Visenya's eyes shoot open. Her breathing is heavy and erratic with her heart beating rapidly against her chest. A cool sweat coats her forehead and brows with a slight tremble in her body, like a leaf shaking in the wind. Amber eyes dart from left to right, attempting to take in her surroundings. Everything is hazy and out of focus, like a thick fog hangs in the room, translucent enough to not be immediately noticeable, but still there. She's in a bed, larger than the small lumpy ones in the inns she and Jaskier inhabit and certainly plusher than the hard floor she swears she fell asleep on last night.
Heavy furs cover her body, keeping out any potential chill, the hairs on her body stand up straight due to the cold air. Directly across from her is a small table pushed up against the wall with a small mirror resting on top of it. The window to her right is shut firmly, and adorned with loosely hanging curtains made from a thick navy blue fabric. On the left side of the room, a long wardrobe crafted from dark wood, and beside it a dresser crafted from similar materials. Visenya pushes the heavy furs and sits up. Her back pops at the movement, her neck and shoulders stiff from a restless sleep. In the back of her mind something feels off, but for the life of her, Visenya can't put her finger on it. A part of her that's buried deep in her hazy thoughts is screaming at the top of its lungs, but she doesn't know why.
Winterfell, she's in Winterfell. But she's always been here, so why does it seem so wrong?
She slips out of the bed, her left and then right foot touching the cold floor, it's dark stone color matching with the rest of the room's decor. The cold air bites at her bare legs, the light nightgown doing nothing against the cold. Only silence fills the room, not even the sound of her feet lightly tapping against the stone floor is heard. For some reason, this unnerves Visenya, but once again she doesn't know why. She approaches the vanity table, sitting in a wooden chair in front of it. the legs of the chair scrape against the ground, the sound echoing in Visenya's mind. It's the first noise she's heard since she awoke. She sits in the chair, the wooden backing not soothing the stiffness she feels.
Looking into the small mirror, she stares at her reflection. Tangled silver hair delicately frames her pale skin that nearly glows in the dark room. Purple eyes glimmer in the reflection, staring at Visenya with a hint of mirth she's familiar with but also seems almost like a distant dream. For some reason it seems wrong, the reflection staring back at her, but Visenya can't place why. Targaryens are known to have silver hair and purple eyes, so why do her own features feel foreign? Another shiver overcomes her body, the sensation mildly confusing. She outstretches a hand towards the mirror -.
Knock. Knock.
The sound echoes around the room. Visenya turns her gaze to the heavy wooden door and her arm retracts. She stares at the source of the booming noise, not sure how to react. A moment passes and another knock, this time with a voice attached.
"My lady, I'm here to make sure you're awake," a voice calls out, the soft voice barely registering in Visenya's mind. She blankly stares at the door, before remembering how to speak.
"Come in," she replies, attempting to project her voice. A moment passes before it opens and a woman hardly younger than Visenya enters the room. Her hair is mousy brown, pulled into a tight bun without a strand out of place, a plain dress that's as dark and dreary as the room limply hangs from her small body, the fabric drowning her. She nervously bows in Visenya's direction before scurrying to the wardrobe. She flings open the doors and begins rifling through the dresses hanging inside. Visenya watches the woman, not sure what to make of the scene. She's seen her before, that much she is sure of, so why doesn't she know her name?
She pulls out a pale blue, with delicate embroidery near the bottom, a garment much more intricate than the one she is wearing herself, and yet she turns to Visenya with a satisfied expression on her otherwise somber face. The woman turns to Visenya, a satisfied expression on her otherwise somber face. The dress is familiar and evokes an emotional response, her eyes dampening, a sharp pain in her heart. And she's confused, more so than before.
"This dress Lady Sansa made for you will look lovely." the woman remarks. She begins rifling through the drawers, pulling out various pieces of fabric. Visenya turns her gaze back to her mirror, staring at her reflection with a blank expression.
Flashes of Visenya in that dress, hair braided back as she stands in line with Theon and Jon, uncomfortably waiting for the King and Queen, along with their company to arrive. But that can't be right, Robert Baratheon hasn't been to Winterfell since she was eight years old.
The woman begins humming a soft tune under her breath. The sound amplifies in Visenya's mind until the melody is all she can hear and it clouds her thoughts and further muffles the distant screaming in her head. It intoxicates her like a strong northern ale, pulling her further and further away from sober thoughts and into a dream-like state. Soon the humming turns into outright singing, the hauntingly sweet words dancing around Visenya's mind and while the woman's voice is lovely and soft, something about it's grating, like scraping a knife against a plate.
Visenya continues to stare at her reflection, her expression unchanging and eyes unmoving as they stare into the mirror. All the while, the woman continues singing the eerily beautiful song while rifling through the drawers filled with clothes. Everything is unchanging in the room, feeling as though time itself is still until Visenya notices a few slight changes. The metal framing around the mirror begins to rust, the once bright metal turning dark. The mirror portion starts to discolor and is blotched with dark spots and the entirety of the mirror covered in a hazy fog, obscuring Visenya from her own reflection. The vanity table shows signs of aging as well, no longing feeling as sturdy as it was a moment ago with random parts of it looking rotted. But the most obvious change is the air. The crisp morning air that's normal in the North turns stale, the cold in the air burning deep in Visenya's bones rather than leaving her skin cold. But the woman continues singing, weaving her hands through Visenya hair like it's threads of silver, either not noticing the sudden change or unbothered by it.
"You seem warm, My Lady. Shall I get a maester to check on your health?" the woman says, pausing her singing.
"N-no I'm fine, just a bad dream is all," Visenya says, staring at her reflection in the old mirror.
"Did you dream of fire and dragons?" she asks. Visenya's heart stops as all the thoughts in her mind cease. She whips around to face the woman, the hair she previously held pulling Visenya's scalp.
"Wha - what did you just say?" Visenya asks, her eyes piercing into the woman. She doesn't look startled by Visenya's sudden change in mood, in fact, her face is completely emotionless. Rather than a real, breathing, living person, she looks like a life-sized doll, eyes dull and dead, with nothing behind them.
"There's no need to be afraid, my lady. The Lord of Light smiles down upon his chosen champions. From fire and ash you were reborn, to bring a world thrust into darkness into the light." she says, speaking as if she were a dead person brought to life - monotone with no inflection - weaving her hands into the locks of Visenya hair, meticulously braiding each strand.
"What are you talking about? I demand you tell me." Visenya says, her voice getting louder with each word spoken as her temper begins to flare. She stands from the chair, pushing the woman's hands away from her face.
"Remember the words, remember what was said. With Fire and Blood." the woman speaks, this time her tone has a sense of urgency in it, but for the life of her, Visenya can't think why. But before she can question her further, the ground beneath Visenya is ripped away, and she feels herself free-falling in darkness, unable to make heads or tails of her surroundings. All she knows is it's cold and dark. She tries to scream but nothing comes out, leaving her mouth open with silent screams. Her hair whips around her face and she watches the silver locks darkening until the shining silver is a dull brown.
Then she hits the ground. It's sudden, unexpected, and very painful. But feeling solid ground around her is somewhat comforting.
And when her eyes flutter open, apprehensive and scared of what she might see, she breathes out a sigh of relief. Tall trees, emerald leaves, a fire that's been smothered, and a sleeping figure. She's in the camp again, if she ever even left. She places a hand over her chest as she sits up, the other one reaching to wipe away the dampness on her face. Birds softly chirp high on the branches, singing in tune with the gentle breeze that rustles the forest. The sun is rising, the faint rays of morning light hitting the trees, the leaves fanning the light out below them, and with a final heavy breath, Visenya pushes her body up to stand.
Stumbling through the small camp, past the sleeping bard, she breaks into the thick of the forest. Her hand rests on one of her silver daggers, eyes keenly looking around the thick greenery for any movement. She crouches low to the ground in an attempt to obscure herself from future prey and stalks forward. To her left, she notices the tall grass shifting, and with the grace of a cat pouncing onto its prey, she pulls out her dagger and flings it. The dagger flies through the air but instead of striking her target, it embeds itself into the tree nearby. A moment later, a fat rabbit with beady black eyes rushes out of the grass and disappears into the forest. A frustrated groan leaves Visenya's mouth and she trudges towards her dagger and pulls it out of the wood with just enough force.
Absentmindedly wandering through the forest, her thoughts return to the dream. It's odd, she's had dreams before but never so...life like. She'd felt every emotion, smell every scent, and feel every surface as she would've in reality. The phantom feeling of ash clinging to her skin is still there and she catches herself shaking her head, attempting to get the ash out before remembering it's not actually there. Perhaps it's merely her mind playing games, a trick the mind was playing on itself to coax out her best-kept and well hidden fears, even the ones that had been buried so deep that she'd forgotten about them. However, the chill in her body as she remembers the madness buried in the eyes of her reflection makes it difficult to convince herself.
And that second...dream, if it was even that. The woman's words echo in her head, on repeat over and over, growing louder each time she hears them again.
Fire and Blood.
She knows the words well, the words of House Targaryen. The only comfort she had during her darkest nights. An assurance that even if she was physically by herself, isolated from her only chance of ever knowing her family, she was never truly alone. And some nights she'd even convince herself Queen Visenya I was with her, watching over her, guiding her every step of the way. That she was there, when Visenya first started training to fight, guiding her swings with the wooden sword, coaxing her into a proper battle stance. And even though they were foolish tales and fantasies dreamed up by a small child too sad for her age, they were comforting as she maneuvered through this new strange world.
With a huff, she sinks down to the ground, leaning her back against the tree. A hysterical laugh escapes her mouth, the sound dancing away in the mellow breeze rushing through the forest.
"I'm going insane," she mutters to herself, and she rests her forehead against the palms of her hands. Her thoughts wander as she absentmindedly scapes her hairline with the tips of her fingers. Her nails are unkempt and longer than preferred, strands of hair getting stuck in the corners of her nails.
"There you are!" Jaskier's voice breaks Visenya from her thoughts. Her head snaps up in his direction, watching as his form swiftly approaches her spot. He's wearing the same ensemble from the night before and his floppy brown hair is as well managed as it can be on the road. Her face twists into a look of confusion, her eyes following his nonchalant movements. However, Jaskier doesn't acknowledge her and instead opts to sit on her left, only part of his body resting against the tree.
"Now I was going to leave you to do your…well whatever it is you were doing," Jaskier continues waving his hand vaguely in Visenya direction. "But, then it sounded like you were having a real crisis. So I thought to myself 'Oh better make sure she's okay.' You are my source of protection after all." Jaskier muses, a lopsided grin resting on his face. The teasing tone in his voice is a stark contrast to the worry swirling in his eyes. A small grin creeps its way up onto Visenya's mouth, a warm feeling filling her chest. The harsh lines that were forming on her forehead immediately softened, the anxiety and hint of fear barely hidden behind her eyes swiftly disappearing.
"I'm fine," she replies. Jaskier raises his eyebrows at her response, clearly not buying the lie. "Well, I'm not fine, but I will be," she corrects herself before Jaskier has a chance to verbalize his doubts. Seemingly satisfied, he nods once at her words but makes no move to stand. Instead, he wiggles towards Visenya until their legs are touching and leans his head closer towards hers so it's resting against the tree. Always one for personal space, Visenya normally would've either physically or verbally lashed at him - demanding the bard keep his distance. However, the scathing remarks never come. Instead, Visenya moves over slightly to allow Jaskier more room, watching the leaves delicately blow in the wind, the faint sound of birds singing echoing in the distance.
"If you ever need to talk to someone..." Jaskier's voice interrupts the quiet atmosphere surrounding them. Visenya turns to face him, raising a single brow with her lips tilted upwards.
"You'll be the first person who knows. Considering you're the only person I talk to." Visenya replies. At her reply the serious expression that Jaskier wore immediately dissipated. His eyes sparkling with mischief and his lips were pulling into an amused smirk.
"And what about our mighty Witcher! How would our dastardly hero feel about not being included in this list?" Jaskier exclaims, dramatically emphasizes his words. Visenya simply rolls her eyes at him.
Everything with him always comes back to Geralt.
Jaskier then leans forward, eyebrows raised so high they nearly touch his hairline. When he quickly moistens his lips with his tongue, Jaskier more closely resembles a cat that got into the canary rather than a man.
"Could it possibly be because you and Geralt don't do much…" his eyes flit to the left and right before landing on Visenya again. "Talking?" he asks. Visenya brings a hand up and smacks Jaskier on his left shoulder. He immediately moves away from her, rubbing the spot she'd struck. "That's not very nice!" he exclaims, moving until there is sufficient space in between them.
"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," Visenya replies. She stands from her sitting position and holds a hand out for Jaskier to take. Always one for theatrics, Jaskier moves backward and throws one of his hands across his forehead. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, an exaggerated gasp escaping his mouth.
"Time and time again, my fair maiden has abused and used me. When will this insanity end, giving me sweet release from her beguiling aura? I pray to the gods every night that it will change" Jaskier exclaims. After he finishes his words, he waits a moment and then opens one of his eyes only to quickly close it and sigh again, louder than the first time and far more dramatic.
"Ha ha ha, very funny. Now let's go before the sun is gone, we've got places to go." Visenya says, her expression hiding any amusement she got from his antics. A defeated sigh leaves Jaskier's mouth, and a moment later he places his hand in Visenya's as she pulls his body from the ground.
"As my lady commands," he says. And with a single bump against his shoulder from Visenya, the two of them begin walking back to camp.
o0o0o0o0o
"When are you going to finally admit that you enjoy those novels more than you let on?" Jaskier asks, pulling out one of his quills, scratching it against a piece of parchment. Two tankards full of ale rest in front of them, neither of them drunk from. The ale here is watery and weak, yet still managing to taste worse than rotting fungus.
Flick, the thin parchment page of the book nearly rips from how quickly it's flipped. Visenya glances at him out of the corner of her eyes, raising a single brow at him before returning her gaze to the trashy romance novel. It's sickeningly sweet, the dialogue almost as unrealistic as the premise of the book itself, but it's something to read when she needs to stave off boredom.
"Do you want me to hit you? Because I will hit you."
Flick, another page. The heroine of the story finally meets up with the main love interest, practically throwing herself into his arms, that the author took time to describe every detail of. Visenya's face crunches up into a grimace, quickly turning the page.
"I'd rather you didn't, if you don't mind. I think I'm still bruised from where you hit me when we first met." He runs his hand over the spot on his abdomen she elbowed him all those months ago, after the whole situation with elves resolved itself. And she can't help the small self satisfied smirk that slowly creeps onto her face.
Flick.
The soft sun rays of dawn creep through the windows, the thick layer of dirt and grime that covers them dispersing the light. The rays shoot through the tavern, randomly choosing the next victim to blind with their radiance. The room is loud with town folk who gather around the old creaky tables, with drinks in hand, muttering quietly amongst themselves. Tension is thick in the air, everyone seemingly on edge, and it has nothing to do with the newcomers. This tension is different, almost like the whole village is slowly sinking into their fears with only the tops of their heads above the water.
"Why can't you be nice to me, Jane? I really thought after our conversation around the fire three nights ago we were growing closer?" Jaskier asks, feigning offense in his tone, placing his hand over his heart with eyes wide and innocent looking.
Visenya snorts.
"Maybe you should try-"
The front door swings open, silencing any noise in the room. A figure rushes through them, it's an older man, chubbier than most with a short beard and balding hair. His clothes are nicer than most other people in the room, besides the putrid smelling goo that clings to it, seemingly a mixture of blood and black ooze. His whole body is trembling like a leaf in a storm, clutching a fabric hat in his hands as he rushes towards the center of the tavern.
"Eustace, what is this?" the barkeep calls out, scrunching his nose as he passes.
"I-I saw it!" he exclaims as he drops his hat on a table, the room gasping at his proclamation. Visenya glances at him for a second before looking back to her book, scanning the words with mild interest. It seems the author is still going on and on about the hero's rippling muscles.
Like a swarm of rats skittering towards their next meal, the entirety of the room gravitates towards him and by association, Visenya and Jaskier, since he stands closest to their table. Jaskier flips his journal to a blank page, eagerly waiting for his next grand tale.
"I tell you no lie, it swallowed the whole village it did. Not a bone to be found," he starts, making sure his uneven and shaky voice carries throughout the entire room.
"Oh don't give me that look, shitling. That's why we had to call him…" he pauses, allowing the words to ring in the air before continuing, "The White Wolf." Everyone around them dramatically gasps, completely enraptured by the story. Visenya eyes flick up from the book in her hand, leveling a hard stare at Jaskier, her gaze enough to turn him into stone if he dares to look in her direction. Noticeably, he does everything to not look at her.
The White Wolf, of course Geralt is here. No wonder Jaskier was so eager to settle in this tavern for the day.
"And he stood in the middle of that frozen lake like he knew it was coming for him. The ice cracked open and a selkimore shot out! Oh you've never seen one, but it'd take down a ship with its cavernous mouth full of devil's teeth!" the man exclaims, waving his arms around like a mad man. "And it… swallowed… that Witcher...whole!" he finishes.
Visenya's head shoots up like a bolt of lightning, narrowing her eyes at the man.
'No, there's no way Geralt's dead, he wouldn't just...let himself get eaten like that.'
The words do little to comfort the small bit of anxiety inside her. Witchers hunt monsters and monsters are deadly, tearing apart people and destroying their homes as easily as Visenya breathes air. But Geralt isn't normal, this is what he's trained to do. She dares to glance at Jaskier out of the corner of her eyes, seeing him nonchalantly scribbling away and that does more to quell her worries than any half assed words she could concoct.
"Oh, this is brilliant!" Jaskier says, quickly diffusing the tight and tense atmosphere that surrounds the inn. In perfect synch, the patrons snap their attention towards Jaskier, staring at him in disbelief, as an amused smirk plays on Visenya's face. Feeling a million glares piercing his skin like knives, Jaskier looks up from his writings, eyes wide and his mouth open. "Oh sorry. It's just Geralt is usually so stingy with the details."
"For good reason," Visenya mutters under her breath.
Flick. Now the hero is dueling his rival so he can marry the heroine.
"Uh- and then what happened?" Jaskier asks.
"He died."
"Eh...he's fine." Jaskier replies, his voice nonchalant and relaxed.
"Look, I was there. I know what I saw with my own-" heat builds in his voice, face as red as a ripe tomato, aggressively shoving a pudgy finger towards Jaskier. Visenya slowly rises from the chair, hand ghosting over the pommel of the dagger strapped to her leg, eyes in slits as they level a glare on the man.
Before he gets the chance to escalate the situation and force Visenya to end it entirely, the door slams open, metal handle clashing against the wooden walls.
In walks a hulking figure that is drenched head to toe in the same grotesque smelling foreign goo the pudgy man is coated in. Everyone's attention turns towards the door, frantically covering their noses as the stench is stronger and fouler than what the rounder man emanates. With his sword in hand, Geralt walks towards Jaskier and Visenya, eyes set on the man before them and the people part, granting him a wide berth.
"See," Jaskier says, nonchalantly writing in his book.
"What's that stench?" the man asks Geralt as he approaches the table.
"Selkimore guts. Had to get it from the inside. I'll take what I'm owed." Geralt says, his voice rougher than it usually is. Jaskier immediately jumps up, quill still in hand and begins singing that gods awful song.
"Toss a coin to your Witcher oh valley of plenty oh oh oh." The man tosses a coin pouch as the entire tavern begins singing along, hesitantly at first, but as the song continues, people grow more enthusiastic. Geralt side steps the crowd and moves straight for the bar, bag of gold in hand. Jaskier rushes after him, rambling on about one thing or another. A sigh of exasperation and mild relief leaves Visenya's mouth as she thumbs through the book again, despite having completely lost interest in it by this point.
'It keeps my muse fresh and exciting!' Jaskier always says about his large collection of frilly books, but to Visenya they're just dead weight only useful to pass the time. But it doesn't even do that.
"Food, woman, and wine, Geralt!" Visenya hears Jaskier exclaim. She looks up to find Geralt a few steps away from their table, still covered in guts with no drink in hand.
Wordlessly, Visenya grabs her waterskin that's filled with Cintran ale and tosses it to Geralt. She then returns her attention back to the romance novel.
"The drinks here are shit," she said.