Silence. Somewhere between dreams and reality, Visenya stirs awake. There's no crackling fire, birds singing, or steady breathing; it's dead silent and the air is stale. The room seems colder than last night. It's not the type of cold that can be staved away with a roaring fire while bundling into a pile of blankets, but the kind that follows a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. And reaching one of her hands out confirms it, the other side of the bed is ice cold, almost as if no one ever occupied it. For a moment she convinces herself last night was a fever dream, a hallucination born from the flesh eating wound she sustained from the wraith, But the ache in her bones and the small love bites wrapping around her body contradict that brief thought.

She slowly opens her eyes, the crust of sleep that coats her lashes causing them to stick together uncomfortably. Drowsily, Visenya sits up, running her hand over her face, rubbing away any traces of last night. The hairs on her body stand straight up upon feeling the cold air, her breast band the only barrier between air and skin. A deep sigh leaves her mouth as she mentally attempts to piece together her surroundings, everything past foolishing running into the night in a haze, fact and fiction blurring together until it is so intertwined she'd have to spend decades untangling them.

Looking around the small room there's no trace of Geralt ever having been here, despite this originally being his room. Not a thing is out of place, besides her discarded armor that lies on the floor from when she haphazardly wrestled it off. While unsurprised, a wave of sadness hits her, a small sliver of her had been hopeful he would stay, even if only for a few minutes. But that feeling quickly gets shoved away, if there's anything she learned from what happened to Robb when he married Talisa and what she's seen time and time again, is that love is the death of duty. So like all her other feelings, she tucks it into a small locked box to be forgotten.

"My loveliest and fairest Jane, please consider this your wake up call!" Jaskier exclaims from the other side of the door, knocking obnoxiously as he does. An annoyed groan escapes her mouth, the beginnings of a headache forming. Visenya blindly reaches behind her, grabbing onto the first pillow she touches. With more force than necessary, she throws it, sending the pillow soaring through the air, until it hits the door with a soft thud before falling to the ground.

"Shut up Jaskier," Visenya yells in a hoarse voice, stretching her arms in front of her as she yawns. The door clicks as it opens and once again as it shuts. There's a soft patter as Jaskier steps into the room, his footsteps so light he's almost gliding. Despite being untrained - as far as she knows - Jaskier manages to be lighter on his feet than Visenya could ever dream, something he makes sure to always remind her of.

"Oh good, you're awake and wearing clothes...sort of," Jaskier says, seemingly unbothered by her less than friendly greeting. He's wearing another one of his overly frivolous outfits - this one a combination of purple and a soft blue - that clearly defines him as a bard. No one else would dare to wear something so ostentatious in a backwater town. He pulls up his sleeves and grabs the chest piece of her armor.

"Now up up up! We have a day of traveling and adventure to start." Jaskier says, tossing her discarded tunic towards the bed. It hits her in the face as she angrily groans at him, vision still disoriented from sleep. "Quit your groans and moans of protest my dear. Maybe if you didn't stay up all night with our riveting hero you wouldn't be so tired."

"Do you ever shut up or is that a myth?" Visenya asks, slowly standing from the bed. Her back cracks as she stretches. Her hips are sore from Geralt's death grip from the night before, a glaring reminder of what transpired between them and just as she thought, discolored bruises in the shape of fingers mar her skin. Jaskier exaggerates an offended gasp, opening and closing his mouth three times like a fish before responding to Visenya.

"You need to eat some food, missy!" he says, wagging a finger in her direction. He attempts to use a stern tone, but the merry glint in his blue eyes gives away his playful intentions. She throws her tunic over her torso, not bothering with the ties.

"Have you always had those injuries or are they new? Nevermind, I won't ask because I don't want to lose my head." Jaskier answers his own question, moving towards the door to leave the room, his tone too bright and his footsteps too peppy for her liking. "Get ready to leave and I shall return with a feast for you my lady," and with that, Jaskier shuts the door behind him. The force of it causes the wall to shake for a moment but quickly stops, taking all noise with him and leaving Visenya in silence.

With the door shut and the bard gone, Visenya quietly sighs. She lifts up the shirt inspecting the bandages. To no one's surprise, Geralt expertly wrapped the bandages so they wouldn't unravel while sleeping and...other activities. They're slightly discolored but not oozing pus and blood. Carefully in an attempt to not disturb the wound, she unravels the bandages, exposing the semi-fresh cuts to the cool air. Two human-like claw marks drag across different parts of her abdomen. They're raw and painful to the touch but appear to be healing fine. They'd need to be cleaned before redressing them, but that's something to focus on after eating.

She expertly laces her shirt up and begins attempting to sort out her hair. It's a tangled mess that resembles a mangy wild animal, something that would've caused Sansa to faint from shock if she ever saw. The strips of leather she used to tie it back yesterday are tangled with her knotty hair, making it difficult and painful to pull them apart. A grunt that's a mixture with pain and frustration is released through her nose, similar to a bull getting read to charge. When Visenya is nearly ready to give up, the door clicks twice, once as it opens and again as it closes.

"Here we go. Some meat, eggs, and potatoes. Oh, and a fresh cup of ale." Jaskier practically sings, setting the food on a small table in the corner. Upon seeing Visenya attempting to sort out her hair, he rolls his eyes. "Oh, quit that, you'll tear out all your hair. Let me." Jaskier glides across the room, swatting away her hands as he pushes her into a chair. With expert hands and minimal pain, he begins weaving the ties out of her hair and brushing out the knots with his fingers.

"I'm not a child," Visenya mutters, her face flushed with embarrassment at not being able to manage her own hair.

"Oh no, of course not! You're a big, mean, angry lady with a large sword," Jaskier teases, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "But you're a big, mean, angry lady with a large sword who'd be bald without me."

"I'd defend myself, but considering the state of my hair when we met I don't think I can in good conscience," she replies. A small smile forms on her face, the tingling sensation rippling through her body as he plays with her hair. It brings a sense of peace and serenity that's been void from her life for so long; taking her back to being four, sitting between her mother's legs as she braided Visenya's hair, telling her fantastical tales. But also because, despite her best efforts, at some point between their first meeting and today, Jaskier wormed his way into her heart, like a parasite that you grow fond of. He chuckles quietly, a bemused expression on his face.

"What? What's so funny?" Visenya asks, unable to put any of her usual bite in her words. She attempts to turn her head to face Jaskier, but he simply swats her head with one of his hands before forcing her head forward with an iron tight grip his soft and uncalloused hands shouldn't have.

"You're much cheerier this morning. Maybe you should spend more time with Geralt...if you know what I mean," Jaskier says, suggestively wagging his eyebrows at Visenya, mirth filling his eyes. Visenya snorts at his answer, unable to stop her eyes from rolling.

"We didn't have sex," Her voice is even and deadpan, not wanting to inflect too much emotion, lest he use that as ammo against her.

"Sex, trading battle stories, or braiding each other's hair while gossiping about boys - it doesn't matter to me! I think this is the longest conversation we've had without you threatening me." Jaskier continues. By this point, he's managed to unravel all of her unruly hair and began the task of braiding it.

"I'd pay good gold to see Geralt let someone braid his hair while gossiping about boys," Visenya says, playing with the ends of the ties on her tunic. Jaskier replies with a snort, twisting another section of her hair into a braid.

"He seems pretty relaxed with you, maybe try that out the next time we come across our dashing Witcher. He might just let you, free of charge."

"If, Jaskier, if we see Geralt again." Visenya says, already knowing the direction he's steering the conversation.

"Oh please, you may be good in a fight, but you really are naive in social settings aren't you, Jane?" Jaskier teases. And before she can turn around and hit him so hard he'll be feeling it for days, he pulls the braid he's weaving incredibly tight, the force pulling her head back. "Oops, my finger slipped."

"Whatever," she mutters, a scowl on her features, both from annoyance and the pounding pain in her head.

"Now don't get all grumpy with me, missy. If there's one thing I can say without a doubt, is that both you and Geralt are incredibly complicated people, who seem to be very comfortable around each other. It's only natural things might progress further," Jaskier continues, taking care to be extra gentle with her hair, lightly running the tips of his nails through her scalp, soothing the headache he created.

"And what do you possibly know about me?"

"I know that something terrible has happened to you, something that left you angry and bruised, figuratively and literally. But I also know you care more than you let on, that much is obvious with how you handled Filavandrel."

Visenya snorts, rolling her eyes in the process, staring up at the ceiling before gazing directly in front of her, seeing but not really at the same time.

"Geralt did most of the heavy lifting," she mutters.

"Oh sure, of course our mighty Witcher did with his reverse psychology, Kill me, I am ready," he lowers his voice significantly, attempting to mimic Geralt's own growly one. "-but the Jane you want everyone to see wouldn't have empathised with the elves. The Jane you want everyone to see would've at least threatened to beat a few of them before we had to drag you out."

Silence falls over them, the only sound in the room Jaskier's soft humming as he finishes braiding her hair. Her mind is in overdrive, unsure of how to handle Jaskier's observations that are too accurate for her comfort. And when he steps back, waving his hands in the general direction of her hair as he exclaims that his master piece is finished, she reaches her hand up to feel the style. He braided multiple strands of hair into small braids that come together into one large braid that falls down her back. Practical and stylish, Sansa would've approved.

"There we are. Now eat up and prepare your best scowl!" Jaskier says, taking a step away from Visenya and motioning towards the food with a ta-da hand gesture. She moves towards the table, the frown on her face slowly fading away as her vision grows clearer.

"Might want to stock up on more hair dye, by the way. Your natural hair color is showing," Jaskier nonchalantly says, perching like a bird on the edge of the bed. Visenya stops in her tracks, hands immediately touching her head while she looks at Jaskier, panic clearly painted on her face.

"What are you -" She begins to say, but Jaskier cuts her off.

"You didn't think a refined man such as myself wouldn't notice that your hair isn't naturally that way, thank the gods," Jaskier says. Visenya levels a glare towards him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling inside her. In response, Jaskier simply throws his hands up. "I'm just saying, your hair texture isn't the best."

"Whatever," she says, sitting down at the table to begin eating.

The duo is silent while Visenya eats until Jaskier breaks it when the light reflects something that causes it to glint in the corner of his eye. He stands up from the end of the bed and goes over to a side table.

"Well well well. Looks like our favorite Witcher left behind a token of his love," Jaskier says, his tone similar to a smug child saying I told you so. Visenya turns to look at Jaskier, a sharp insult on the tip of her tongue. She racks her mind trying to figure out what he could be talking about. But of all the things that run through her mind, what she sees isn't what she expected.

Renfri's broach.

o0o0o0o0o

"Have you ever been in love Jane?" Jaskier asks, breaking the silence that envelops the duo. It's their second night of travel, and with the nearest inn being two days away from their current location, they've taken to camping off to the side of the main road. Visenya had found a small clearing in the heavily wooded terrain, the thick foliage surrounding the camp heavily obscuring them from anyone passing by. The radius of the camp was tiny, only large enough for the two of them to comfortably fit their belongings and light a fire.

Visenya sits on her bedroll, leisurely reclining against the tree behind her while mindlessly chewing on the rabbit meat she'd hunted earlier. Her leather armor lies discarded beside her, leaving her in a light undershirt and a pair of trousers, the cool air feeling refreshing against her warm body. Jaskier is huddled near the fire he started when they first set camp, getting as close as possible without being burnt. Visenya's eyes lazily move towards Jaskier, whose gaze is already firmly locked on her. A muffled sigh escapes her mouth as she looks directly at a tree on the other side of camp. For a moment she considers lying or telling him to fuck off.

But unconsciously her thoughts wander back to Winterfell. To all the quiet nights she would sit with Jon in the Godswood. The towering trees surrounding them would block them off from the outside world, allowing them to just...be, creating a world with just the two of them. Even if only for a few stolen moments, they were just Jon and Visenya, not a bastard and an exiled princess. Neither of them would dare to speak, afraid that if they did the bubble would burst and this delusion they've created would come crashing down. In the sanctity of the Godswood, the reality that they'd never have more than unspoken words and an eventual goodbye was avoided. Sitting under vivid red leaves that fell around them and swirled in the biting cold, everything seemed simple. Even though they both knew it wasn't and never would be.

She'd smile at him so warmly that sometimes Jon fully believed it could melt all the snow in the North with a glance and he'd wield a small grin that made Visenya's heart race. There'd be a crinkle at the corner of his eyes that reminded her of a mischievous boy that snuck into the kitchen to steal pastries with her. And the grim mask Jon often wore whenever in Winterfell would slip away while the ghosts that followed Visenya would melt like snow in summer until she couldn't remember their names. Their hands would lie on the ground, just a hair away from each other. When either of them were feeling brave, their fingers would delicately brush against the others. Her purple eyes would trace the curves of his face while he would do the same, albeit subtler than her.

Her mind retraces all the times they stood in sunlit rooms, filled to the brim with people who chatted between one another, never fully looking at Visenya and Jon, like they were illusions created from the reflection of the sun. They'd steal glances at each other when no one would see, their smiles speaking a secret language only they knew. Her eyes would meet his and she'd see colors that she's never seen with anyone else. The world always felt boring and grey without Jon, being with him showed her colors she never knew existed. And sometimes Robb would be in the room, noticing their glances, but he'd say nothing, feigning ignorance if it was ever brought up. Because he knew their fate as well as they did.

"Yeah, I guess," she responds after a few moments of silence. Her lips curve upwards unknowingly as she gets lost in her melancholy. Jaskier carefully watches her, a solemn expression on his face. He memorizes the look on her face, the tilt of her lips and the stars in her eyes.

"What happened?" he asks, curiosity clawing at his mind. In the year they'd been traveling together he was so sure he's seen all sides of her, and yet it seems not.

Her lips pull downwards into a frown, and like the brightest star in the sky burning out, her eyes dim until they're dull and lifeless. It's not the same cold indifference he's always seen in them or the teasing glint that sneaks past her cold exterior against her better judgment. It's sadder, like her life has been nothing but a tragedy disguised as a fairytale. And maybe it has been.

She remembers trying to fight for it - declaring that she didn't care about his status. Her father - as foolish as he was - abandoned his duties for love; Robert Baratheon started a war for a woman! Why should Visenya accept their fate lying down? She'd beg him to just run away with her, but he never agreed, just like Visenya knew he wouldn't. But there were some days, in the quietest moments of the night, when the moon was at its highest and the stars were all but gone, where she swore he nearly cracked, almost let her have her way. But he didn't, his fear that he'd never be able to give Visenya what he felt she deserved holding him back. But she'd fight anyways, stubbornly gripping onto him so tightly only for it to slip between her fingers anyways, like water falling through the cracks. Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't change their ending that was written in the stars long before she even met him. Chasing him was like chasing shadows in a blackened room. And she knew- gods she knew how it had to end, but that knowledge didn't lessen the sting he left behind. Jon was the only thing she'd ever wanted since she could remember wanting anything.

Her gaze moves over to Jaskier, whose eyes are still firmly locked on her. She tightens her lips into a thin line, but there's a slight quiver in the corners of her mouth. For the first time, Jaskier wonders how old she truly is. Her golden eyes in an eternal glare, with ivory skin turned steel, she holds none of the childlike nativity she should have. But with the warm glow of the fire reflecting off her face, she doesn't look like a hardened warrior. She's just a child playing pretend, wearing her mother's shoes while trying to wield her father's sword that's too heavy to lift properly. She's just a kid, only a few years into adulthood.

"Nothing," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. Jaskier's ears strain to hear the whisper over the wildlife ambient noises. She shifts her eyes away from him as she focuses on the flickering fire.

She remembers watching Jon ride away on his horse with his Uncle Benjen. Hidden away from prying eyes in the ramparts she watched him leave her behind. The memory is so vivid she can nearly taste the salty tears that fell from her eyes. A hollow feeling in her chest as he did. How desperately she wanted to lash out and scream, to run to the stables and take a horse to chase him down - demand that he give her a proper goodbye. She didn't want to just let him go, allow him to leave her with all the grace of the princess she should've been. Because despite what people may whisper behind closed doors or cupped palms that cover their mouths, she loved him, she really did. And a part of her was determined to fight for it, convinced that maybe it would be enough to make him stay. But she did nothing, her pride rearing its ugly head, unwilling to let herself make a fool of herself for the sake of a man that was always just out of reach.

"He went his way and I went mine."

"Do you miss him, still love him?" Jaskier asks.

The question brings her pause. Does she miss Jon? Without a doubt, yes. But does she still love him, if she ever did to begin with? She's not too sure. He still lingers in the back of her mind, but grows fainter and fainter with each passing day and new adventure. Yet, some nights when she's haunted by the what-ifs, the memories hanging around like smoke in a burning room, she's convinced she did love him, if only for a moment in time. But who could really know, especially now that they're worlds away.

"I- I don't know," she says, her voice hoarse and croaky, like she just screamed for ten minutes straight. Jaskier opens his mouth, unable to stop the questions from spilling out of his mouth, but Visenya cuts him off. The tremble of her lips grows harder to conceal each passing moment, Westeros beginning to drown her with all the tragedy that haunts it. Her previously dull and boring eyes begin to glisten, but not with stars or warmth, but with tears. The perfectly curated facade of disinterest she wears like a mask begins to crack; pride being the only thing keeping her together.

"We should go to sleep, early day of traveling tomorrow and all," she says, the emotionless tone of her voice back, and as if it never broke, Visenya places the mask back on. Without awaiting a reply from Jaskier she shimmies between the bedroll and lies down. She closes her eyes, willing sleep to come sooner rather than later. She hears Jaskier quietly sigh before he begins rustling around, settling himself in his bedroll to get some sleep as well.

Despite herself, she thinks of home one last time.

How conflicted she was, angry at the world and angry at herself for how happy she was with the Starks.

Until Robert Baratheon came and whisked them into the game of thrones.

o0o0o0o0o

The woman moves into what appears to have once been a magnificent throne room. However, it's now been turned into ruins, a dull comparison to the shining gem it used to be. The vaulted ceilings lie in a pile of rubble littering the ground, exposing the sky that's thick with ash. It falls from the sky, covering the floor in a similar fashion to the thick snow that coated the North. Pieces of it delicately land in the woman's shining silver hair, creating a sort of crown on her head. A diadem of fire and calamity, naming her Queen of the Ashes. Her purple eyes focus solely on the throne ahead of her which was still relatively untouched by the fire that destroyed the rest of the city, leaving it a prize for the madness she succumbed to. But it wasn't madness - not to her.

In a trance, she moves towards it. The soft patter of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoes in the room. Her heartbeat aligns with her breathing, growing quicker and unsteady the closer she gets to the throne.

Her throne.

The only thing she ever wanted.

Halfway across the throne room, something reflecting out of the corner of her eye captures her attention. Her movements halt, turning her body to face the source of the distraction. It's the remnants of a stained glass mosaic lying smashed on the ground. Slivers of the glass cover the floor, surrounding a piece of the artwork that still stood intact, tall and proud and almost defiant. It's jagged and uneven, the original art it depicted indiscernible. She moves towards it, eyes locked on her own reflection that becomes clearer the closer she gets. The crunch of glass beneath her boots causes an unpleasant sound, but her eyes refuse to leave her image to try and avoid any glass.

Within a moment she stands before the glass. Her reflection is distorted and discolored due to its design, but her face is clear as day. Soft purple eyes stare back at her, hiding the storm brewing inside them. The soft curves of her face are replaced with harsh lines and the mischievous smirk that always pulled on her lips is instead in a tight line, but the most distressing thing is her eyes. They go from a soft purple to a fiery amber - similar to the flames that consumed the city around her. They're bitter and cruel, unlike the warmth they held in years past.

With a harsh gasp, she physically recoils from the reflection and immediately turns away from the glass. With her mindset on the throne once more, she moves towards it again, her pace faster than it had been previously. For some reason, the change she'd seen unsettled her more than she'd care to admit. Finally, she crosses to the other side of the room, standing mere inches away from the throne, and with an air of reverence, she walks up the steps leading to the dais that it rests on. Carefully, she reaches a pale hand out to touch it, desperate to know this is real and not a delusion the darkest parts of her mind created. Only a centimeter from grasping the left arm of the throne, a large shadow flies ahead. The woman looks up, watching the dangerously beautiful creature proudly flying above the ruins. Its large form blocks out any sunlight that manages to peek through the ash. Its vivid golden scales are a stark contrast to the shades of grey the city had been swallowed in. A terrifying screech escapes its mouth as it beats its massive bat-like wings, the force of it disrupting the settled ash on the ground.

"Visenya." a distorted voice calls out. The woman's eyes flit around the room, attempting to discern the source of the voice.

"Visenya!" it calls again, sounding more frantic than before.

"Visenya!"

With a harsh gasp of air, hery eyes snap open.