AN: Wow, a combination of busy-ness with work, writer's block, and lack of inspiration caused writing this to take a really long time. Still not sure if I'm happy with it…
Jeyne P. I
Running in the snow brought back too many memories.
She left little bits of herself scattered behind her—a square of fabric torn off her dress stuck to a prickly shrub branch, an earring pulled off and left to shine pointlessly in the mud, a drop of her blood painting an ill-placed thorn. Pieces of Jeyne Poole making up some kind of sick abstract art lay lost in the woods of Winterfell. Again, she inwardly cursed the shortness of her legs and the weakness in her thighs.
I cannot lose him. Theon's life depends on it. I am a Queen. I can be strong; I have to do this.
She ran like her life had no meaning, wishing with every footstep that she could sprout wings and fly through the cold air like her daughter's goshawk. The fear of frostbite, even if it meant having her toes turn black and fall off, meant nothing in comparison to the fear of failure. She just had to catch him. There was no other choice.
The moon was her guide, illuminating her white-clad form as they crashed through the underbrush like some hideous role-reversal of a rabbit chasing a deadly wolf. The wolf, bounding away ahead of her at an impossible speed, was none other then Koscha Rivers, black-cloaked and sporting a mop of shiny golden-blonde hair, like a miniature moon bouncing along in the woods ahead of her. In the distance, he seemed to glow.
It was not just a mirage. Koscha floated. Each step through the trees, improbably, no, impossibly fast, as though he was a part of the forest itself, a flame among shadows. Where was he taking her? Could she trust him? Was he even human? Jeyne wasn't sure of anything anymore. In a world where the dead walked and dragons sat behind the Iron Throne, was it even a stretch to believe in black magic?
The taste of sorcery had indeed been strong upon her lips when Koscha had entered her chambers earlier that evening, gracious and impeccable as the head of the Queen's personal guard always was. Nothing special or alarming. He was just normal Koscha, the same as on any other day; loyal, quiet, trustworthy.
But comfort only lasted a moment, and then she was on guard. A subtle glint in his eye had first hinted her towards suspicion, but as soon as he spoke, Jeyne knew that he knew. Somehow, Koscha knew that the medicine from Dorne was not helping, Theon was still dying, and Jeyne was planning to follow him into the afterlife on the wings of a tiny silver dagger. How? How did he find out?
Koscha gave no preface before he squatted in front of her, gently reaching out to touch her hand in a gesture of comfort.
Breaking barriers he had no right to be breaking, as if he were her familiar, or her husband.
When he spoke, his voice barely broke above a whisper, "Your Grace, death may seem like a mercy, like a quiet rest after the long hard fight, a sweet and tender embrace. Trust me, I can empathize with you more than you could possibly understand; but sometimes, just sometimes, it's worth holding out. You have to believe me. You can't read your fate in the stars—to you the future is hidden like the curve of the earth looping eternally beyond the horizon. But it's there—and your puzzle piece is particularly important—you just have to trust me. I can help you."
It took everything Jeyne had not to interrupt him during his soliloquy, perhaps compelled into silence by his bold, dark eyes(?) He looked like someone else during those moments, like someone older and far more dangerous than a simple man of the Queen's guard.
"What? Koscha, what do you mean, speaking to me like this? You're scaring me!" she squawked as soon as the moment had been broken, trying to force sense into his words. He remained silent for a few moments as she processed everything, before Jeyne added, calmly and more quietly, "What about Theon?"
"What about him?" He sounded bored.
"You said I have a future, somehow you've seen it; somehow you know. What about Theon? What can you see in his future? Is he to die?" The effort of trying to hold back tears made Jeyne feel like her eyes were going to rupture.
Koscha continued his verbal cadence, unfazed. "Theon's fate hinges on yours, and your fate hinges on mine. Tonight. The hour of the wolf. Leave your chamber door unlocked and be ready in your warmest clothes. I'll come to you, but it's your job to keep up with me. I bid you good evening, Your Grace. And Godspeed."
With that said, he turned around in an extravagant flourish of his cloak, and walked calmly out the door as if nothing odd had happened between them.
As soon as the door had swung shut, Jeyne melted down into a heap upon the bed, head in her hands, crying, laughing. Wondering if she had finally lost her sanity. If she was dreaming. Or drunk. Maybe she was dead already, and this was some odd form of the afterlife.
But even the hint of a ghost of a chance was worth fighting for, wasn't it?
Come the hour of the wolf, she was ready and waiting when her anticipated guest finally showed up. She tiptoed past the children's rooms as quietly as possible, willing them to stay deep in slumber. Her eyes never left Koscha's back. And then the chase was on.
Jeyne almost missed him when he stopped, suddenly, nearly three miles into their frantic run and standing at the edge of a dense stand of sentinels. The trees' barren branches seemed to reach up towards the full moon with unspoken longing. Somehow it felt like unholy ground—the very opposite of a Godswood. As if the trees were unfriendly beasts that would eat her up as soon as she turned her back on them. She didn't understand why.
Koscha turned around, looked at her silently, like a predator sizing up its prey, and made a subtle tilt of the head urging her to come join him.
She wanted to scream. Something seemed oddly inhuman about the way his head moved, something Jeyne struggled to put into words but felt all too well just beneath her skin. Suddenly terrified, she might have fled crying off into the woods if she had not had Theon to think about. Instead, she kept her composure and willed herself to walk proudly, with her head held high, like a regal Queen come to negotiate with a monster for the good of the realm.
What was she even thinking? This was Koscha, just Koscha. The same respectful, young guard she saw everyday. Nothing to be frightened of, right?
But his smile when she finally reached his side was full of spider venom and stinging nettles, and his canine teeth seemed somehow far longer than they had any right to be.
"Good. You've kept up. Just one more path, and we'll be where I need us. Keep at my side; I'll walk slowly enough for you to keep up. Trust me, Jeyne. You've done very well so far tonight, and I would hate for you to lose your courage so very close to your goal."
Not waiting for an answer, he began walking, and Jeyne couldn't help but notice that he walked on top of the foot or so of snow she found herself struggling through. The observation felt like a justification for her formerly-baseless fears. Magic. Sorcery and magic.
Only two dozen steps into the thick sentinel thicket and Koscha stopped again in front of what appeared to be an old stone well, covered by a flat, smooth, oval-shaped stone. To Jeyne, it looked ancient and out of place, as if it had been weathered by the squalls of a hundred thousand windstorms or the soft caresses of countless worshipping hands. Like a portal to another time—ancient and governed by wicked laws. He moved the stone effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing, and descended into the well with soundless steps. There were stairs, she saw. Descending out of the moonlight into the darkness below.
Jeyne felt so lost in it all that she barely even jumped when the stone cover slammed shut hard behind her, casting them both into momentary darkness. That is, until her escort raised both his hands, palms up, as if gathering energy from the air, and kept them that way until they began to glow with a soft, white light. She was too stunned to speak. Awed into silence, now that she knew she was in the presence of a real magician (or a demon. Or an angel?)
The stairs wound tightly in a descending spiral; Jeyne took steps two at a time in an attempt to keep up with Koscha. Though she kept most of her attention focused on the mage in front of her, she couldn't help but notice the intricate designs on the stone walls of the well—symbols she did not recognize, painted figures of winged people, winged horses, half-lidded eyes, and predatory birds. Snow and flames twisted together in front of a field of gilded stars. The paint seemed to glow in unnatural metallic tints in the odd half-light; silver, gold, the reddish hues of copper, the earthy tones of bronze, a sea-foam-blue the color of mother-of-pearl, black like onyx (or Koscha Rivers' eyes).
Finally they reached bottom. It felt like hours had passed, though of course it had only been a handful of minutes. Of course, she had simply walked down half a hundred steps, not back in time a half a hundred centuries. Of course.
The small, elaborately decorated stairwell ended in a spacious, frighteningly cold stone cavern. Compared to the bleak semi-light of the poorly illuminated path downwards, this room was lit brilliantly—owing largely to a deep, round chasm in the center of the room that glowed with a bright blue light. Koscha even let his hands fall down to his sides, relaxing and allowing the light he had gathered at his fingertips to flow back into the air around him. Head bowed, eyes closed (as if in reverence) he walked slowly to the pit, Jeyne following hesitantly at his side.
The blue glow stole her gaze without her permission, drawing her into its beauty until she lost track of her present, until Koscha's quiet voice gently brought her back.
It's alright Jeyne. Don't be afraid. She heard in her head, unspoken between them.
"I'm really sorry that I haven't been able to tell you the truth about who I am, Jeyne. It just hasn't been the right time for it, my Lady." As he broke the silence for real this time, his eyes seemed honest to Jeyne, as if he was being sincere for once. She wanted to trust him.
"But why? Why have you told me now? Why even get involved with Winterfell in the first place? Who are you? What are you?" She had half a million questions and they all came flying out of her mouth unbidden at once, quick enough that she had a difficult time understanding even her own words.
"I'm just a humble old soul trying to look out for the things I enjoy. I'm trying to win a war. A war that hasn't even truly began yet. But it will, trust me, it will—and I intend for my side to be the side that wins." He smiled without showing his teeth, his eyes closed tight. Confident.
But we've just finished a war, thought Jeyne in dismay. Can't we have peace for a time?
Instead she said, "How can you try to win a war that hasn't even started yet? And please, just tell me what you are. Really. The truth, so I know what I'm dealing with. I won't sell my soul to a demon."
Koscha spoke more quickly this time, perhaps with the slightest hint of irritation in his voice. "I'm not the Stranger, I promise you. Ha! I already told you, I'm just an old human soul trying to influence the future, that's all I'll ever be. You see, there are prophecies that tell much to those of us who know how to read them—and they speak of dreadful things coming upon us yet again. They sing of appointed heroes and dreadful villains, and unexpected life and unanticipated death—ice-crowned Other-creatures and girls with red eyes and even desperate white-haired wildlings. You know how elaborate these epic prophecies are…like a spider's web all tangled together.
But the future, I promise, is fluid—nothing is truly etched in stone, and even the boldest, most skilled sorcerer can misread a prophecy. I can change the future. You can change the future. It's not difficult, you just have to know where the lines are that connect one event to the next, and know how to sever them. Similar to cutting the bindings in a book. Of course, you know, the consequences can be rather difficult to predict, but fates can be changed. And yours is the first on my agenda. All it takes is a little push to start an avalanche."
It was all just too much. "But why?" she murmured, knowing she wasn't going to get an answer. At least not a straight one.
Koscha held his hands, palms down over the blue glow bubbling like cold magma below him. After a few moments like this, he reached out to clasp both of Jeyne's hands in his own—they were as cold as the black sky on the darkest winter's night.
"Because I want to win the war," he replied, his black eyes resounding with cold blue fire.
Jeyne shuddered as she felt his power course through her arm like a furry spider crawling maliciously up her sleeve.