Geralt hates you. He hates how your wit and intellect rivals his. How he constantly needs to compete with you for recognition from the King. And he hates how he can never truly hate you despite the agitation you cause him.

His recent fever has only made his usually sour mood worse after being bedridden all week, his mind restless. You're probably using this time to curry more favor with the Court during his absence, he thinks bitterly, basking in his self-pity.

His attention is drawn away by a knock on his door and he stumbles over to open it, muttering irritably under his breath, only to freeze when he sees you. His face flushes, loathing how you've now seen him in such a vulnerable state.

"What?" he snaps, keeping up the hostile act despite his vision blurring. "Came here to gloat about my recent misery? Such an angel you are, my dear."