"So," Geralt tells the lindworm, putting everything he has into sounding both authoritative and friendly. Any hostility, any ounce of meanness, and the lindworm will respond in kind and then some. And if he doesn't sound convincing enough, if the lindworm refuses... "The first thing to do after a wedding is play a game." He pulls out his cards. "As your bride, I'll teach you how to play. Every time one of us loses, we have to take off a layer of skin." He ruffles the armor on his shoulder, then pats one of the fluttering bits on the lindworm's back. "Like one of these."
"Yeeeeeeeeeees," the lindworm says slowly. "That sounds right. Yes. We play games. Cards. Those are cards. Those are a game. Yes."
He tries not to show any sign of his relief. This is actually working, and he's not going to mess up when he's this close by doing anything to make the lindworm suspicious.
At Geralt's fourth win, the lindworm, having cleaned off the dried skins, digs into the next layer. Oily ichor sprays out. Geralt's eyes sting immediately and he chokes down a curse as he screws them shut. He'd known the fumes were bad enough to affect even witchers, but he'd thought it'd take time to build up, like cutting onions back when he was a kid. Now even with his eyes closed and viscous black tears starting to flow down his face, he can feel the burn getting worse.
It's going to be a long, long night.