[Dowly]

Someone pointed out something the writers added that gives me great hope for the series. This is spoiler and will spoil an entire episode (The Lesser Evil), so be warned before reading.

 

We know from casting and both trailers that the 'The Lesser Evil' story will be in the show. It is a defining moment for Geralt who always tries to not take sides. The story is about a princess (Renfri) who was born just after an eclipse, and who is believed to be cursed. She seeks revenge from people who had done her wrong, in this case Stregobor, whom along with her stepmother tried to kill her.
Renfri and his gang on thugs come to Blaviken where Stregobor is and Geralt happens to be there too after finishing a contract. He finds himself in between the two, both wanting for him to kill the other. At the end, Geralt and Renfri come head on and Geralt is forced to kill her and many of her thugs. The townspeople, not knowing that Geralt had just saved them (Renfri planned to start killing people to force Stregobor to surrender himself), drive him out of the town, earning him the nickname "Butcher of Blaviken".

Right, so what the writers decided to add is Geralt actually having Renfri's golden brooch on his sword, as a reminder of what choosing the lesser evil is.

Geralt leant against the counter. Fiddling with the wolf’s head medallion hanging around his neck, he looked into the girl’s blue-green eyes.

‘I’ve heard about you,’ she said. ‘You’re Geralt, the white-haired witcher from Rivia. Is Stregobor your friend?’

‘No.’

‘That makes things easier.’

‘Not much. Don’t expect me to look on peacefully.’

Renfri’s eyes narrowed.

‘Stregobor dies tomorrow,’ she said quietly, brushing the unevenly cut hair off her forehead. ‘It would be the lesser evil if he died alone.’

‘If he did, yes. But in fact, before Stregobor dies several other people will die too. I don’t see any other possibility.’

[..]

‘Geralt,’ she said, ‘I used to be a princess. I had everything I could dream of. Servants at my beck and call, dresses, shoes. Cambric knickers. Jewels and trinkets, ponies, goldfish in a pond. Dolls, and a doll’s house bigger than this room. That was my life until Stregobor and that whore Aridea ordered a huntsman to butcher me in the forest and bring back my heart and liver. Lovely, don’t you think?’

‘No. I’m pleased you evaded the huntsman, Renfri.’

‘Like **** I did. He took pity on me and let me go. After the son-of-a-bitch raped me and robbed me.’

Geralt, fiddling with his medallion, looked her straight in the eyes. She didn’t lower hers.

‘That was the end of the princess,’ she continued. ‘The dress grew torn, the cambric grew grubby. And then there was dirt, hunger, stench, stink and abuse. Selling myself to any old bum for a bowl of soup or a roof over my head. Do you know what my hair was like? Silk. And it reached a good foot below my hips. I had it cut right to the scalp with sheep-shears when I caught lice. It’s never grown back properly.’

She was silent for a moment, idly brushing the uneven strands of hair from her forehead.

[..]

‘Stregobor and Aridea hunted me like a wild animal as long as they could. Until I became the hunter. Aridea died in her own bed. She was lucky I didn’t get to her earlier – I had a special plan for her, and now I’ve got one for the sorcerer. Do you think he deserves to die?’

‘I’m no judge. I’m a witcher.’

‘You are. I said that there were two people who could prevent bloodshed in Blaviken. The second is you. The sorcerer will let you into the tower. You could kill him.’

‘Renfri,’ said Geralt calmly, ‘did you fall from the roof onto your head on the way to my room?’

‘Are you a witcher or aren’t you, dammit? They say you killed a kikimora and brought it here on a donkey to get a price for it. Stregobor is worse than the kikimora. It’s just a mindless beast which kills because that’s how the gods made it. Stregobor is a brute, a true monster. Bring him to me on a donkey and I won’t begrudge you any sum you care to mention.’

‘I’m not a hired thug, Shrike.’

‘You’re not,’ she agreed with a smile. She leant back on the stool and crossed her legs on the table without the slightest effort to cover her thighs with her skirt. ‘You’re a witcher, a defender of people from evil. And evil is the steel and fire which will cause devastation here if we fight each other. Don’t you think I’m proposing a lesser evil, a better solution? Even for that son-of-a-bitch Stregobor. You can kill him mercifully, with one thrust. He’ll die without knowing it. And I guarantee him quite the reverse.’

Geralt remained silent.

Renfri stretched, raising her arms.

‘I understand your hesitation,’ she said. ‘But I need an answer now.’

‘Do you know why Stregobor and the king’s wife wanted to kill you?’

Renfri straightened abruptly and took her legs off the table.

‘It’s obvious,’ she snarled. ‘I am heir to the throne. Aridea’s children were born out of wedlock and don’t have any right to—’

‘No.’

Renfri lowered her head, but only for a moment. Her eyes flashed. ‘Fine. I’m supposed to be cursed. Contaminated in my mother’s womb. I’m supposed to be . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘A monster.’

‘And are you?’

For a fleeting moment she looked helpless, shattered. And very sad.

‘I don’t know, Geralt,’ she whispered, and then her features hardened again. ‘Because how am I to know, dammit? When I cut my finger, I bleed. I bleed every month, too. I get belly-ache when I overeat, and a hangover when I get drunk. When I’m happy I sing and I swear when I’m sad. When I hate someone I kill them and when— But enough of this! Your answer, witcher.’

‘My answer is no.’

[..]

Renfri entered the marketplace.

She approached slowly with a soft, feline step, avoiding the carts and stalls. The crowd in the streets and by the houses, which had been humming like a hornet’s nest, grew silent. Geralt stood motionless, his sword in his lowered hand. Renfri came to within ten paces and stopped, close enough to see that, under her jacket, she wore a short coat of chain-mail, barely covering her hips.

‘You’ve made your choice,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you sure it’s the right one?’

‘This won’t be another Tridam,’ Geralt said with an effort.

‘It wouldn’t have been. Stregobor laughed in my face. He said I could butcher Blaviken and the neighbouring villages and he wouldn’t leave his tower. And he won’t let anyone in, not even you. Why are you looking at me like that? Yes, I deceived you. I’ll deceive anyone if I have to, why should you be special?’

‘Get out of here, Renfri.’

She laughed. ‘No, Geralt.’ She drew her sword, quickly and nimbly.

‘Renfri.’

‘No. You made a choice. Now it’s my turn.’ With one sharp move, she tore the skirt from her hips and spun it in the air, wrapping the material around her forearm. Geralt retreated and raised his hand, arranging his fingers in the Sign.

Renfri laughed hoarsely. ‘It doesn’t affect me. Only the sword will.’

‘Renfri,’ he repeated. ‘Go. If we cross blades, I— I won’t be able—’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I, I can’t do anything else. I just can’t. We are what we are, you and I.’

She moved towards him with a light, swaying step, her sword glinting in her right hand, her skirt dragging along the ground from her left.

She leapt, the skirt fluttered in the air and, veiled in its tracks, the sword flashed in a short, sparing cut. Geralt jumped away; the cloth didn’t even brush him, and Renfri’s blade slid over his diagonal parry. He attacked instinctively, spinning their blades, trying to knock her weapon aside. It was a mistake. She deflected his blade and slashed, aiming for his face. He barely parried and pirouetted away, dodging her dancing blade and jumping aside again. She fell on him, threw the skirt into his eyes and slashed flatly from short range, spinning. Spinning with her he avoided the blow. She knew the trick and turned with him, their bodies so close he could feel the touch of her breath as she ran the edge across his chest. He felt a twinge of pain, ignored it. He turned again, in the opposite direction, deflected the blade flying towards his temple, made a swift feint and attacked. Renfri sprang away as if to strike from above as Geralt lunged and swiftly slashed her exposed thigh and groin from below with the very tip of his sword.

She didn’t cry out. Falling to her side she dropped her sword and clutched her thigh. Blood poured through her fingers in a bright stream over her decorated belt, elk-leather boots, and onto the dirty flagstones. The clamour of the swaying crowd, crammed in the streets, grew as they saw blood.

Geralt put up his sword.

‘Don’t go . . .’ she moaned, curling up in a ball.

He didn’t reply.

‘I’m . . . cold . . .’

He said nothing. Renfri moaned again, curling up tighter as her blood flowed into the cracks between the stones.

‘Geralt . . . Hold me . . .’

The witcher remained silent.

She turned her head, resting her cheek on the flagstones and was still. A fine dagger, hidden beneath her body until now, slipped from her numb fingers.