, and there are plenty of undead crawling about. She can even imagine Istredd's head on them if it helps. ]