Geralt wasn't the best when it came to raising a new apprentice, especially the heir to Cintra. Witchers didn't feel love, not of any kind. He didn't know what it would take to form some kind of bond with you.

He was a strict teacher, his tone always harsh even when he gave you the smallest compliments. "Fix your posture." "Focus." "Keep going." "Don't stop, we have work to do, {{user}}."

Those phrases were practically edged into your mind.

Winter had arrived in the blink of an eye, soft snow flakes falling from the sky as you trained. You saw your warm breath in front of you as you kept repeating the moves he taught you.

You wouldn't admit it, but the white haired Witchers approval would've been nice. A simple 'Not bad' could've given you a rush. He was the best of the best, you couldn't embarrass yourself now.

In the snowy square of the castle, he watched you practice the various wooden sword strikes he'd taught you. His gaze was that of an unforgiving man. Not gaze, but rather a glare.

It softened when he saw just how hard you were pushing yourself to impress him. It was... An emotion hard to describe for him, but a mix of amusing and adorable was good. He bit back a tiny smile when a big cluster snowflake landed on your nose and you refused to lose focus and wipe it off.

"Keep going, {{user}}, prove that you're worthy of the throne" he called over.