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Chapter Text

Purple eyes dart around the landscape, settling on the rolling fields that the cliff overlooks. The lush emerald blades of grass languidly sway with the wind, unbothered by the brewing war around them. The sky is a beautiful hue of blue with clouds aimlessly dotting it. The sun is placed high in the sky, illuminating everything in its path. Rays of sunlight hit Visenya's eyes, causing her eyes to glimmer like a well-polished amethyst gem. The light dances off her hair, creating a halo of sunlight. Her pale skin practically glows under the light, giving the appearance of something otherworldly.

If Jon was here, he might make a quiet comment about it, unheard and unseen by the prying eyes and ears that always seemed to surround her. His words would come out mumbled and stuttered, the awkwardness he carried when it came to conversations of romance making itself well known. Instead of berating him like Robb and Theon, their jabs lowering his already abysmal self-confidence, Visenya would simply smile at him. The twinkle in her soft eyes telling Jon she already knew what he was trying to say.

But he isn't here.

No, Jon is miles away serving at the Night's Watch while Visenya is in the Riverlands fighting a losing war. With Ned Stark executed for false charges of treason, the fragile string Visenya's sanity rested on is quickly snapping. The rug got pulled out beneath her, shattering the reality she'd built around herself. Bran and Rickon were believed to be dead, killed by Theon no less. Sansa and Arya were captive in Kings Landing and Robb was making stupid decisions at every corner.

The camp is stifling. The uneasiness the remaining soldiers are feeling crawls under Visenya's skin and fills her with a sense of dread. Morale swiftly dropped after the execution of Lord Karstark, and discouraged soldiers tend to not fight as fiercely for their king. So instead of allowing her brain to envision a million scenarios in which they lose and die horrible deaths, she left. Not far enough to miss anything of import, but with enough distance to just breathe. Something Visenya hasn't been allowed in a long time.

So she stands on a cliff that overlooks green fields that go on for miles. The soft chirping of birds and rustling of long grass and trees allows her to forget the brewing storm. Despite being far warmer than the North, Visenya feels a sense of peace she hadn't felt since before the King arrived. And if she closed her eyes for a moment as the breeze caresses her skin, she could almost convince herself she was home.

Home.

The word comes with a wave of emotions, mainly grief. Sometimes, if she tries hard enough, Visenya would manage to convince herself that the events of the past months weren't real. That Ned Stark never died, nor Rickon and Bran. Arya and Sansa were still home, bickering as usual, and Robb and Visenya weren't children masquerading as soldiers during a war. Subconsciously, her hand touches her cloak, gripping the navy blue fabric tightly in her hands. The fabric is soft to the touch, unlike the scratchy fabric of most traveling cloaks and vastly inappropriate during wartime, but Visenya couldn't bear to part with it. A smart decision since Winterfell is now rubble in the dirt. It had been a gift for her five and ten name day from Sansa. She'd spent months on the cloak, meticulously embroidering a dire wolf on one side of the shoulder and a dragon on the other, both in vivid shades of red. Delicate flowers and vines weaving around the two animals, adding a feminine touch to it. Visenya's eyes prick with wetness - the tell-tale sign of incoming tears - but she manages to suppress them.

'No, you are a dragon. Dragons do not cry.'

The mantra repeats itself in her mind, the words a constant reminder that she needs to be made of stone.

"Visenya," she hears a familiar voice call from behind. Slowly turning to face the person, she notices Robb briskly walking towards her.

'Remember what you are,' she repeats in her head as Robb approaches.

"I'd almost thought you'd run off," he says upon closing the distance between them. He's wearing his traveling clothes, opting to take a break from his heavy armor. A boyish smile rests on his face. The crow's feet around his eyes that age him decades older than a boy of nine and ten disappear. His Tully blue eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief, reminiscent of the boy she'd know in Winterfell. His lips tug upwards and Visenya can nearly hear the reckless laughter that usually follows it. But this isn't Winterfell, and they aren't children anymore, still green and untainted by loss.

"And miss the wedding?" Visenya replies, her voice devoid of the playfulness that used to weave itself into her words. Her eyes pierce through Robb, the softness replaced with an austere glare. Since the North rebelled and began fighting a war, Visenya slowly felt herself slipping away. The carefree girl she was in Winterfell being replaced with a colder demeanor, becoming more and more like her namesake Queen Visenya Targaryen I.

The smile on Robb's face quickly disappears once he registers the tone of her voice, a winter chill lacing each syllable. His eyes narrow slightly at Visenya. His hand that hangs on his side tightens in annoyance, an attempt to keep himself from doing or saying anything too rash.

"You don't agree..." Robb begins, but is swiftly cut off by Visenya.

"That's an understatement," she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses her hands over her chest. Robb clenches his jaw as his lips are pulled into a tight line. "We should just cut our losses for now and march back to what's left of Winterfell," Visenya says, throwing a subtle jab at Robb for the state of their home. It's unfair, and deep down Visenya knows this. Neither of them could have foreseen Theon's betrayal, but that didn't stop the poison from coating her words.

"We can't afford that. With Walder Frey's men we can take Casterly Rock," Robb says, feeling his fuse shortening with each moment passing.

"What makes you think he'll give us the men?" Visenya asks, gaze firmly fixed on Robb with her lips downturned into a scowl.

"He accepted my proposal. My uncle will marry his daughter and we will have his men. He gave us his word." Robb said, allowing his annoyance to show through in his tone.

"Like when you gave your word you'd marry his daughter," Visenya bites back, her tone as cold and unwavering as stone. Robb visibly recalls, but quickly gains his bearings.

"If there's something else you want to say, you might as well get on with it! Tell me what you really think, Vis," Robb bites back, growing tired of Visenya's petulance. The usage of her nickname stings, pulling her back into a time before everything spiraled out of control. The times when she'd run around Winterfell without a worry, feeling safe and protected behind those tall walls.

She should've apologized and stopped the argument before it escalated. But pride got in the way as her temper continued to flare. All the feelings of anxiety and despair bubbling out at once as she lashed out at Robb once again.

"Fine. I think you're being naïve to think Walder Frey would keep his word. He's a skeevy rat as it is, but you caused great offense when you turned around and married Talisa instead. We're losing the war Robb! Half of our army is gone and our allies are dwindling. We should cut our losses for the moment and return to Winterfell. We can rest and slowly build up an army to march on Kings Landing or wherever you want to go at a later time," Visenya said, keeping her voice calm and collected.

"This is the only option we have, Visenya. With the Kingslayer gone, my only bargaining chip with Tywin Lannister is gone. If I don't act first, it'll be too late," Robb says. A tinge of guilt needles its way into Visenya at the mention of Jaime Lannister. But Robb would pass the pain in her eyes as anger. He doesn't know the true reason behind it, because if he did, he wouldn't pardon her as easily as he did his mother.

The confliction and guilt she’s felt since releasing Jaime Lannister is all consuming. It nearly swallowed her whole when Lady Catelyn took the blame and suffered the consequences of her actions.

"Not if we go back to the North. Winter is coming, Tywin Lannister would be a fool to march an army north during the winter."

"You underestimate Tywin Lannister."

No, Visenya could never, not after what he did to her family.

"And you overestimate Walder Fray's honor." Visenya responds as quickly as a whip.

"We need to attack..." Robb begins to say, but is once again cut off.

"We need to be smart. Your father is dead, don't let Sansa and Arya follow because you're being impulsive," she reasons, however the mention of Lord Stark hit a nerve and Visenya regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

Robb tenses and straightens his posture. His lips pull into a tight, thin line, nearly disappearing from his face. His blue eyes glower at Visenya with a frosty expression. He opens his mouth, and the words are quiet and unlike the loud tone he used before. But they cut deeper than any wound she'd received before.

"Leave, now. Stay at camp if you will or go to the wedding, I care not. Just Because your family is dead, doesn't mean mine will as well," Robb says, staring through Visenya instead of at her. She opens her mouth to mutter a weak apology, but thinks better of it. Instead Visenya does as he requested and leaves, making sure to give Robb a wide berth as she passes. Bitter regret lingers on her tongue, but she does nothing but continue looking forward, unable to find the words to convey her true worries and fears hidden behind her harsh words.

The chaos broke out all at once.

One moment, Walder Frey was giving a speech, welcoming Robb as his honored guest, the next moment Talisa was on the ground, blood pouring from her stomach. Before Visenya could reach for her sword, soldiers with cross bolts that were perched on the balcony began rapidly firing. The bolts pelted the northerners at the same time the soldiers on the ground level killed anyone the bolts missed. It was a flurry of movement as they stabbed, beat, and choked anyone they got within range of. A few northerners attempt to fight, but most are so drunk that even if the slaughter hadn't taken them by surprise they never stood a chance. Two bolts stuck into Lady Catelyn, the woman falling to the ground immediately. Dozens of arrows pelted Robb, moving through the leathers like butter before he finally fell to the ground.

Screams ring in the room, the sound echoing in Visenya's head like a bad dream she can't escape. She finds her feet firmly planted on the ground, petrified in her current state. The rest of the room treats her like a ghost, moving through her to get a hold of Stark bannermen. Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword, her thumb tracing the dragon design on it. Visenya's eyes - wild and terrified - survey the slaughter, a silent scream stuck in her throat. Unsteady breaths puff out of her mouth like she forgot how to breathe properly. With each passing second, her mind slowly locks away inside itself, unwilling to face reality.

It can't be real, a voice whispers in her ears. None of this was supposed to happen. Robb was supposed to win and they would go home.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Robb, still on the ground, but attempting to stand. His hands clutch onto the bolts still pierced into his skin. His mouth moved, but no words came out, or perhaps Visenya simply couldn't hear him over her own heartbeat. Blue meets purple as he locks his gaze onto hers.

"Visenya!" Robb weakly shouts. Her eyes stare through him as the corners of her mouth begin to tremble. Suddenly, she's rushing forward, moving to reach Robb. The action causes her to become visible to the room again. A Frey soldier meets her charge and attempts to stab her with a dagger. In a trance, she brings a hand up and slaps the dagger from his hand, taking out her own dagger and stabbing him in the abdomen; a clean kill. With the soldier dead, she continues running towards him, avoiding the trail of bodies - both alive and dead - that block the path. In a single fluid movement, she dives to her knees, grabbing onto Robb's shaking hands.

"Get Greywind and get out!" he exclaims, his voice barely above a whisper. When they were kids of only eight and Visenya read too many fairytales and thought too highly of Robb, she'd often compare his eyes to stormy clouds. So vivid and piercing, eight-year-old Visenya was convinced they could be a weapon. Those same eyes she thought the world of glaze over, his breathing erratic and faint as he slowly fades from consciousness

Salty tears soak her face, her porcelain skin that glows in the snow is now red and blotchy. She grips onto Robb with an iron tight grip, shaking her head in defiance. The blood from his wounds soaks his clothes and covers Visenya.

"I'm not leaving you!" She vehemently protests, her voice much louder than Robb's strained rasp. The tears pouring from her eyes become more aggressive, washing away some of Robb's blood that stains Visenya's hands. "I told you this was a bad idea! Why didn't you listen to me, you idiot!" Visenya yells at him, her voice cracking every other syllable.

"Go," Robb said, attempting to weakly pull away. Visenya, no longer able to speak anymore, simply vigorously shakes her head in disagreement. Robb manages to release his hands from her grip, pathetically pushing her away. "Go," he says, his voice stronger than before. "Go and save my sisters."

She pathetically falls to the ground from the shove. Her eyes stare at Robb's still form, unblinking. Thoughts race through her head, too fast to process. The noise around her dims until all she can hear is a ringing in her head. With the grace of a newborn pup, she stands from the ground. She spins around, looking anyway to escape the carnage in the room.

Another soldier rushes towards her, weapon at the ready. A piercing scream leaves her mouth as she grabs his blade with her bare hands, the sharpness cutting her hands, but she doesn't notice. With a strength she doesn't normally possess, she jerks the blade to the left, throwing the man off his balance and to the ground. In a haze of bloodlust and rage, she climbs on top of the man, viciously stabbing him until he no longer moves. Shortly after she climbs off the dead body, now wielding her dagger and the dead soldier's shortsword, another soldier rushes her. Visenya just steps to the side. She picks up a fork from the ground and throws it behind her. The prongs of the fork pierce into the man's eyes as he screams out in pain.

Purple eyes dart around the chaotic room once again. The main door is locked, keeping anyone from entering or leaving the hall. The number of Stark soldiers rapidly diminishes with each breath Visenya takes. For each Frey soldier she takes down, they kill 4 northern soldiers. Another soldier, smarter than the others, attempts to shoot at her from a distance. The bolt pierces her right shoulder, momentarily bringing her out of her daze. Without a moment of hesitation, she grabs a dagger from a nearby dead soldier and flings it at the soldier with the crossbow. It sticks in his left thigh, the man crumpling immediately.

"Fuck!" she shouts out, the stress of the situation finally dawning on her. However, by divine intervention or otherwise, she notices something out of the corner of her eye. A figure rushing through an opening of sorts. Due to the mayhem in the room, no one else seems to notice. Visenya isn't sure if the opening will lead outside or further into the keep, but it's her only option. With the speed and ferocity of a direwolf, she sprints towards her only chance of safety. She no longer focuses on killing the soldiers in her way but instead just dodging them. Each second is precious if she's to survive this wedding, and it can't be wasted killing an enemy soldier.

Vengeance later, safety now.

Stepping through the opening she notices it leads to the ramparts of the keep. Visenya bull rushes her way through it, sword and dagger clutched in their respective hands. The cool air that hits her face brings hope. However the sounds of more screams filling her ears, reminding her that this nightmare is far from over. Fire dances in her eyes as the Frey men burn the tents in their camp. The loud cheers of the soldiers pierce through the screams echoing in the camp. Visenya, from her spot in the ramparts, watches the figures dancing around the fires, momentarily pausing to beat down the odd soldier who'd survived. Her reverie is broken when the distant sound of a woman's mangled scream from inside the hall reaches her.

Lady Catelyn.

This manages to pull Visenya from her mind, pushing her to act. Moving down the steps of the ramparts, she makes a mad dash to get away. The only way out is through the burning camp. Bracing herself for the potential fights, the grip on her dagger tightens. A soldier notices her and she flings the dagger. He manages to dodge away from it in time, but Visenya simply slashes at him with her sword when he closes in. On her way past him, she picks up her dagger, not stopping at all. The surroundings pass in a blur, nearly away from the keep. She keeps running, blood pumping and heart racing. She can't stop, even as she sees more innocent people burning and crying for help.

Then she hears it. The chanting of men.

"The King in the North!" a crowd of men shout. Visenya stops mid-stride, turning around to see. For a single, stupid moment, she has a sliver of hope. Perhaps Robb managed to escape and his men are rallying to him. She doesn't hear the mocking tone the shouting men use, because if she did, she would've known better.

The sight before her is something far worse. A group of Frey men were gathered around a rider that sits atop a horse. However, its head has been replaced with a direwolf; Greywind's head to be specific.

Robb.

The jeering men parade his dead body around, laughing loudly as they do so. The tears that had momentarily dried on her face return in full force; Visenya's legs fail her as she falls to the ground. She stares at the scene before her unblinking. Her mind screams at her to run, to get up and leave. But she feels paralyzed. She knew Robb was dead the moment his body fell to the ground, there was no chance he would make it out. But she wasn't prepared to see it; not like this. To watch his corpse, head cut off and replaced with Greywind's, be paraded around the destroyed camp like a prized pony.

A bloodcurdling scream escapes her mouth as an unfamiliar warmth begins to fill her body. This draws the attention of a few nearby soldiers. Yet even as they approach, malicious grins on their faces and weapons ready to rip into her, she can't force herself to look away. She can't bring herself to even lift her blade and try to fight. Hopelessness settles in her, her survival instincts dying with everyone else.

'There's nothing left to fight for.' she thinks.

"Well if it isn't the Dragon Princess. Thought you could get away did ya?" one of them teases, most of his teeth rotted off. The ones that manage to cling to his gums are coal black.

Visenya crawls backward. Anger flares, washing away the cold indifference that briefly painted her blue. She flings her dagger at him, but he easily knocks it away with his own dagger. The heat inside her steadily rises as a sense of dread sets in.

"You like the fire?" another man jeers. A bolt whizzes past him, piercing Visenya in the leg. She cries out in pain, clutching the wound as she continues to back away - much slower this time.

The fire continues to blaze inside of her, the temperature so scorching she can barely stand it.

"I bet ya she does. Call her Lightbringer, they do." a third replies. He rushes forward, grasping her injured leg in his dirty hands. She attempts to kick him, but with the adrenaline fading so does her strength. A sob escapes her mouth as the man pulls him towards her.

"Where's your light now, Princess." the first once mockingly asks. Another bolt whizzes towards them, landing in Visenya's chest. The light around her slowly fades away, a dull pain pulsing in her as the men around her begin to gut her with their blades.

The fire inside her becomes unbearable. She lets out another ear-piercing scream as the intense heat escapes. She's conscious long enough to watch as fire erupts from her, throwing everyone in the vicinity to the ground from the force of the blast as the fire charred their corpses.

The last thing she sees before falling into darkness is the fire illuminating her surroundings and Robb's dead body.

Birds cawing in the distance echoes in Visenya's mind, pulling her from her unconscious state. A heavy gust of wind blows through the wood causing nearby greenery to smack on Visenya's prone body. Water trickling in the distance mingles with the sound of the leaves being pushed by the wind.

Visenya lifts her head from the ground and with hazy eyes takes in her surroundings, nothing in the vicinity familiar. It's dark and cold and seemed like the complete opposite of the trees surrounding the Twins. These trees are spindly and reach towards the sky like a bony finger, unlike the thick lush trees that surround the Twins, giving life to a dingy keep. These leaves are a dull green, appearing to have the life sucked out of them. Most of the ground is mud, coating her body in the slick substance. Speckles of moss break up the monotony of the mud. The smell in the air is pungent, a blend of decaying vegetation and stagnant water on a warm day.

She slowly pulls her body up, cracks resonating as she does. Fragments of the past day begin to piece together in Visenya's mind. The argument with Robb, the wedding, and then...the slaughter. And just as soon as she stands up, Visenya's legs grow weak as she falls on her knees. On instinct she throws her hands up attempting to lessen the fall. The mud squishes between the palms of her hands. One tear falls and then another and then another, and soon she's in full on hysterics. A wail escapes her lungs, the sight of Robb, dead on his horse burning itself into her brain. With her head hung a strangled cry escapes her lungs, sounding more like a dying cat than a human. The tears continue to pour down her face and she watches as they drip onto the floor.

'No, it can't - this can't be real. They can't be dead,' she thinks, a hopelessness bubbling inside her that is quickly replaced with rage.

Pure unbridled rage.

Like a child throwing a tantrum, she pounds her fist into the ground, mud splashing on her face with each hit.

'It's not fair, it's not fair. It's not fair,' she repeats in her mind, timing each word with a punch.

With one last punch, Visenya pushes her body up. Her legs are shaky with each step she takes similar to a foil walking for the first time. One step and then two, three, and then four before she finally collapses with a shout. She unstraps her sheathe and throws it at a nearby tree. Her sword clangs against the branch but otherwise makes no other noise. The hilt of the blade glints in the dim lighting, practically mocking Visenya.

'I should've fought harder. I should've dragged Robb out kicking and screaming,' she thinks, angrily swiping at the tears on her face. 'That stupid idiot!'

With one last bout of anger, she swipes her fist out and hits the tree near here. The throbbing of her hand matches with her heartbeat, the pain numbing the turmoil in her mind.

"I'm sorry Robb, I'm sorry my last conversation with you was so cruel. And I'm sorry I failed you Lady Catelyn," she whispers, her words being carried away by a gust of wind. Her lip wobbles. Her failure will seal Sansa and Arya's fate. They'll be dead or in so much suffering, they'll wish for it. All because she wasn't strong enough.

She screams once more, the sound strangled and croaky.

With a sigh, she picks at the fabric clinging to her legs. Inspecting the spot one of the bolts pierced, the wound seems completely healed. Dried blood surrounds the area, but not a scratch lingers on her flesh. Her brows furrow in confusion. The wound had been deep. It shouldn't have healed so quickly. With a million questions on her mind, curiosity takes over any further brooding.

She crawls over to a puddle of murky water, intending to clean off the blood. Visenya pauses as she stares at her reflection. The figure is the same person. Silver hair - tangled and matted with blood and mud - and pale skin that currently looks sullen. However, her eyes are unfamiliar. Her once bright purple eyes that always gleamed with mischief were dull and...amber? She reaches a hand out towards the puddle, touching where it was reflecting her eyes. Removing her hand from the water, she simply watches the water ripple for a moment, enraptured by the sight.

'I need to find a nearby town, maybe get some answers.' she thinks to herself.

On impulse, Visenya reaches both hands into the murky water, grabbing some of the mud that was on the bottom. Without a moment of hesitation, she begins coating her silver hair in the mud as a means of disguising the color. The Twins or not, silver hair would be a dead giveaway that she's a Targaryen. She's a wanted woman after joining a rebellion against the crown.

She unclasps her cloak, holding it in front of her. She contemplates leaving it behind, not wanting anything that could identify her as Visenya Targaryen, but she doesn't have the heart. Not only was it a gift, but a gift from Sansa. And despite the hope pushed beneath her rage and grief, somehow she knows she's farther from Sansa than just a few territories. And she desperately needs something close to home, more now than ever. So instead, she simply flips the cloak to the other side. Before her emotions can get the better of her, she stands to her feet and grabs her sword, set on finding civilization.

She wanders through the forest for an unknown amount of time before hearing something other than birds. It sounds like people talking. Visenya picks up speed, eager to be around other people. She breaks through the forest and sees a road. After just a few moments of following the path, she finds herself at the entrance of a small town. People mill around, doing their daily tasks and working. As she enters the town, people stop and stare, clearly not accustomed to travelers. She forces herself to be unconcerned, placing on the cold facade she often puts on in Winterfell. Whenever visiting Lords would come to Winterfell, they often didn't make their strong opinions of her - more so her house - a secret. She's used to hiding behind a wall made of ice.

Visenya enters a rowdy tavern, narrowly avoiding the drunk patrons that nearly run into her. She deftly avoids the barmaid that is carrying more drinks than she can handle. The stench of state piss and vomit assaults her senses and her nose scrunches up in distaste. Taverns are all the same no matter where you are. She swiftly approaches the bar, gaining the attention of the older man that appears to be the owner and most of the patrons at the bar.

"Excuse me," Visenya says. "Where am I?" she asks. The man sets down his glass, taking a moment to size her up.

"Blaviken." he gruffly says, eyeing her suspiciously. Visenya's eyes move to the barmaid who is currently fighting off some drunken patrons who were getting too handsy.

Blaviken. She'd never heard of this place before. This whole day has been bizarre so far, and Visenya doesn't know if she can keep up.

"Get your hands off!" the barmaid shouts, smacking one of them with a serving tray. She lets out a huff of annoyance as she walks away from them. The lecherous men obnoxiously laugh as she leaves, enjoying her reaction.

"Looking to hire another server?" Visenya asks, returning her gaze to the man. He looks her over once more, contemplating the offer.

"You any good?" he asks.

"I'm a fast learner," she quickly replies and leans against the counter. "Tell you what, I'll work for free for room and board."

"Deal." the man instantly replies, holding his dirty hand out for her to shake. She takes his hand in hers. "What's your name girl?" he asks. Visenya's mind blanks for a moment, not sure if she should tell him her real name.

"Jane."

Chapter Text

Slowly, Visenya’s eyes open, her vision hazy and muddled as she’s stuck in between distant dreams and the waking world. One, two, three blinks and her eyes fully open. The room is much brighter than the darkness in sleep, her heavy eyes begging to succumb to sleep once more, if only for five more minutes. Sunlight floods in through the window, cleansing away the darkness and the nightmares that come with it. The bed beneath her is lumpy and uncomfortable, leaving much to be desired in terms of comfort. The distant shouts of patrons in the tavern below are only slightly muffled. Due to the thin walls it sounds as if someone is screaming from behind Visenya’s door rather than from the floor below. A low grunt escapes Visenya’s mouth, her head pounding like a drum. Pain faintly shoots through her jaw as she slowly unclenches it. A loud pop echoes in the small room as her arms stretch towards the ceiling. Lying in bed for a moment longer, Visenya stares at the ceiling with a blank mind. 

A month. 

It’s been exactly a month since showing up here. And despite that, she’s never grown used to it. A piece of Visenya still believes that this is all an elaborate dream. Perhaps she’ll wake up and be back in camp, fighting a losing war. Or maybe she’ll be in Winterfell, tucked away in her bed as she huddles under her furs to keep away the cold. All the Starks will be alive and well, and Visenya can laugh with them over breakfast as she chases away the bizarre and dark nightmare. 

But the other half of her knows that idea to be false, nothing but a fantasy that’s just out of her grasp. This is real, and so are the actions that led to her showing up in Blaviken. She can still see it too, in the depths of her mind. The last image of Robb burned in her head as his body was paraded around the burning camp, his head cut off and replaced with Greywind’s. The unspoken apologies bubbling out of Visenya’s mouth, all the words she never got to say to him and never will. 

No, this is all real. And the sooner Visenya accepts that, the sooner she can move on with her life. 

She just hasn’t learned how to. 

The crash from down below and a slew of muffled curses brings her out of her thoughts. Metaphorically and physically, Visenya shakes her head in an attempt to clear away the lingering melancholy. With a heavy sigh and the popping sound of bones cracking, Visenya pulls herself out of the bed, throwing aside the thin, itchy blanket. The cool wooden flooring below her feet is a stark contrast to her warm temperature, but a welcomed difference. With the grace of a person who drank too much, she stagers over to the small dresser shoved in the corner of her room. In the process, she tosses off her old nightgown to the ground. 

Trading the nightgown for a simple blue dress, Visenya haphazardly tosses it on, unbothered by the winkles. It’s one of the few dresses she owns. She managed to sew it - after many pricked fingers and a storm of curse words. She received the fabric from the local tailor. One of the men was harassing the tailor and Visenya offered to get him off her hands in exchange for some fabric. Needless to say, the man - who turned out to be usual at the tavern - had a beautiful black eye for a solid week. It’s a win-win for Visenya; she gets free fabric and the men think twice about harassing her. 

If they’re smart, that is.

She still owns all the things she brought with her from Westeros. Her clothes and sword were cleaned, various holes patched until they appeared brand new and her sword shined so methodically it looks better than it had the day she got it. Her clothes lie in a chest, carefully folded and tucked under her small bed. The sword is in its sheath and rests beside the chest waiting to be used once more. Visenya had been unable to get rid of the items but could bear to look at them. So they’re neatly tucked away, collecting dust as Visenya pretends they don’t exist.

Some nights, when riddled with melancholy and sorrow she’ll pull out the chest and unsheathe her blade. The fine dress, embroidered with small flowers and details of silk alongside the deep blue cloak embroidered with a fierce dragon and proud direwolf gets drenched in salty tears. Sobs tear through the silence of the room, echoing in Visenya’s mind until it’s the only thing she can focus on, blocking out the sounds of screams from that night. She’d trace her sword, feeling the dragon on the hilt beneath her fingertips. It was both a source of pain and strength for her. It reminds her of what she lost in Westeros but it also reminded her of who she is - what she is. A dragon and a dragon is unbothered by the sheep. 

With a halfhearted ruffle of her tangled hair, the previously silver locks are now dyed a mud brown. In fear of sounding vain, she hates the color. The golden - silver locks were always her pride and joy. It was soft as silk and shined like fine jewels, reflecting beautifully in the sun as it glittered like gold. The light bouncing off the alabaster snow made her glow. Sansa used to adore braiding her hair, styling it in southern braids. Now it was dry, tangled, and dull; never styled in the intricate braids she used to wear.  

But the dye is a necessary evil. Despite not being in Westeros - or anywhere near it - silver hair isn’t a natural color for women her age. And the people in Blaviken don’t take kindly to anything different. So, in an attempt to not garner any attention to herself, silver became brown. And with each application of the dye, Visenya feels a piece of her old self being chipped away, whittling away until there isn’t much left.

Another crash. 

She turns around, another sigh escaping her mouth. She moves towards the door, swinging it open as she moves down the hall. It is bare and empty, with no patrons stumbling out of their room blindly. Her room is the closest to the stairs, often hindering Visenya from getting a restful sleep if the tavern below is in full swing. The floorboard creaks beneath the weight of her, the sounds lining up with each inhale and exhale she takes. 

Every day is a challenge to keep her head down and mouth shut. The patrons are rowdy and crude, many of them before even having a drop of ale in their systems. Insults would hang at the tip of her tongue, thrashing at the patrons like an angry serpent, ready to land a deadly strike. Her palms covered in crescent-shaped scars from clenching her fists for so long. And sometimes she’d let go and allow her temper to flare and get the best of her. But the risk is never worth the reward, and Aldred has proven to not be a kind boss. 

So with a deep breath, Visenya steps down the last set of stairs and sets off towards the bar. The scent of stale alcohol and farm animals mingling with the aroma of food hits Visenya’s senses, causing her nose to wrinkle in disgust. 

“There you are! Took you long enough to get down here.” Aldred, the innkeeper loudly exclaims upon seeing Visenya. She mutters a quiet sorry as he shoves a tray of drinks in her hands. “Quit your apologizing girl. Just take these drinks to that table.” He motions over to a rowdy group of men, all donning dyed red leathers. A group of bandits - or mercenaries, Visenya doesn’t care to find out. They came in last night with a woman named Renfri, and haven’t shut up since. She manages to balance the tray in her hands and takes them over to the table, dropping it on their table with a thud. 

“Enjoy.” she sarcastically mutters, already moving away before any of them have a chance to speak. A scowl automatically places itself on her face as she begins another day of work. 

“Do you ever smile Jane?” Isadora, another one of the serving girls says as she passes by to bring another table their drinks. She’s kind enough but the biggest gossip in this backwater town. You can count on anything you say to her being passed around the small town within the next hour.    

“Only when bathing in the blood of my enemies,” she mutters to herself, quiet enough that no one should hear. The small chuckle that leaves a woman Visenya was passing, Renfri, told her she was unsuccessful. Visenya pauses to give the woman a quick glance before moving back to the bar, where Aldred already had another round of ale ready for a different table. She picks up the serving tray, careful to not spill the drinks on top. 

“You always so grim?” Renfri asks Visenya as she walks past her to serve a table. This time Visenya doesn’t pause but does answer the woman. 

“Only when my heart beats.” she nonchalantly says in a deadpan tone. She hears Renfri stifling another laugh, but if she said anything else, Visenya didn’t hear. 

“Here ya go boys,” she mutters, once again dropping the drinks carelessly on the table. Some of it splashes out of the cups and onto the table. A few of the men scowl at her as they grab their respective drinks. 

“You always do have the most lovely smile Jane.” one of the men pipes up. Jerald, he’s here far too often and spends too much coin. It doesn’t help that he also smells like he’s never been introduced to bathing. Then again, that is most of the people in this town, Visenya has unfortunately discovered. Jerald, feeling brave from the copious ale he’s already consumed, reaches a hand out to grab Visenya’s hips. The anger bubbling under the surface of Visenya snaps, the fire inside her flaring to life. With the speed and ferocity of a roaring fire, she grips his hand that rests on her arm.

Without a moment of hesitation, she bends his wrist back until the back of his hand hits the table surface. He lets out a strangled cry of pain as she holds his hand in an uncomfortable position. The men around them let out various cries of surprise but do nothing else. The previously jovial atmosphere in the tavern dissipates, silence smothering the room as everyone stares at their table. She tightens her grip on his wrist, bending down until her face is a few centimeters away from his. Like a snarling wolf, she bares her teeth at him. 

“Touch me again, and I’ll show you something far nicer,” Visenya said, a threat thinly veiled in her words. His eyes stare at her, closely resembling a spooked deer, fear speckled in his gaze. She holds him there a moment longer before releasing his arm. Without another word she swiftly moves back to the bar. Multiple pairs of eyes continue to follow Visenya as the atmosphere slowly returns, the chatter in the room picking up. And by the time she reaches the bar, the only two pairs of eyes on her, Aldred and Renfri. Aldred’s beady eyes follow her, a scowl resting on his face while Renfri watches her with a critical eye mingled with a look of approval.

“They always like that?” Renfri asks her, casually leaning against the bar counter, nonchalantly tossing pieces of her breakfast in her mouth. She lazily watches Visenya circle around the bar until she stands across from Renfri. Visenya’s gaze moves from the counter to meet Renfri’s. They quietly watch each other, Renfri waiting for an answer, and Visenya contemplating giving an answer.  

“All men are the same when they’ve got ale in them.” Visenya smoothly replies, breaking the silence and ending their stare-off. Grabbing a cup from the counter she pours another cup of ale, sliding it over to Renfri. The woman merely raises an eyebrow at Visenya before tipping the cup up towards her mouth. Visenya watches as she finishes the ale so fast she could’ve given Robert Baratheon a run for his money. She slams the cup down, wiping away any residual ale on her face. Visenya says nothing, opting to begin eating an assortment of meats, cheese, and bread. 

“Renfri.” she simply says, holding a hand out to Visenya. 

“I know,” Visenya says, placing her hand in Renfri’s. “Jane.” 

“I know.” Renfri mimics, giving her a teasing smirk. Visenya returns the gesture. She takes a moment to get a good look at Renfri. Shoulder length brown hair that’s almost as messy and unkempt as Visenya’s; a red blouse - matching the red leathers of her band of men; and a rather large brooch of a sword going through a circle with glittering gems on it.

“Nice broach.” Visenya simply says, removing her hand from Renfri’s grip.

“I think so too, that's why I have it.” she smugly says. Visenya simply snorts with a snarky retort on the tip of her tongue, when they’re interrupted.

“You stupid girl, the fuck you think you’re doing? Get back to work!” Aldred bellows as he moves towards the bar, gathering the attention of any nearby patrons. “I swear you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Jerald and the boys said you attacked him again,” he sneers, resembling a boar preparing to attack. Visenya subtly rolls her eyes, eliciting a snarky smirk from Renfri. Aldred always did have a way with words.

She grabs two plates of food, probably prepared by Isadora. Without glancing in his direction she glides past Aldred, taking them to their respective tables. She drops the plates on the table. Without waiting for the man or woman she served to speak to, Visenya turns back to the bar. Before she can get back to the bar, the tavern door swings open. A large figure donning a cloak enters the tavern with heavy footsteps, his hood concealing most of his face. But Visenya manages to get a decent look at him before he moves from view. Sculpted face, piercing amber eyes, and snow-white hair. He quickly approaches the counter, where Isadora currently is. Visenya’s too far to hear what’s being said, but the pair are quickly interrupted when Aldred swiftly approaches them, his face nearly red with anger. Isadora immediately moves away from the two. At this point, everyone in the tavern has gone dead silent. Visenya moves closer in an attempt to better hear the conversation. One of the men with Renfri had already stood up, venomously shouting something at the stranger. 

“Go; on your own or at the end of a rope. Your choice.” Aldred spits at the man, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s trying to appear intimidating, but the man before him is easily twice his side. Plus, Visenya doubts Aldred could overpower a half-dead chicken. 

“Not a hard choice.” the man replies in a smooth voice. He turns to face the man that had spoken to him earlier. Visenya continues to move closer until she’s nearly behind the counter.

“Fuck that, kill him with your bare hands if ya have to,” Aldred says. After he says this, the rest of the men in red leather stand up, getting into a defensive stance. Visenya silently rolls her eyes at the situation. As far as she’s concerned the man hasn’t done anything wrong, and now they’re threatening to kill him. She carelessly glides behind the counter, trying to distract herself from the current tension. 

“Probably why business isn’t so great,” Visenya mutters to herself, starting to pour another cup of ale, ready for this mess to be done with. She can feel the flames slowly building as her temper does - the same way it did the night she died. If they didn’t stop this nonsense, Visenya imagined she would be the one doing the killing and not on her own volition. Though the only thing she’d be mourning here is free food and board. 

“Come on Witcher, you’re not scared of us are ya?” he asks in a mocking tone. A few of his men begin to step up beside him. The stranger just continues to stare at them. “Show us what ya got.” he goads, obviously looking for a fight. 

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” Renfri interrupts, dramatically turning to face the group, throwing her food back onto her plate.

“Witchers can’t be trusted,” Aldred says through his gritted teeth.

“I’m not speaking to you,” Renfri says, not bothering to look at Aldred. “I apologize for my man’s interference in your day.” Renfri continues, nodding at the stranger whose back was turned to her. “Hopefully he can improve his behavior by tomorrow’s market.” Renfri finishes, her tone implying the words had a deeper meaning. The stranger and the man in red leather continue staring tensely at each other before he speaks up.

“Sorry Renfri.” he simply says, still staring at the stranger before swiftly turning back to his table. 

“Beer for my friend and one for me,” Renfri calls out to Aldred, turning back to the counter to finish her food. Aldred simply huffs and crosses his arms, staring down the stranger - resembling a petulant child. “I am speaking to you now, good sir!” Renfri calls out to Aldred louder, slightly leaning against the counter. The stranger, who now faces the counter, pulls down his hood, revealing tangled white hair that goes below his shoulders. His current position also lets her see his black studded leather armor and a wolf pendant that hangs from his neck. 

Visenya, who’d been at the counter pouring drinks into cups, without looking to Aldred for confirmation, simply slides two drinks their way. One for Renfri and one for the stranger. Aldred glares daggers at Visenya, but she can’t pretend to be bothered. With the tension in the room slowly easing, so is the fire that was bubbling inside of her. Something Visenya is grateful for. Renfri simply gives Visenya a nod and turns to the stranger. He also nods his head in acknowledgment of her but does nothing further. 

She moves to grab a cup of ale that Aldred had loudly slammed on the counter, his intention to get Visenya’s attention. As she grabs the mug he harshly glares at her but says nothing as she moves past him. The volume in the room has returned, but the tension is still there. Everyone seems to be uncomfortable with the presence of the stranger. 

“Jane! Another round if you will!” Renfri calls to her as Visenya was making her way back to the counter. As she passes Aldred who was still standing in the same position as earlier, she gives him a sickly sweet smile. The smile that was only reserved for arrogant Lords that visited Winterfell and Robert Baratheon, when he came to ask Lord Stark to be his Hand. On her way past him, she grabs a pitcher of ale. She moves around the counter, she replaces Renfri’s cup with the pitcher. 

“We both know you’re going to drink it all. Might as well cut the middle man.” Visenya teasingly tells Renfri. Renfri gives Visenya a sly smile, but it doesn’t match the broody expression on her face. She picks up the jug and moves towards the stranger. 

“More and more monsters wherever I go,” she says, her tone sounding defeated, before leaving the tavern. Visenya watches her for a moment before turning her gaze to the stranger, who she now stood before. Even sitting down he was still taller than her. His gaze moved from Renfri to Visenya. His expression is unreadable, not sure what to expect from her. 

“Jane.” she simply says. The stranger raises a dark eyebrow at her. Strange, it doesn’t match his head. “That’s my name.” she finishes. He gives her a gruff ‘Hmm’ before taking another drink of his ale. “This is normally the part where you tell the other person your name.” Visenya quips. 

“Geralt of Rivia,” he answers after finishing his drink. Visenya nods in satisfaction. 

“You made quite a stir coming in here,” Visenya says, already pouring him another drink. 

“It happens,” he replies shortly. 

“It must be the hair.” Visenya sarcastically quips. Geralt quietly chuckles, though he doesn’t understand the double entendre of her joke. 

“Must be,” he replies, his voice gravelly and rough. She opens her mouth to respond with something witty when they’re interrupted.

“How much coin for you kikimora then.” Marilka, the alderman’s daughter, interrupts, leaning against the counter beside Geralt. 

Chapter Text

The threads of dawn slowly dissipate as time passes. Seconds tick by, transitioning into minutes and then hours before nearly the whole day has passed. Now instead of soft morning light flooding through the windows the sky is nearly pitch black, except for the stars faintly twinkling and the omnipresent moon. The wildly flickering candles fill the room with a warm glow, only leaving the corners untouched and in shadows.

The tavern is busier than before, workers fiending for a drink and a warm room to relax in after a long workday. Nearly all the tables are filled with chattering people, guzzling their drinks as if it’ll disappear if they wait a moment longer. Visenya stands at the bar pouring out cups of ale or portions of stew into bowls, her movements nearly robotic. Then she grabs a tray, precariously stacking everything in order to avoid any accidents and begins moving through the tavern. She glides and spins, narrowly managing to avoid any accidents as she dances through the room.

Visenya’s eyes scan each table, memorizing the faces of every person; the shape and color of their eyes, the way their mouths move when they speak, and the presence they hold. Her eyes flit from brown to black to blonde and then back to brown, hoping to catch a glimpse of white hair. But to no avail, no matter how many times she looks, even in the deepest corners, she’s met with the sting of disappointment. It seems nearly everyone in the town is in the tavern tonight. But her mind is focused on finding the one person that doesn’t appear to be here and hasn't been seen since the morning. 

But that doesn’t mean the night will be boring. Perched on a barstool, nursing a cup in the exact same spot as this morning is Renfri. Her shoulder-length hair is just as tousled and messy as before, if not more so. Her leather armor remains pristine while her red undershirt is wrinkled and unkempt, just like earlier. The broach clipped onto her shirt glitters in the candlelight, reflecting like a rainbow in Visenya’s eyes. 

Absent-mindedly, Visenya moves towards her, like a moth enthralled by light, all the grace previously present in her movements gone. She bumps into a few people, muddled shouts of anger and disbelief following her like a shadow, but Visenya isn’t focused on them. And as she draws closer, what seems like a mixture of herbs and leather oil overcomes her senses. With each step, the smell grows stronger as Visenya’s inhibitions weaken. She feels enthralled by the scent, growing more addicted with each second ticking by.

Hearing her approach, Renfri turns her head, her gaze meeting Visenya’s. Her dark brown eyes glimmer like gold, the warm firelight illuminating them in a way the sun never could. They’re wide and bright and oh so welcoming, inviting Visenya to stare at them for days on end. Dirt smudges her face, looking more like war paint than the outcome of traveling too long with too few baths. The vacant expression on her face disappears, replaced with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and a slight smirk resting on her lips. 

And for the first time in a long time, Visenya feels her heart stuttering, threatening to give out the longer Renfri watches her. The tray resting atop her hands begins to shake slightly, so miniscule that one could pass it off as the breeze . But the growing smirk on Renfri’s face tells Visenya the excuse would fall flat. And Visenya can’t help but mirror her expression, her heartbeat starting to pick up before it resembles a bird frantically flapping its wings.         

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me,” Visenya says, moving around the bar. Sometime along the way she drops the tray on the counter, the material clattering against the wooden surface. Her hands trail across the countertop with each step taken, feeling the roughness and mentally counting each grain on it. Along the way, she grabs a tankard filling it with one of the tavern’s smoother ales. Visenya’s eyes move from Renfri’s, scanning the room like she had approximately five minutes ago, but this time for a different reason. Instead of white hair, gold eyes, and a brooding presence, she’s looking for a short and stout man with a balding head and stringy facial hair. Content that Aldred is currently elsewhere, Visenya moves her attention to Renfri. 

“And if I was?” Renfri replies, leaning ever so slightly towards Visenya, just enough that a subtle sweet scent invades Visenya’s nostrils. It’s delicate and delightful, similar to the blue winter roses in Winterfell. A chuckle escapes Visenya’s mouth as she stops, now directly across Renfri. Using her elbows to brace herself, she lowers her upper body to lean on the bar, bringing Visenya and Renfri to eye level. 

“I’d tell you to stop being a coward, and approach me head on,” Visenya says, taking a small sip of her drink, savoring the way the smooth liquid glides down her throat. 

“I’d also say that’s no easy task. You’re easily one of the most intimidating women I’ve met. In fact, I might even go as far as to say you’re the most intimidating of all of them,” Renfri says, taking a large drink from her tankard. A smirk pulls at the corner of Visenya’s lips, drinking in the teasing words that Renfri’s saying. 

“And why is that, might I inquire?” Visenya moves forward a hair, leaving plenty of distance between the two of them to appear proper - somewhat. Proper enough to not draw any attention to the drunken patrons at least. 

“Well, there’s the strong possibility you might break my arm if I say something you don’t like,” Renfri answers. A single ashen eyebrow raises at the answer, Visenya biting her lips to keep from laughing. 

“Let’s say I do break your arm, what then?” 

“Well then I guess I’ve got a broken arm.” Renfri leans closer.

“And still hanging around like my shadow, I hope.” Visenya draws closer as well. 

“I reckon it’d take more than that to get rid of me,” Renfri says. Her lips curl into a teasing smile. Despite how cracked and dry they are, they are still full and pink. Something in the back of Visenya’s mind demands that she press her own mouth against them to learn what they taste like. And she nearly gives in to the impulse, desperate to memorize the feeling of the other woman's lips. But Visenya manages enough restraint to not.

Instead, she picks up her tankard and moves her glass towards Renfri’s, keeping their gazes locked together. She taps it with enough force to have the sound of wood against wood resonate around them, but still light enough to make sure not to spill anything.  

“I’ll drink to that,” Visenya says, her teasing smile evolving into a genuine one. It’s small, barely causing wrinkles to form around her eyes. But it’s more than anyone’s gotten out of her in the past year. And somehow Renfri senses that. Maybe not fully grasping how profound the small moment is, or maybe she does but in a different way as Renfri mirrors the smile. Visenya’s heartbeat continues to beat erratically. And in that moment, she decides Renfri is easily the most beautiful person Visenya ever came across. Despite the heavy bags under her eyes due to a lack of sleep and the dryness clinging to her skin from too much drinking. And she can’t help but to mentally paint a picture of this moment. 

Time draws on, feeling like hours have been lost in their silent stares and unspoken words. Their gazes only break every once in a while by Visenya pouring the two of them another drink or helping another patron. But they always snap back to each other. Until Renfri breaks their comfortable silence. 

“You ever thought about leaving this shit hole?” Renfri asks, pulling away until she can no longer feel Visenya’s breath fanning across her face. 

“And leave behind all these fantastic people? How could I ever?” Visenya says, rolling her eyes. 

“So why not leave?” Renfri asks with an intensity in her eyes Visenya has yet to see. Her eyes are devoid of the mirth that lingered in them only a moment prior, her lips are pulled into a thin line. 

Why not just leave? The question echoes in her mind, repeating itself over and over again. It’s such a simple question, but Visenya finds herself tongue-tied none-the-less. The answer should be easy, something she’d know immediately. But she doesn’t. Because Visenya doesn’t even know why she’s stayed here for so long. She’s been working for room and board, so saving coin isn’t correct. And she clearly hasn’t enjoyed Blaviken or its citizens, so that answer is out the window.  

“I guess I just didn’t know where else to go,” Visenya says, slowly mulling over each word as they left her mouth.  She intertwines her fingers as they fumble together like a tangled string. The sarcastic comments and teasing smirks ripped away leaving her stripped and bare to Renfri’s sharp gaze. With nothing left to hide behind, Visenya is forced to face her emotions, the one thing she’d been avoiding.

Fear.

The fear of leaving this town and discovering she’ll never be able to get home. The fear of wandering from town to town her whole life only to get nowhere. At least here, trapped in this strange place with its strange people she can pretend there is still hope. It’s cowardly and stupid, and if this were someone else, Visenya would scoff in their face. 

“Well, then I’ve got the offer of a lifetime, my dear Jane,” Renfri says, breaking Visenya from her internal uneasiness. The confidence in her voice is a stark contrast to the pathetic one Visenya used. It’s invigorating and completely different from the intensity Renfri previously held. Visenya merely hums in reply, allowing Renfri to continue. 

“Come with my men and I when we leave. I could use the company of another woman, especially one that punches as hard as you.” Renfri boldly offers, referring to earlier in the day when Visenya punched a patron who thought he’d take her home. Evidently he thought wrong. 

It sounds so outrageous and insane. They’d only really met today and already Renfri was offering her a spot on the road with her crew. They’d hardly done anything more than exchange sarcastic quips and prolonged eye contact. So Visenya did the only thing she could do. She laughed, loudly. 

“You’re joking!” she exclaims in between laughs. “You have to be. We just met,” 

“I’m afraid not. My offer is genuine,” Renfri replies, seemingly unphased by Visenya’s reaction. Instead, she drinks in the unbridled laughter leaving Visenya’s mouth, tracing the way her eyes turn into small crescent moons with her golden irises acting as stars lighting up the night sky.  

“And if I turn out to be crazy? What if I strip you of everything you have and leave you with nothing but a wounded ego?” Visenya presses, managing to gather her composure enough to continue a conversation. 

“Well, then I’d hope you’d at least give me a good night before leaving.”  

“You’re mad, you are absolutely mad,” Visenya exclaims, gathering the attention of the other patrons sitting at the bar.

“That may be so, but I’d rather never have to come here again. But I also don’t want you to slip away. So it seems you coming with me is the only viable option,” Renfri says. 

“And if I refuse?” Visenya teases.

“Then I’ll drag you with me kicking and screaming,” Renfri says, in a matter of fact tone. A large smile lights up Visenya’s face, the sight as blinding as staring at the sun for too long.  

“Alright, but if we’re going to do this, I’ve got a few questions for you. Answer them, and me and my fists of fury are all yours,” Visenya says, leaning against the countertop once more. 

“Ask away, if it is in my power to answer I will.” Visenya grabs the nearby pitcher, refilling Renfri’s drink. 

“First question, how much free alcohol do I get?” Visenya quips, slyly smirking at the woman. She then takes a sip from her cup as if to punctuate her question. 

“As much as you want,” Renfri exclaims, getting a stifled laugh from Visenya. 

“Question two, why are you in Blaviken? Besides, of course, to whisk away angry maidens on adventures,” Visenya asks, her voice lacking the light tone it held in her previous question. And the mood reflected that. The easy going atmosphere that surrounded them, blocking out the noise from the other people in the room, shifted into something tenser. Renfri’s smile dropped, forming a grimace. 

“I can’t be here for the market in two days?” Renfri feigns offense but her tone is tight and strained. 

“You could, but I don’t think that’s the only reason,” Visenya says, drinking from her tankard. Her eyes burn into Renfri, attempting to perceive any lies that might pour out of Renfri’s. She opens her mouth, then abruptly closes it again, and instead throws her head back as she brings the cup to her lips, drinking its contents, before slamming the tankard on the bar. 

“I want vengeance. Someone here stole something for me and I need to repay them,” she says, a ruthless edge in her voice. A tone Visenya knows all too well. After the death of Ned Stark, it was the only way Visenya ever heard Robb speak. Lady Catelyn would pick up the tone as well, blending rage with sorrow into the perfect storm as she mourned the lives of her children and husband. But it is also a tone Visenya often took up. 

From the moment she could know anything she had a chip on her shoulder because of the fate of her house. The ghost of her mother followed her everywhere she went. A constant reminder of the horrible fate she suffered at the hands of The Mountain, acting as fuel to the fire inside Visenya. Robb and Theon would tease her about how angry she was as a child, every word she spoke was says like it was a threat, even if there wasn't one. She scowled more often than not, and hardly laughed.

Maybe that shared simmering rage is what brought them together. Two silly girls too angry for their own good. 

“Who?” Visenya says, pushing for more information. 

“Stregobor, the wizard hiding in his tower. He ruined my life and I intend to make him pay.” She says lowly, not allowing any nosy patrons to listen in on their conversation. “I used to be a princess, did ya know that. Until Stregobor sent his thug in the woods after me. He didn’t kill me like he was told to. Instead, he raped and then robbed me, intending to leave me there to die, so I ran my mother’s brooch through his eye.” Renfri says, holding Visenya's gaze. 

She waits for the woman to react, maybe shower her with sympathy or call her a monster. Maybe she’d run out of the tavern and never look Renfri in the eye again. Or maybe just run her through with a kitchen knife and collect payment from Stregobor. But that never happens. Visenya just nods her head. 

“Okay.” she simply says.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go with you. After you get your vengeance I’ll be ready with my pack and traveling cloak.” Visenya says, downing the rest of her ale. A small smile appears on Renfri’s face, starting to distort their tense bubble. 

“Okay.” She stands to leave, draining the rest of her drink as well. However, before she can walk away, Visenya reaches her hand out to grasp Renfri’s wrist. She faces her with a puzzled look. 

“I know how you feel. I wasn’t able to get my vengeance, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.” 

With a single nod in response and an unreadable expression, Renfri leaves the tavern. 

“Stupid dress.” Visenya angrily mutters, throwing the rumpled fabric onto the ground then kicking it in a corner. Visenya’s evening had been at an all-time high after Renfri left. A new pep in her step that was never there before as she finished her shift. She managed to avoid any confrontation, sidestepping drunks - both angry and touchy-feely. A smile was plastered onto her face and despite her best efforts, it wouldn't come off . She was leaving in two days’ time to set off on a new adventure and no one would ruin that. Until some sloppy drunk spilled his entire cup of ale on her when he ran into her. 

This caused the tray of drinks she was holding to also fall on her. Like an idiot, Visenya sat on the ground covered in ale and food alike, as the patrons watched on, not lifting a finger to help. Simmering in her rage and humiliation, Visenya pushed herself off the ground. With her shoulder, she smacked the drunk that ran into her, who at the time was moaning about his spilled ale. He fell to the ground behind her with a thud, but Visenya didn’t bother to check. Her anger was placated by the promise of getting into dry clothes and a few hours away from the tavern before having to start the cycle all over again the next day. Her shift didn’t end until another few hours, but Visenya finds herself unable to care about the consequences. What could he do, kick her out? She’s already leaving. 

“Stupid drunks.” She aggressively rips the tie that was holding her hair in place, throwing it in the direction of where she'd previously left her dress and takes off her shoes. 

“Stupid town.” She throws her shoes off and launches them at the door. Each boot hits the wood with a resounding thud, not that it would be heard over the loud patrons below.

“And stupid world.” Visenya mutters, not sounding as angry as before. It only took three steps for Visenya to reach her bed from the door. Now just left in her undergarments, Visenya collapsed onto the mattress , it creaked under the unexpected weight, the straw under the sheets lumpy and harsh. But it was better than being on her feet. 

“I’d hate to be the source of your ire.” A smug voice breaks through the silence. Visenya jumps from the bed, hand reaching for the sword she keeps under it. Pulling the hilt out of the sheath, she grips it so tightly, her hand turns white. Her heart hammers a million miles an hour, adrenaline begins to pump through her veins. She whirls towards the source of the voice, quickly deflating when she realizes it was just Renfri.

“Renfri! What in Seven Hells are you doing here?” Visenya exclaims, dropping her sword on the ground. It clatters as it hits the floor, the metal glinting in the dim light. Her tight posture loosens as a breath of relief leaves her mouth. 

“Enjoying a good show it would seem.” She says, nonchalantly sitting down in a chair that’s tucked in the corner of the room. And suddenly, after the fear of someone breaking into her room, Visenya becomes very aware that she is only in her underclothes. In an attempt to maintain nonchalance, she walks over to the chest that contains her clothing, reminding herself to take steady and slow breaths. The chest, that’s only two steps away from the bed, feels like it takes hours to reach. Each step in line with her heartbeat and slightly shaky breaths. 

It’s just the aftermath of being scared, nothing more, she tries to convince herself but finds herself unable to be placated by the words. The familiar feeling of butterflies in her stomach returns. Her heart begins to speed up again, beating wildly in her chest.

Upon reaching the trunk, she leans down, fully aware that Renfri's gaze hadn't once left her form . Opening it, she grabs the first piece of fabric she sees, not caring how it looks or what it is. She throws on what turns out to be another dress before turning back to Renfri. 

“Is that how you welcome all your guests?” Renfri continues after Visenya is dressed. Feeling more comfortable in real clothes, Visenya moves over to the bed, sitting at the end to face Renfri, only to then realize that their knees are almost touching.

It’s a small room. 

“Only the ones I really like,” Visenya answers, maintaining her cool, unwilling to show how unnerved she is from Renfri’s unannounced visit. 

“Now I’m truly flattered,” Renfri smirks at her. Outwardly, nothing about Renfri or her demeanor seemed different, but something about the air around her seemed more predatory. Like a wolf about to eat its next meal. 

“But really, why are you here? I already agreed to come with you?” Visenya says. Renfri begins to play with a small pendant in her hand, fingers rolling across its smooth surface.

“You said you knew how I felt? What did you mean?” Renfri asks, her doe-like brown eyes meeting Visenya’s own amber ones. 

At that moment, Visenya realized how extremely her appearance and demeanor differed. On the outside, Renfri had the features of a soft noblewoman - if not for the tangled hair and dirt on her face - but in reality, Renfri seemed deadly and ruthless. Another similarity it seems. Two women destined for the life of a pampered and protected princess, yet fate decided to be cruel. And for different reasons, they were forced to change from silk to steel, hardening their exteriors until they’re unable to be broken. A sigh leaves Visenya, thinking of ways to answer the simple yet incredibly complicated question. 

“I used to be a princess too. It was far away from here, somewhere you’d never even heard of. There was a rebellion and my family lost. My father died on the battlefield; my grandfather - while a horrible man - was stabbed in the back by someone sworn to protect him; and my mother and siblings were slaughtered. I was only spared because a lord didn’t want to see another child murdered. He raised me as his ward and that was that.” Visenya says, the words are easier than expected. 

A piece of her expects the words to feel like a thousand cuts as they roll off her tongue. 

The bitter words should feel like poison going down her throat, slowly killing her as it goes. But it doesn’t feel like that. Instead she felt nothing, a cold numbness overtaking her body. Maybe the absence of pain is worse than the pain itself because it shakes the foundation she built her life around. All her life Visenya held onto ghosts, clinging to her anger because it’s the only thing she ever had control over. No matter how grateful she was for Lord Stark saving her, no matter how happy and free she felt with Robb, Jon, Theon, and all the other Starks, she was a bird trapped. The cage was beautiful, warm, and welcoming, but it was still a cage. Or maybe Visenya just convinced herself it was.

 “I was only five at the time.” she finishes. Renfri is silent, just staring at Visenya. 

“You said you never got vengeance?” she asks, no discernable emotions on her face.

“Never had the chance. Robert Baratheon, who led the rebellion, died on a hunt. And I…” died before I could get vengeance on the others , Visenya wanted to say but the words got caught. She swallows the lump that found its way into her throat. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but Visenya is too stubborn to let them fall. Too stubborn to allow the sadness to poison her, not when things were finally looking up. So she did what she’s best at. She took her sadness and despair and fear, then turned it into anger. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Renfri says, breaking the silence around the two. 

“Don’t be. There’s nothing either of us can do for them. But you can still get your vengeance. Don’t let Stregobor slip away from you. Don’t be like me, working in a town you hate because you’re too afraid to do anything else.” Visenya firmly says. 

“You don’t think I should let go of my anger?” Renfri says, a sarcastic lilt weaves into her words. “Be the better person and move on?”

Visenya allows the words to seep into her brain, pausing for a moment to articulate her feelings. And when she finally talks, the words feel like fire coming out of her mouth. Like a dragon roaring as it turns its enemies to ash, leaving nothing behind but the memory of their existence. 

“I think you should reign fire on them all.” 

Time stands still. Renfri and Visenya carefully watch the other, waiting for someone to do something . Renfri, who’s face had been passive and unfeeling, begins to contort into something… fierce. Her lips curl upwards, but not into a smile or even a smirk. No, her lips are curled upwards as she bares her teeth. Her brown eyes are alight with a fire Visenya had never seen in anyone else. Like a dragon reigning hell upon its enemies. And for a moment Visenya wonders if this is what people see when they look at her? When her temper flares and her anger becomes uncontrollable. Is this the face that stares back at them?

Renfri abruptly stands from her sitting position to close the small distance between them. She crouches down on her knees, positioning herself to be in between Visenya legs. Ice cold hands wrap around Visenya’s hot hands, the contact bringing a small sense of comfort to Visenya.

“I promise you, Jane. We will kill every last one of those people who hurt you that still breathe. After I kill Stregobor we will sail to your homeland and get vengeance I swear it.” Renfri says. And something about the fervent look in her eyes and the force that Renfri speaks, Visenya believes her. A heat that wasn’t there before fills her body, warming her already temperate body. Meeting Renfri’s gaze with stars in her eyes, Visenya’s face twists into a euphoric expression.

No one ever promised to right the wrongs done to her family. The Starks were sympathetic about it but never took it farther than that. And everyone else… well everyone else already deemed the Targaryens a house of madmen unfit for justice. Yet here’s Renfri, a woman whose only known her for hardly more than a day, swearing to bring Visenya the vengeance she thirsts for. The chance to destroy her enemies and return them and their houses to the dirt. Even if Visenya knew they never could.

“But you just met me -” Visenya begins, her voice a whisper, eyes searching Renfri’s for any lies. But she finds nothing but fury. Fury, and passion.

“We’ve been over this before Jane. Besides, life’s too short to worry about things like that,” Renfri says, cutting off Visenya’s babbling. 

“Visenya,” she says. Her voice barely above a whisper. So quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. “My name is Visenya.” This time the words are louder and more confident. Renfri stares at her for a moment. 

“I promise you, Visenya,” she whispers, pulling Visenya’s hands around her neck. The noise from the tavern fades from Visenya’s mind, the seconds seemingly turning into hours. With each second ticking by, her body temperature rises, but not uncomfortably so. Her eyes stare into Renfri’s, counting the flecks of gold that lie hidden deep within them. Their breaths mingling in the little space left between them , the distance between them smaller than it's ever been; close enough Visenya can nearly taste the scent of Renfri on the tip of her tongue.

“You’re a dragon, be a dragon” Visenya yells in her mind, willing herself to for once take a risk. Not like the ones she took in Winterfell when she was a little girl swiping extra bread, but a real one. Something that could matter. So, with a burst of courage, she pushes her face towards Renfri’s, connecting their lips before she can talk herself out of it. 

Immediately, Renfri pulls her closer, kissing her with more vigor than Visenya displayed. Like an alcoholic, Visenya feels herself getting addicted to Renfri and the feeling of her lips. They’re rough and dry, but Visenya drinks them up like she hasn’t had a drop of water in weeks. She feels herself getting lost in the feeling, unable to allow her mind to focus on anything other than Renfri’s hands in her own and the taste of her lips. Ale and raspberries linger on her mouth. At that moment, Visenya decides the taste of raspberries is her favorite. 

In one swift movement, Renfri pushes Visenya down onto the bed, following the movements to straddle her. She takes her time exploring every inch of skin from between her neck down to her hips. A guttural moan escapes Visenya’s mouth as Renfri nips at her lips ---

“Jane! Get out of your room and back to work!” Visenya jumps at the sudden noise, almost immediately separating from Renfri. Aldred aggressively bangs on the door a few more times. The wooden floors creak under his weight as his footsteps grow farther away. She sighs in frustration at the interruption. Renfri deftly rolls off of Visenya and begins finger combing her hair, now even more unruly thanks to Visenya, who stands up and steps away from Renfri and her bed. Two footsteps and she’s putting on her boots. 

“Until tomorrow I suppose,” Renfri says, slowly getting off the bed. She approaches Visenya, placing a whisper of a kiss on the corner of her mouth. And before Visenya can do anything else or even blink, Renfri disappears out her window, leaving it wide open as she did. 

The sudden cold is welcome as it cools Visenya’s flush face.

Chapter Text

The first rays of morning light cut through the darkness signifying the transition from night to day. Some early risers mingle in the tavern as they nurse full mugs and slowly eat their breakfast to soothe nasty hangovers. The stale alcohol and vomit that permeates in the room is stronger than most days. A number of windows are stained with ale and wine, hard and sticky to the touch. Only a handful of mugs are clean as the rest of them line the back of the bar still filled with amber liquid. The quiet sound of cloth wiping the inside of cups mixes with the tune Visenya hums under her breath. She’s unable to focus on anything, the fog in her head from sleep. A smile creeps onto her face as her mind wanders away from Blaviken. One day; one more day of mindless work and then Visenya will be gallivanting the world with Renfri. 

It’s silly: to get swept away by a fantasy and let go of any doubt. This only happens in the fairytales Sansa religiously read, not real life. Maybe it’s infatuation or Visenya’s desperation to cling onto something - anything . To hold so tightly onto her only chance of possible happiness in this new and strange and terrifying world. It’s only made easier that they mirror each other: two princesses ejected from their home and forced to fight. It makes sense and fits neatly in Visneya’s rationale, but it couldn’t be that. The proof is in every moment Renfri spent in the tavern, pressed against the bar as she assaulted Visenya with sarcastic quips that made her laugh uncontrollably. Or the way her heart speeds up when she sees messy brown hair and how it flutters when Renfri smiles in her direction. This couldn’t be infatuation, but if it is, Visenya doesn’t mind drowning in it. 

“Lovely morning?” Renfri says, her chin resting on the palm of her hand.

Yes it is silly, but she can't help but live in the moment.

“Better now that you’re here.” The reply forms before her brain catches up. The words are like sticky sweet nectar from a flower. Similar to the first bite from a sour fruit, her face contorts into a grimace. Renfri laughs, the sound muffled by the hand over her mouth. 

“You going soft on me now, Vis? Might have to change my mind about you coming tomorrow,” Renfri says, her tone light and soft like the clouds.

“Please, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” Visenya says as she puts different fruits and meats on a plate. She grabs a nut and chucks it at Renfri’s face. It hits her cheek before falling onto the counter with a light thud. 

“No I guess not,” Renfri says. She raises the mug to her lips, some of the amber liquid spilling on her chin. Bell-like laughter echoes in the room before Visenya manages to stifle it.  

“Now onto important topics. Like the fact that you just called me Vis?” Visenya says, her head is cocked to the side like a puppy, a slight quirk on her lips. 

“Maybe I did.” Renfri leans forward and so does Visenya. Maybe they really are like magnets drawn to each other. “It’s cute.”

A soft hum comes from Visenya and her golden eyes flicker to the ceiling then back to Renfri.

“Must be, that's what most people back home would call me. I suppose Visenya is a mouthful.” she says as her grin twists into something more wistful. 

“Should I think of another nickname then?” Renfri asks, brows furrowed, small creases forming on her forehead.

“No, I like it. A reminder of home before everything went to shit, it’s nice.” she smiles. With a gentle touch, Visenya places her thumb on Renfri’s forehead to smooth the lines. The moment is sickeningly sweet, and she finds herself longing for moments like this to be abundant. There’s already been so much death in her life, she doesn’t think she’d be able to take anymore. 

“Tell me about your home,” Renfri says. Visenya moves her hand down to Renfri’s cheek and takes a deep breath. 

A million thoughts run through her mind, descriptions of Winterfell, of the Starks, and all the small things that made it home. Could she talk about the delicate summer snow that fell to the ground, leaving her cheeks bright red? How it fell into Visenya’s hair, shining like jewels when the sun hit it? Or the sounds of the blacksmith working on a new sword and the shouts of Robb, Theon, and Jon training with Ser Rodrik in the morning? Maybe she’d focus on the warmth that Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn held despite the harsh cold, her familial relationship with each of the Stark children? They could’ve been cold and distant, treating her like a prisoner, but they didn’t. They treated her like a member of the pack, when maybe they shouldn’t have. She’d always been angry, lashing out at anyone she could even if it wasn’t deserved. But they didn’t sway, never treated her with the kind of brashness she showed them. 

“Well for one, it was cold and dark. But it was...nice,” She says, settling on the simple explanation. 

“Glad you could be so descriptive, I feel like I’m there right now, honestly.” Renfri says and rolls her eyes. 

“I live to serve.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders and taps Renfri’s face three times. Renfri scrunches her face and moves her head away from Visenya’s assault. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have a job to do, believe it or not,” Visenya says. She grabs a rag and begins cleaning the dirty tankard. She focuses on the task, but still feels Renfri’s gaze on her. 

“Stop watching me, you creep.” Visenya says, not looking up from her glass. Two more swipes with the rag and she replaces the clean cup with a dirty one to start the cycle over.

“How could I? Are you sure you aren’t a siren, preparing to feast on my flesh once we leave this town?” Renfri says, mindlessly twirling a fork with her fingers. 

“Well I guess you’ll just have to take that chance.” Visenya muses and sets down the rag and glass. 

“As long as you give me a good time before brutally killing me,” Renfri says with a sing-song lilt. “I’ve got some business I need to attend to before leaving tomorrow. Meet tonight in your room?” Renfri asks. She untangles her legs from the barstool, and turns to leave the tavern. Her figure gets exactly seven paces away before Visenya responds. 

“Not like I have much of a choice anyway!” Visenya says, projecting her voice. Some of the patrons turn their attention to her, but she pays them no mind. 

“You really don’t,” Renfri says. She turns towards Visenya with a wide smile and mischief brimming in her eyes before leaving the tavern. 

And in that moment Visenya prays to every god in this world to preserve Renfri. 

----

The fallen leaves break under Visenya’s footsteps with a sharp crack . The tall trees block out the remnants of daylight as the sun sets; the greenery isn’t a comforting canopy that envelopes Visenya in their warmth, rather they’re like vines that wrap around her neck until she can’t breathe. Fog lingers on the ground, making it near impossible to clearly see the floor, obscuring tall roots and slithering creatures that lie in wait for prey. All sorts of horrible beasts and otherworldly creatures that roam the forest at night lead to the disappearance of wildlife with the sun, not a bird to be heard. The ground is damp and cold, an uncomfortable combination even with protective footwear. It smells like moss and rain, with something unpleasant mixed in the air. Blaviken is encompassed by a forest which, as dark and dreary as it may be, is the only place Visenya can think that is void of any distraction the inn brings. 

Her favorite spot to perch herself is a small stream that flows deep in the forest. The trees are sparse, allowing the sun rays to touch her skin as the cool breeze eases her anxieties and fears. It’s also a great point to kick and scream, something Visenya does often. But this time there was a change, something different about the dreary atmosphere that put a light pep in her step. The town is a horrible place, there’s no question. The people in it are as cold and unwelcoming as the land they lived in, suspicious and frightened to a fault. But maybe the forest is warmer than Visenya thought, prettier than her memories convinced her. 

Or maybe nothing externally is different and it’s just her.

She draws closer to the stream, lost in a daydream of gallivanting across the world to leave behind her sorrow, when she hears a noise. It’s faint at first, easily passed off as a woodland creature in a bush, or the wind making a branch hit a tree. But then she hears it again, and again, and again. As she draws closer, hand on the dagger she keeps strapped to her thigh, the sounds become clearer. Heart pounding in her chest, her adrenaline spikes up with each step taken. Closer now she hears the sound of a plant being pulled from the ground, the noise mingling with the mellow stream.  Now three steps away from the break in the forest, she inhales the smell of running water. One step, two steps; now at the edge of the treeline she peers through the branches. The faint outline of a large man crouches in front of the river, pulling various roots from the ground. To her left is the sound of mellow breathing from an animal and the occasional kick in the ground as it snorts. 

With the speed of a spooked deer, Visenya silences her breath and darts behind a tree. She’s never encountered another person this close to nightfall. The townsfolk were too scared to wander far from the town, and travelers stupid enough to brave the forest are rare. Yet there is another traveler that comes to mind. She hasn’t seen Geralt since his arrival, it’s very well possible he’s been camping out here.

Visenya peaks her head out from behind the tree, careful to not make a sound. The man wears familiar black studded leather armor with white hair cascading past his shoulders. A few feet away, a horse grazes on the long grass near the treeline. The tension slowly leaves her body, but not completely. While she knows it’s Geralt, she doesn’t know anything about him other than his name and drink order. 

“You can come out,” Geralt says, his back still towards Visenya. His voice is smooth like dripping honey, but distant and cold like winter snow. She debates just bolting, but before her mind can decide her body reacts. She carefully steps away from the tree, the tall grass tickling her toes as she moves towards the stream. The horse snorts as she moves past it, but does nothing else. She continues to move until she’s a few steps behind him, slightly to his left. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be out here,” she says. He pauses his actions to turn and look at her. 

“You thought you’d be the only person in a forest?” he asked with a blank expression. Visenya releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Well when you put it like that, it makes me look stupid.” she says. Visenya crouches beside him and grabs a rock. The stone is flat and smooth under her fingers, the weight well balanced. Geralt pays her no mind, seemingly unbothered by her presence. He continues uprooting plants that he then places into a small bag. The water flows at a leisurely pace, rippling as it hits rocks that jut out of the surface. Long plants dangle in the water, like a person cautiously dipping their toes in, enough to get damp, but not fully committed. She runs her finger over the rock once more and then tosses it into the water. The rock skips on the surface one time, two times, and then three before sinking to the bottom. Her mind plays yesterday over and over again, still remembering clearly when Geralt first entered the tavern as well as the maliciousness and spite the villagers met him with, practically spitting the word Witcher at him as if it’s the worst insult. 

“What’s a Witcher?” she says, once again forming words before her brain could comprehend them. Geralt’s hand pauses mid air and looks at her. She picks up another stone and meets his gaze.

“You don’t know?” he says. His gold eyes pan across her face, looking for a slight smirk or a mocking look in her eyes, anything to indicate any bad intentions. Instead, he’s met with genuine confusion. Visenya shakes her head, brows furrowed at the guarded tone Geralt uses. “A monster hunter. I hunt monsters.” 

“Is that why you came here?” she says. If he hunts monsters, shouldn’t common people be grateful for him? When he came into the tavern, everyone seemed hell-bent to either kill or run him out of town, whichever came first. 

“Ran into one in the swamp.” he says in a tense tone, his words as sharp as the dagger strapped to Visenya. 

“Are you always such a great conversationalist?” Visenya says, meeting Geralt’s gaze for a second before turning back to the stream. The rock dances across the surface of the water after Visenya tosses it, another rock in hand as soon as that one disappears from view. 

“Hmm,” he grunts, the slight rise in his eyebrows and tug on his lips conveys his mild amusement. “You always so chatty with mutants?” he says in a snarky tone. Visenya quietly snorts and tosses another rock into the river. 

“Only the ones with good hair,” she replies without a moment of hesitation. “But if I could offer some advice - hair oils would do a world of wonders for your ends.” she says, imitating his own snarky tone. His gaze moves from her eyes then to her hair and back to her eyes, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Visenya sighs, her hands tangling in the dyed brown hair.

“I assure you, it wasn’t always so bad. Another one of the joys of Blaviken I suppose.” she says.

“If not from Blaviken, then where are you from?” he asked, his eyes carefully trained on her with furrowed brows. 

“Somewhere far away,” Visenya says, her voice a million miles away from their location. He doesn’t say anything further, simply grunting and returning to his previous task. Silence encompasses the duo for a few moments, Visenya staring out at the stream as she rolls a flat rock between her fingers. Her thoughts wander back to Winterfell. She still vividly remembers the crisp air and soft snow that blanketed the ground. She could hear the sound of Rickon’s laughter, like a distant whisper that lingers in the wind. Robb’s constant teasing and Jon’s quiet quips haunt Visenya’s thoughts like a nightmare. Geralt, unaware of the storm brewing in Visenya’s mind, continues his task of harvesting various herbs but would pause every so often to look at her. There was something about her that seemed odd, a faint aura of magic resonating from her. 

“Alas, while you’ve been fantastic company, I fear we must part ways,” Visenya says and  stands up from her sitting position, breaking the thick silence. She dusts off her knees, only to realize how muddy her dress is. It appears Geralt noticed as well.

“Your dress is ruined,” he says. 

“I’ll just make another one,” she says after sighing heavily. Sewing is never something she looks forward to. “Maybe Hilda needs me to punch another town idiot.” She makes her way back into the forest. However, before completely out of her hearing range, Visenya picks up the faintest whisper of a masculine laugh. The sound gets carried off into the wind and led into the forest where it would soon dissipate.  

The ghost of Winterfell hangs around Visenya, the conversation with Geralt confirming that. Wherever she is, no matter what she does, her thoughts wander back to them. No, she doesn’t think she’d ever forget them, but maybe leaving will help.

----

Something about the ceiling is particularly captivating that night. Visenya’s eyes trace the cracks and the crevices and count the grain in the wood. She’s seen this a million times in the year she’s lived in this room. Dust collects in the far corners, an occasional spider disappearing from view. Speckles of wood shavings fall through the cracks when a strong wind hits the building. She’s done all of this a million times, so why is she enthralled by it tonight? Maybe it doesn’t have to do with the ceiling. Maybe her mind is a million miles away and the ceiling just happens to be the chosen spot of her gaze. 

The faint sound of breathing next to Visenya pulls her from her thoughts. She moves her gaze to Renfri’s still form beside her. She’s sprawled on the bed, eyes closed with a small smile on her peaceful face. Her breaths are slow and deep, but her eyes flutter at any noise disturbance from below. Her closed eyes highlight her long and wispy eyelashes that leave feather light kisses on the tips of her cheekbones. While this close, Visenya can see the faint freckles that dot along her cheeks, like constellations in the sky. Brown hair fanned on the pillow frames her face like rays of light surrounding the sun. Visenya’s eyes trace down towards her lips that subtly open with each breath she inhales and exhales. They’re bright pink and swollen, causing them to appear poutier than usual. 

She looks peaceful and content, and Visenya wonders what’s running through her mind. Is she dreaming or caught in between the dream world and the waking world? The lines that indent her face are gone, leaving her skin smooth and youthful. The harsh austere beauty that originally drew Visenya is gone, replaced with an innocent and delicate beauty. It gives a glimpse into how Renfri could’ve been if not for Stregobor. If the world wasn’t so cruel to her. 

“Now who’s watching who?” Renfri mutters, sleep thickly coating her words.

“I haven't the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Visenya replies, lazily moving her eyes back to the ceiling, her lips curling into a large grin. “But, if it were true, would that make you the Siren in this scenario?” 

“I suppose it would.” Renfri muses, rolling onto her side. Visenya mimics her movements so that they're both facing each other. “Have you been ensnared by my charms, Vis?” she teases, closing the distance between them. 

“What do I get if I say yes?” 

“My eternal companionship?” Renfri says.

“While useful for the future, I’m much too impatient for that. How about something more immedient?” Visenya says, closing the distance between them to attach her lips to Renfri's, who immediately responds, lacing her fingers through Visenya’s hair. The kiss is sweet and warm, and fills Visenya’s stomach with a fuzzy feeling. The taste of her lips is sweet enough to cause her teeth to ache. The sensation is addicting, the feeling of her lips pressing against Visenya’s. Or maybe she just likes Renfri being this close. Either way she’s on a high she never wants to come down from. 

Renfri is the first to pull away, her finger twirls a lock of Visenya’s hair around. Visenya's eyes flutter shut, enjoying the soothing feeling of Renfri closeness. Silence falls over them for a moment, putting them into a state filled with serenity and simplicity before their thrilling adventure begins after the morning.

“Am I to guess brown isn’t your natural hair color either?” Renfri asks, breaking the silence. 

“Gods no, it's naturally silver.” she says. Her body relaxes into Renfri’s touch instantly as she melts into the bed. 

“Why dye it then?” Renfri adjusts herself, propping her back against the wall with her hand in Visenya’s hair. Her hand has moved to graze her scalp with the tips of her nails. Visenya raises both of her eyebrows, not feeling the need to verbalize her answer. 

“Stupid question, got it. Have you considered going back?” Renfri says and slides her hand out of Visenya’s hair. Her hand traces the outline of Visenya’s face as she leaves a trail of kisses along her neck. The cold temperature of her lips is a welcomed change to the heat Visenya naturally radiates. 

“I have.” Visenya says, propping her head with the palm of her hand. “Maybe I will once we leave. Gods know that dye isn’t doing my hair any favors.” 

“Can’t wait for the reveal,” Renfri says, a smirk upon her lips.

“Speaking of which, tomorrow’s the big day then?” Visenya asks.

“It would appear so. You haven’t changed your mind already have you?” 

“I was planning to see if that Witcher would take me with him when he leaves. But if that doesn’t happen, then I guess I’m all yours.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders, desperate to hide the smile she’s fighting.

“Hmm, what a shame. Whatever could I do to convince you to stay, fair maiden?” Renfri says, her voice filled with mirth. 

“A fight to the death perhaps, the winner gets me?” 

“Then it’s settled. I’ll pull every dirty trick I know in that fight to win.” Renfri says. 

She throws a leg around Visenya’s hips, caging her body in. She steadies herself by pressing her arms on both sides of Visenya’s neck. With lightning speed, she peppers Visenya’s face with small kisses, the sensation of her lips tickling her skin. Visenya’s face scrunches up as she laughs until her stomach begins to hurt.  

“Stop it, stop it!” Visenya playfully shouts in between bouts of laughter. 

Half-heartedly, Visenya attempts to slap Renfri, but it doesn’t work. Instead she continues her assault, leaving kisses on Visenya's forehead, cheeks, chin, and tip of her nose. Visenya’s heart rate speeds up as the butterflies in her stomach crescendo until it’s like a swarm of them inside her. This continues on for a few more minutes before Renfri pulls her face away, but stays in the same position. 

They pause for a moment, watching each other as they allow the silence to envelop them, until Visenya breaks it.

“Promise me you won’t die.” she says quietly. Silence rings in the room and for a brief moment Visenya thinks Renfri didn’t hear her. 

“I promise.” 

----

The moment is like something out of a book. A horrible, terrible retelling of a tragedy. Like the songs about star-crossed lovers to warn children about the dangers of love. Dark clouds obscure the sun and cast a gray tint on Blaviken. Villagers filter into the center of the town, their whispers lost to Visenya. The dead bodies of Renfri’s band are scattered in the vicinity, killed by Geralt - who is nowhere to be found. The bitter air bites at her exposed skin as the wind whips her brown hair, her hand that holds the strap of her travel bag is stark white. The travel cloak Sansa made wildly flaps in the air - hard enough that her longsword sheathed on her hip gets caught in it. Her wide eyes are transfixed on the scene. The anticipation of this day that culminated into a grand fantasy in the pan of two days imploded in a mere second. One decision and a handful of movements managed to ruin Visenya.  

Renfri.

Renfri’s dead body lies on the ground in the center of the chaos. The open wound on her neck stains the ground red. Wide unblinking eyes stare at Visenya as her brown hair is fanned around her body, matted with blood. 

A man with white hair that has thinned with age stumbles towards Renfri from across Visenya. He wears black robes with delicate embroidery made from an expressive material. A scruffy white beard lines his jaw, hiding some of his placid face. Stregobor, the town’s wizard. Sharp golden eyes follow his movements as he leans down to the ground to inspect Renfri’s body with a clinical eye. 

“Incredible.” His eyes glint with excitement, fiending to experiment on her body. “Marilka! Marilka? Marilka!” He stands from his position and turns towards the crowd. From his right, Marilka along with her mother approach him. 

“Get me a cart. We’ll take her to the tower for an autopsy!” he says.

A fire inside Visenya flares to life, all the rage and sadness that has been bubbling under the surface channels into fire. As her temper rises so does her body temperature. The need to unleash her anger and watch him die, to let him feel all the pain and suffering he’s caused burns inside her, barely contained. Vengeance rears its head, as the heat begins to consume Visenya. The tight grip on the bag strap is moved to her sword. Geralt pops out of a corner with his sword in hand.

“If you touch a single hair on her head… yours will be on the ground next.” Geralt seethes. He stands behind Stregobor, his sword pressed against the side of his neck. His voice is rough and hoarse, similar to a snarling wild animal. The scowl set on his face is scarier than all the tales of death Old Nan used to tell. Stregobor’s eyes move from the blade to Geralt. 

“Have you gone mad?” Stregobor says, his tone neutral but with a hint of smugness hidden beneath it. “Her mutation, it influences people.” Visenya moves forward to stand slightly behind Geralt. Her face is stone as she watches Stregobor. 

“That’s how she got these men to follow her - for you to follow her! We need to take it!” he proclaims as he waves a hand in Visenya’s vicinity.

Could it be -- no. What I felt wasn’t due to magic tricks. 

But even with that assurance, a piece of Visenya wonders if Renfri did beguile her. Would that better explain the instant connection? But it was genuine, it had to be. In every radiant smile filled with warmth and kittens and butterflies. Every look that drowned Visenya in her honey sweet eyes. Her rough voice that somehow managed to sound sweeter than all the minstrels and bards in the world. No, that couldn’t be fabricated, not by any magic in this world or the next.

“Don’t you touch her,” Visenya says her words like a snake spitting venom, yet Stregobor pays her no mind.

“Witcher, you butchered bodies in the street of Blaviken.” he says, his eyes squinted and an air of confidence forms around him. 

“You’re a beast!” Aldred’s yell breaks the silence around the villagers.

“You endangered the girl!” Mirilka’s mother yells.

“Beast!” another yells.

“He killed every single one --” 

“You took the law into your own hands. You made a choice and you’ll never know if it was the right one” Stregobor adds more fuel to the fire, feeling untouchable in the mist of the enraged villagers. 

“He’s a bad one!’

The anger escalates as people grab onto rocks or anything else they can get their hands on. They toss them at Geralt along with various slurs and threats of death. With his longsword shielding his face, Geralt lowers himself to the ground. Visenya feels cold hands grab onto her shoulders. Her body goes limp and they pull her back into the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the profile of Isadora, her blonde hair messier than usual. 

“Stay here,” Isadora says, whispering the words in her ear before she disappears into the tavern. Marilka moves from her mother to stand beside Stregobor and lowers her body to crouch on the ground. Now eye to eye with Geralt, a blank expression on her face, she opens her mouth.

“Leave Blaviken Geralt, and never come back.” Marilka says in a cold tone. Geralt’s eyes flit to Renfri’s body then back to Marilka. He rises from the ground, more rocks smack against him. As he turns and scans the crowd, his eyes rest on Visenya for a moment, but looks away. With a limp, Geralt moves through the crowd of people to the exit. The villagers follow him like a pack of wild animals, pelting him with more rocks and vile words, some even spitting on him. 

Visenya watches as he leaves, as helpless as a girl of five years when King’s Landing was sacked. The people continue towards the exit of the village, their screams no longer heard. She feels stuck in place frozen like a statue. Her gaze moves over to Renfri’s still body. Her brows slightly furrow the longer she stares at the woman. The world twisted her into a monster and then spit on her when it suited their narrative. 

Visenya notices Stregobor gathering a few people to bring her body to his tower, so he could pull her apart like an experiment and see what made her twitch. Visenya feels her fists clench, fingernails digging into her palm so harshly it draws blood. The cowardly wizard briefly meets her gaze once more. He simply turns back to his newest project. Her mind began to lock itself deeper and deeper inside itself. Her last memories of Renfri replaying. One step, two steps, three steps. The mud beneath her quelches with each stride. The anger inside her returns with a vengeance. She stops three paces from him. The remaining villagers scatter upon noticing her hand upon the longsword. 

“I would recommend getting back to work, at the inn if I remember correctly.” Stregobor says. His expression is calm and cool, with a hint of arrogance in his eyes. Like a proud bird preening at its success. He surveys her and his chin tilts upwards. The urge to draw her blade and shove it through him is strong, But she knows better, even in her anguish and rage she’s not prepared to fight a mage,

So she simply opens her mouth, voice as icy as the rain that begins to fall.

“I will kill you.” Visenya says, her cool tone not betraying the fire inside. “Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even a year from now. But I promise you I will. Revel in your victories while you still breathe.” And with those final words, she swiftly turns and beelines for the tavern.  

If Visenya knew that would be the last time she’d see her alive she would’ve pleaded for Renfri to just leave now. Let Stregobor live out the rest of his miserable life while they travel the country, finding adventure at every corner. Make her see that vengeance wasn’t worth the effort. Who needs to live in the past when you have a new exciting future around the corner?

But she didn’t. 

And now she’ll never get the chance.

Chapter Text

The sound of cheering is like nails against a chalkboard in Visenya’s ears, ringing at a frequency that should be unnatural, the sound crescendoing with each passing second. Her heart pounds furiously in her chest, face red with anger and eyes damp with unshed tears. The shakiness in her hand makes pouring drinks difficult, however no one in the room seems bothered by it. They were happy for some reason, drunkenly celebrating one thing or another. Normally irate and coarse people join in on the merriments, happily drinking from full mugs and bantering back and forth. Isadora flounces around the drunks, gracefully managing to avoid crashing into any of the staggering people. Aldred converses with a few patrons as he passes them, his scraggly beard jiggling as he lets out yet another bellowing laugh. Someone in a far corner of the room took it upon themselves to be the entertainment, singing bawdy tavern songs. He’s horrible at it, Visenya can’t help but notice, growing more irate with each off key note that contended with the sounds of a dying cat. 

But even with the horrible entertainment and the cheap ale everyone is happy. 

Everyone except for Visenya. 

Her mouth is in a tight thin line, eyes unmoving as she stares straight ahead, not really seeing anything in front of her. It’s pathetic and weak - she is pathetic and weak, with her shoulders slouched and devastation bleeding from her eyes. The atmosphere is suffocating, filling her throat with ash until she can’t breathe. The storm brewing in her mind picks up in ferocity as she clenches her fist tightly. A chill runs up her spine that leaves behind a tingling sensation as the room’s ambience dims until only the faint ringing is left.  

“Hey wench! Another drink!” a man staggers over to the counter. He aggressively pushes his mug to Visenya, ripping her out of her thoughts. His pudgy face is caked in dirt and something...fouler, the smell assaulting Visenya’s nostrils. His beady brown eyes are glazed over, blood shot from the copious amount of alcohol he’d consumed. His body is lazily leaned up against the counter, not able to hold up his own weight due to his intoxicated state. He’s dangerously tipping onto the bar stool, the same one Renfri should be perched on. Visenya’s gaze flickers to him, eyes hardening as she acknowledges the man. 

And suddenly, something snaps. 

“Get it yourself.” Visenya snarls, throwing a rag she was holding on the counter. She grabs the pitcher of ale and pushes it toward him with more force than necessary. The pitcher slides across the wood, falling over the edge and spilling its contents onto the man. He jumps back with the dexterity drunks usually don’t have, a shout stuck in the back of his throat. 

With one last piercing glare, Visenya storms away. Unlike Isadora who is masterfully weaving through people, Visenya roughly shoves anyone in her way. Shouts of protest start to surround her, but upon seeing the fire in her eyes, they quickly back down. 

Her mind is made up. 

The loud thudding of her feet on the wooden floor beats as loudly as her heart. The floorboards below her moan as they threaten to break with each step. Luckily, the upper level is clear of any patrons. The echoes of people yelling and cheering is faint, giving her a respite from the noise. She moves towards a room. She flings her door open, the wood slamming against the wall from the force. Like a bull, she charges into the room, immediately moving towards the chest that holds her belongings. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing girl?” Aldred’s voice booms from the doorway. It momentarily causes Visenya to pause, but not for long. 

“Leaving.” Visenya simply says, not bothering to look at him as she pulls out a pair of traveling pants. 

“Like fuck you are! Ben says you poured an entire pitcher of ale on him, that’s definitely coming out of your wages.” He rages, taking a step into the room. His loud steps act as the thunder booming during the storm in her mind. 

“You don’t pay me at all!” Visenya says with a tone as sharp as her blade. She turns towards Aldred, glaring at him with a ferocity no one in the town has seen on Visenya. 

“Then I guess you’ll have to figure out somewhere else to get food, cause it ain’t coming from me. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you got here.” Aldred continues to rant, taking a step with each word until his toes are touching Visenya’s hand. She pulls out a tunic, tossing it with her pants. 

“Then it’s a good thing I’m leaving.” Visenya coolly replies, her tone as frosty as the northern winds. She pulls out her cloak, tossing it with the other clothes, her fingers ghosting over the embroidered dragon. She slams the chest shut and stands up. Her gaze now level with Aldred’s. She continues to glare at the man, daring him to make a move. He straightens his back to try and stand taller than Visenya. His Adam's apple is wavering slightly, exposing his nerves. A predatory grin paints itself on Visenya, a feral side taking over.

“Fuck that, you owe me you stupid bitch!” He grapples her, trying to pull her out of the room. Heat begins to build up in Visenya, flaring with her temper. Her temperature grows to an uncomfortable warmth until her skin is as hot as a wildfire. Aldred quickly pulls his hands back, releasing her from his grip. He stares at her with his mouth agape in shock. 

“How - how - how did…” he stutters, taking a few steps away.

“I am Visenya Lightbringer of House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. I am the dragon’s daughter. The next time you raise a hand to me...will be the last time. You. Have. Hands.” Visenya spits, her face twisting into a snarl. Aldred exudes fear and it continues to feed the fury inside her. 

“You’re a monster like that damned Witcher!” he yells. The initial shock he felt wears off and is replaced with the malicious behavior she saw him treat Geralt with. 

“You’re a fucking mutant.” he spits, moving towards her once again. Instead of going for her arms, he grabs the neckline of her dress, dragging her around like a rag-doll.

“Let me go you fucking bastard!” Visenya wails at him, the pitch rivaling a banshee’s cry. She continues to attempt to pry him away from her, but his grip is iron. He manages to drag her down to the first floor, her screams silencing the previously merry patrons. They watch on as Visenya is thrown to the ground, Aldred viciously grinning at her as she scowls back, not allowing herself to show weakness. 

“This bitch is a mutant like that fucking Witcher. Burnt me with her bare hands she did!” Aldred exclaims to the patrons, all silently watching the situation unfold. He raises his hands to show the minor burns he retained. A series of gasps erupts from the people. A few of the people cover their mouths in shock, while others look on with a straight face. The room is plunged into silence, everyone watching with bated breath. Visenya, still on the ground, stares ahead unsure of what else to do. 

She spares a glance to her left, noticing Isadora hidden near the bar. Wordlessly she watches. Their eyes meet, Isadora’s full of pity, yet she continues to stay silent. Visenya moves her gaze back to the floor. She’s all alone in this, there’s no one to help her.

“Burn her!” a patron screams. And that’s all it took to break the dam that kept their hateful words away. 

“Throw her in a cell!” a woman screams, hysterics clawing at her voice.

“Fuck that, we need to kill the thing before it kills us!” a man replies, Leon, that’s his name. He came to the tavern every morning for breakfast and wherever Visenya served him, he would slip her a few spare coins. But now here he is, condemning her to die. 

Something sticky and cold smacks Visenya, soaking the top of her dress. As the amber liquid drips down her exposed skin, an empty tankard hits her left shoulder. The force of it catching her by surprise as her arm gives out beneath her. She hits the ground with a soft thud, but no one stops. Their screams crescendo louder and louder until Visenya can’t hear her own thoughts. The vicious words blend together, creating a discordant melody that grates against her eardrums. Some of the more ballsy patrons follow suit and start throwing anything they can within their grasp: cups - both empty and filled to the brim with ale; leftover food; and eating utensils. 

Humiliation burns on her face with each word and object thrown at her. How does she always end up here, completely helpless like a weak little girl? Her thoughts wander back to that night, when Walder Frey stabbed the North in the back. They wander back to that moment when she’d been so close to her freedom, moments away from being out of Walder Frey’s grasp as his ratty soldiers hunted her. Only be shot down like a dog and gutted like a pig. The fear that coursed through her in that moment, the hopelessness that clawed at her when all she could do was cry as she faced her executioners. 

And for a moment she almost did that same thing, nearly sobbing when two of the larger men in Blaviken push back their chairs. Her whole body shakes as the sound of their heavy footsteps cuts through the screams of everyone else. Her heart hammers against her chest when she can see their feet only three paces away from her. Their shadows loom over her form like dark clouds obscuring the sun and plunging everything into darkness. And Visenya can’t help it when a cry escapes her mouth, so quiet the noise in the room swallows it. 

But then it hits her. 

Like an abrupt slap in the face, fire courses through her veins as the blood beneath her skin boils. The sticky substance coating her body evaporates away with quiet sizzles , the vapor dissipating into the air. The fire grows hotter and hotter with each passing second, to the point that Visenya is convinced her skin is beginning to melt off. The two men quickly step back, feeling the intense heat emanating around her. She shuts her eyes, praying to any god that may be listening, the words in her mind jumped and nonsensical - like the ramblings of a mad man. Crescent shaped scars are imprinted onto the wooden floor, courtesy of her fingers digging into it. The heat inside her swells, but no one else in the room seems to have noticed. They don’t see the flames dancing in her golden eyes behind her eyelids; the smoke billowing from the wood beneath her form. 

A piercing scream escapes her mouth, cutting through the room like a knife. The pitch and intensity makes the tavern windows crack in patterns that somewhat resemble spiderwebs, and any other less stable glass elements in the room burst instantly. Blood is dripping from Visenya’s fingertips, evaporating upon coming into contact with the heated wood. Beside her scream, the room is plunged into silence as everyone in the room covers their ears. Their faces scrunched in pain as the pitch of the scream grates against their eardrums. And suddenly it grows cold. People begin shivering, enclosing their arms around themselves in an attempt to conserve any remaining body heat. Each breath they take is visible in a puff of cold air. 

But not for Visenya.

Instead, the fire inside her skyrockets, the temperature reaching alarming rates as the chill overcomes the room. She’s siphoning all the heat and fire from the room into herself. Sweat pours from her body, sizzling and dissipating as soon as it makes contact with her skin. And yet again, Visenya nearly cries, but not out of fear of anyone in the room, but in fear of boiling herself alive. She repositions her aching body, putting her weight on her knees as she attempts to sit up, slowly forcing herself into a standing position. She’s unsteady and nearly falls more times than she could keep track of. Her eyes snap open, wildly glancing about the room, looking for something - anything to help her. But she finds nothing.

Until it stops. For a brief second Visenya feels relief as cold air smacks against her body, but the sensation doesn’t last. 

With a flash, bright golden fire bursts from her, filling the entire room in one second. The force of the blast pushes everything back, people and objects alike being blown away. Visenya is thrown onto the ground, her body smacking against the wood like a ragdoll. The patrons scream as they’re engulfed in the flames, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. She watches as the flames dance around the room, the people flailing around, attempting to put out the fire that burned their skin. Screams of horror and crackling fire create a sick symphony in Visenya’s head. A sadistic joy worms its way inside of her. Moments ago they were spitting on her, treating her as the dirt beneath their feet, and now they’re paying for it. 

She slowly stands from her kneeling position, her amber eyes alight with dark wonder, watching the flames dance through the room. The chaos she created from her pain and sorrow renews her damaged pride. The charred floor beneath her creaks from the weight as she mindlessly moves around the room. 

And she’s drunk. Not on any ale or wine, but on power; pure unbridled power formed from her rage. It’s intoxicating, unexplainable, but she drowns in it. She loses herself in the satisfaction brimming inside her, imagining every person - every face - in this room as the people of Westeros who hurt her most. She closes her eyes, picturing each person perfectly: Robert Baratheon; Tywin Lannister; Walder Frey; Cersei Lannister; Joffrey Baratheon; the Mountain; all of them. And when she opens her eyes, she no longer sees the people of Blaviken, no, they are no longer the stupid citizens who are afriad of their own shadows. In the hysteria she fully believes that all those people are in this room right now, paying for all the pain and hurt they've caused. 

She’s pulled from her dark fantasies by a quiet whimper. Her head snaps towards the source of the noise, the corner farthest from her. Aldred is cowering in a corner, violently screaming as he attempts to put out any fire that touches him. A smile filled with sinister intentions and malicious deeds forms on Visenya's face. In a daze, she moves towards him, and notices a pitcher of rum that managed to not be tipped over or destroyed in the chaos. She grabs it, unbothered by the heat of the metal. It singes upon contact, but her hand remains unburnt. She approaches Aldred at a leisurely pace, a cruel smile appearing on her face. Upon standing before him, Aldred looks up at her, fear in his eyes. His fear feeds something inside of her. A fiendish joy from the power she possesses.

“What the fuck on you doing!” he screams, salty tears pouring from his eyes. Visenya simply lowers herself so she’s at the same level as him. 

“A dragon is not a slave,” Visenya says, enjoying the confusion that dances on his features, mingling with the fear. And with that she pours the alcohol over Aldred, watching as the flames engulf him with a new vigor. The alcohol enhances the ferocity of the flames. She steps back from his body slowly, eyes not moving as he burns. A small laugh bubbled from her throat, watching him wither in pain. His screams bellow louder than before, until there's nothing. Visenya stands in the burning building, dancing through the flames. She watches as they burn, refusing to leave until the last scream is silenced. She sips from the pitcher still in her hand holding it until the bitter drink is drained, along with any life in the room. 

It takes hours for the flames to begin to die out. The patrons previously inside the tavern long dead, their screams no longer echoing on the walls. Visenya stays in the room until all that’s left is ruins and ashes. Burnt human flesh lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of scorched wood and burning rage. At one point the second story collapsed onto itself, mingling with the rubble of the ground level. Visenya managed to avoid being crushed, moving around in a trance-like state. Her eyes dance across the debris, looking for anything of use. 

A glint immediately captures her attention. A steel sword is partially visible. She moves towards it, grasping the longsword in her hands. The sword is dirty, covered in soot and debris, but the roaring dragon on the hilt is still intact. The sword Robb had commissioned for her when they went to war. “A sword fit for a fierce warrior,” he had told her. 

Near the sword were the remnants of her traveling clothes, leaving nothing but scraps of burnt leather. Her cloak was charred in various spots, but somehow it’s relatively untouched. A small mercy Visenya is grateful for. With a clasp of a dragon and wolf intertwined, she attached the cloak to her body. And with these two key pieces, Visenya felt one step closer towards who she’d been, what she is meant to be. 

A dragon. A dragon breathing fire.

The entrance to the tavern is nothing but crumbled stone and melted metal that litters the exit. She moves over some of the rubble lying around on the ground, pointedly not looking at the dead bodies surrounding her. Stepping out of the ruined building, the cold air hitting her body immediately. It’s a welcomed change from the heat emanating from Visenya, cooling her warm skin. Taking a look around, most of the buildings are in a similar state as the tavern. Buildings collapsed on themselves with dead bodies littering the ground. Terror is eternally etched on their faces, the sudden burst of fire taking everyone by surprise. 

Visenya’s gaze lands on the tower belonging to the wizard, completely untouched by the fire. She moves to step towards the tower, but stops herself. Stregobor had no qualm letting the entirety of the town get butchered by Renfri, as long as it saved his own skin. Why would he come out for Visenya? And what would she do if he did? 

Instead she shakes her head, exiting the town in the same direction as Geralt. Visenya’s mind is a void of nothingness, not able to focus on any one thought. Everything is hazy, she walks like it’s not real. None of this is real, it’s a dream, it has to be. Reality seems so far away from her, the ruined town of Blaviken getting foggier with each step taken. 

Until it dawns on her. 

It starts with the bile that stirs in her stomach, creeping up her throat like a slithering snake stalking its next meal. Then her mind begins to clear, the cold wind smacking against her face and cooling the fire beneath her skin. Suddenly the scent of burning flesh overcomes her senses, despite Blaviken being miles away by this point, so far she couldn’t see the smoke billowing from the fires that died out. 

And it’s overwhelming. The scent; the screams; but worst of all, the indifference to the deaths-- no the suffering she caused. Visenya falls to the ground, vomiting the entirety of her stomach’s contents. The harsh scent of burning flesh nauseating her further as tears stained with crimson fall delicately down her cheeks, a stark contrast to the fierce monster she was mere hours ago.

While ignorant and cruel, the people of Blaviken didn’t deserve a slaughter. Not all of them. Especially in not such a horrific manner. 

Maybe she truly is the monster they said she was.

Chapter Text

The road winds and turns ahead of Visenya, like a labyrinth that never ends. The sun bathes everything beneath it in a soft glow warm, the miles upon miles of farm fields surrounding the road basking in its radiance. Fields of overgrown grass tinged gold by the sun act as the walls around the dirt road, swaying lazily in the breeze. Yet the sun is deceiving, a chill hangs in the air, causing any travelers Visenya passes to bundle themselves further into their cloak. However, Visenya finds herself no longer affected by the cold. The fire that laid dormant just under Visenya’s skin since waking up in Blaviken furiously fighting the cold in the wind. It bubbled just under the surface, enough for her to sense it but calm enough to not cause any harm.

She’s been walking for days, mindlessly following the road, allowing the winds to guide her to her next destination. Six days. It’s been six days since the catastrophe that is Blaviken happened. And despite her best efforts, Visenya can’t seem to forget about it, no matter how hard she tries, it lingers in the back of her mind. 

Every night when she lays down to go to sleep, kept company by only the stars and the trees around her, Visenya can hear the screams of the people burning alive. They echo in her mind, coming together in a sick melody, the tones grating and harsh. When she closes her eyes, even for a brief second, she can see them, their images clear enough that she could taste the fear in the air. She’d watch them burn, performing a dance of fire and blood, the personification of what House Targaryen stands for. 

But the worst part isn’t the memories following her, haunting her like ghosts. It isn’t the regret and pain she feels whenever she remembers the terrible faint she bestowed upon them. No, the worst part is she didn’t care. Even on the hardest days, when she was too stuck in her melancholy she didn’t care. Their faces were fleeting, their lives unimportant, and their potential non-existent to Visenya. 

She knows she committed mass murder in same way her grandfather did and she feels nothing. Nothing but a dark obsession with the fire she created. 

So she runs. She locks away Blaviken in the same spot the Starks, her mother and siblings, and her old life reside. 

To the left the grass rustles, breaking Visenya from her thoughts. Turning her head, she sees nothing but tall golden grass lazily swaying in the breeze; no animal or bandit preparing to ambush a lone traveler. Her eyes narrow, surveying the area one last time. A pit rests in her stomach as anxiety creeps into her mind. And as her hackles raise, so does the fire inside of her, ready to incinerate any potential attacker. But there wasn’t anything there. She rotates her body, looking in all directions hoping to spot whatever was the cause of her sudden dread. Subconsciously, her hand rests atop the pommel of her blade, readying herself to unsheathe it in a moment's notice. 

But even as her keen eyes focus on the surrounding area, taking in every minor detail, she sees nothing out of the ordinary. 

A second passes and she's about to turn around and continue towards the nearby inn.

Crunch. 

She turns to her right, ready to unleash hellish fury on the cloaked figure standing before her. She raises her blade and brings it down towards them. The figure manages to nimbly dodge out of the way. In another fluid, motion Visenya strikes, however the blow never manages to make impact, as a blunt object makes contact with the back of her head. And as her body falls to the ground, another figure approaches. Black blotches dot her vision as the figure pulls down their hood, revealing wheat gold hair, sunkissed skin with freckles dotting their cheeks, and pointed ears. 

The person, man or woman, she can’t tell - speaks to another person. The language is light and musical and completely foreign to Visenya. Her ashen brows furrow and she tries to speak, but the words get caught in her throat. So she tries again, this time managing a pitiful whine that sounds more like a dying animal than a person. 

The figure's attention darts back to Visenya, an alarmed expression painted on his face. He says something else to the other person and then turns back to Visenya.

“Get some rest why don’t you,” A moment later, Visenya watches as the pommel of a dagger cracks on the top of her head, rendering her unconscious. 

OoO

It’s cold, that much is obvious, so obvious Visenya - who never gets cold anymore - notices it. Not the type of cold Winterfell bestowed upon its inhabitants, pelting them in its relentless bitter chill and glistening snow that would freeze a man to death without hesitation. No, it’s a different type of cold, the one that can only come from pain and suffering that’s so strong it bleeds into the air and syphons any joy until all that’s left is frigid air that’s still like a statue. 

She doesn’t hear anything, not even the distant sounds of footsteps or voices that slowly trickle into the room. It’s completely silent. The walls in the room are made of stone, with tiny rays of light pouring through the small windows. The ground beneath her is cold and wet, either stone or dirt - she isn’t sure. 

And for a moment Visenya thinks she could be dead, that her attacker put more force into their strike than originally realized, but dead people wouldn’t be tied up. Her hands clench, feeling the rough rope that binds her wrists, it’s frayed and old, but tied tight. 

She turns her head slightly to the right, seeing a head full of bright white hair and a wolf pendant hanging from his neck.

“Geralt.” Her voice sounds like it hadn’t been used in days, which is possible. Who knows how much time has passed.

She feels a surge of anger rushing through her, images of Renfri’s dead body lying on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound on her neck. And for a second she contemplates screaming and yelling at Geralt, scorning him for what he’s done. But as soon as it appears, the feeling fades, ice cold water pouring over the fire in her veins.  

“Jane.” Geralt replies, turning his head so he’s looking at her. His amber eyes stare at Visenya, brows furrowed. “What are you doing here?” 

And just like that the spell was over. Like water breaking through a dam, ambient noise streams into the room, filling Visenya’s ears with distant shouts and feet pounding. And the air… the air feels less dead.

“I don’t know, I was traveling to a nearby inn when I was ambushed. Same as you it would seem.” She turns to her left to try and get a look at their third companion who’s knocked out cold. His skin is pale like ice, but not as luminous or enrapturing, floppy brown hair that looks well washed and conditioned obscures his face. Bright blues and reds color his clothes that are ostentatious and impractical for travel, with sleeves that are slightly puffed at the shoulders. 

Definitely not a warrior. 

Geralt starts jerking to the left and right, attempting to free his arms from the bindings locking them in place. Combined with the sudden movement and grunts of frustration he’s letting out, the man wakes up. His lolling head shoots up, his eyes fantcally surveying the room. They land on Visenya for a moment, his eyes the same shade of blue as his shirt, before they flit to the corner of his vision. He lets out a small sigh of relief, his tense posture physically deflating as he leans against Geralt’s back. 

“This is the part where we escape.” he says. Any panic or fear that he initially showed upon waking up is gone, replaced with a sense of ease and confidence. But not in his abilities, no, he seems positive Geralt will get them out of this mess. 

Visenya can’t help the snort that leaves her mouth. 

“This is the part where they kill us!” Geralt exclaims, not amused by the man behind him. 

“Who’s they?” Visenya asks, hoping one of them could catch her up. Nobody gets the chance to reply however. A woman clothed in poorly made garments and long brown hair burst into the room.

Like a wild boar charging towards its target, she moves to the man behind Geralt, lifting her leg in a smooth motion and driving it into the man's chest. A cry of pain escapes his mouth as the wind is knocked out of him. In a language foreign to Visenya, with similar intonation to the one she heard before being knocked out, the woman says something in a scathing tone. She says the phrase at him like a cobra spitting venom. 

Like the wind, the woman then moves to Geralt greeting him in the same manner, before finally moving to stand before Visenya. Her features are pointed and regal looking with delicately pointed ears. Her eyes are the same shade as the forest during the darkest night, a mix of emerald and black with a hint of silver streaming in from the moon. She would be ethereal, in a goddess of war kind of way, if not for the heavy bags under her eyes, in shades of blue and black or the sunken appearance of her face-- a sign of under-eating. But she’s proud and angry-- like a roaring lion as it shows its teeth. 

Visenya golden eyes narrowed into slits, challenging the foreign woman to treat her as she did Geralt and the other man. And she did not disappoint.

Despite looking as if she could deteriorate any second now, she kicks Visenya with the force of a fabled giant, rendering Visenya breathless. For a brief moment, everything goes black as small dots cover her vision. But she doesn’t move back into the bodies behind her, or let out a grunt of pain. Her pride is too strong to show weakness, even when she’s at an obvious disadvantage. 

Warm liquid begins to pool in her mouth and without hesitation, Visenya spits it out. The crimson liquid sprays in the air, the woman narrowly managing to avoid being hit.

“Elves!” Geralt exclaims. Another man in similar garb to the woman comes into the room with an ornate lute in hand. He begins buckling at the strings, breaking them as he goes. The sound is painful, similar to the noise of silverware scraping against a plate, but worse. It lingers in her head, only to return enfold when the man breaks another string. 

“Oi that’s my lute. Give that back!” the man exclaims, more concerned about his lute than their safety it would seem. 

“Maybe focus on staying alive.” Visenya mutters, wiggling to try and loosen the knot around her wrist. 

“Quick Geralt do your- your- witchering thing!” the man finishes, unperturbed by Visenya’s comment. 

“Shut up!” Geralt yells, before being kicked by the woman again, a crack resonating in the room. Visenya’s face scrunches up in a wince, the sound worse than the pain probably is.  

Like a predator circling its prey, the woman makes her way back to Visenya. She leans down until the two are eye to eye, and doesn't hesitate to slap Visenya across the face, the force causing her head to swing to the left. Before she has a chance to recuperate from the blow, the woman punches the other side of Visenya’s face. Her hands slid down, finding purchase on her cloak. 

The cloak Sansa made for her. One of the only things she has left of the Starks. A reminder of a time when things were simpler and she still had a home.

“No please don’t--!” Visenya desperately pleads, but it’s too late. The woman tears the fabric of the cloak. The side that had the dire wolf embroidery completely torn off. She tosses the piece behind her, bringing another hand towards Visenya’s face. The smack resounds in Visenya’s mind, her inner dragon roaring at the offense. Her skin heats up as her emotions grow unstable. 

The smell of rope being singed fills the air, the binds holding Visenya loosening, however the rope is too thick to immediately burn off. When the woman’s hand makes contact with Visenya, she screams in pain and immediately recoils, tenderly touching her burned hand. The injury doesn’t stop her though. Instead she moved onto Geralt, yelling something in her foreign tongue. 

“My eldar speech is rough, I only got part of that.” the man sarcastically quips. The woman dances around Visenya, refusing to even look at her. 

“Humans, shut up!” she spits, glaring at the man. He then replies to her in the same language, using that same sarcastic tone. 

“Do you wanna die right now?” she says, her tone more hostile than before. By this point she’d moved so she was directly across from the man in blue.

“As opposed to later?” Geralt venomously yells, once against trying to loosen the restraints. While partially singed, the rope is incredibly durable. 

She swiftly kicks the mystery man in the gut, simultaneously the man with the lute breaks another string. She then moves around to Geralt

“Leave off!” Geralt yells at the woman. “He’s just a bard.” he finishes. She responds with a punch to Geralt’s face, a third string breaking.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe.” she says, fourth string

“Everything you touch, you destroy.” another punch to the face, and the final string is broken. The man with the lute then proceeds to break the instrument over his knee as the woman finishes Geralt off with one more blow to the face. 

“You hide in your golden palace. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” 

“Do you like my palace? Hmm?” she replies, maneuvering back to Geralt. She lowers herself to his level, grasping his chin in her hands. “Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?” she asks. Geralt responds with a head butt. The force knocks the woman to the ground and she begins coughing profusely, unable to stand up.

“Haha! Take that pointy!” the man yells. “W-wait what’s wrong with her?” the man worriedly asks once the coughing and wheezing doesn’t cease.

“She’s sick.” someone replies, two more figures entering the room. A man with blonde hair and a… goat standing upright.

“I’ve seen it all.” Visenya mutters to herself, ashen brows raised towards her hairline. Her mouth is turned downwards, watching the...creature enter the room. 

“Oh and who’s this?” the man asks. The blonde figure moves to the woman profusely coughing on the ground. 

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” the goat-man replies, rushing to the other side of the woman. Visenya snorts to herself.

“One hell of a kingdom, even better subjects too.” Visenya mutters under her breath. Filavandrel responds with a piercing glare towards Visenya, but she simply snarls at him, baring her teeth at him like an animal. The blood she spit from her mouth earlier stains her mouth deep red, making her look more like a wild animal rather than human. 

“Not a king. Not by choice.” he says, taking the pack the goat-man gave to him. He turns his attention to the woman and gently picks up her arms. Her hands are bright red, small blisters forming where Visenya had burned her.

“How did you get burned?” the man asks, his voice so quiet Visenya had to strain herself to hear, despite their close proximity.  

“The girl burnt my hand when I touched her.” she replies, looking past him to scowl at Visenya. Geralt looks at her briefly, his brows furrowed and eyes squinted. His gaze soon switches back to their captors.

“You mean you can do that?” the man to her left exclaims, wiggling around in his spot. Visenya pointedly ignores the man.

“You were stealing for them.” Geralt says. The goat whipped his head around towards Geralt. 

“I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.” he says. 

“Forced out? No they chose --” the man begins, sounding as confused as Visenya felt, although for different reasons probably. She has no idea what an elf is, and even less what this goat creature could be identified as.

“Do you know anyone who would willingly leave their home? To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?” Filavandrel interrupts, he then turns his attention back to the elven woman. “Touruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.” he scolds her. 

“What’s three humans in the ground when countless elves have died.” she responds, her voice lacking the fire it held previously. 

“Two humans.” Geralt rebuttals. “And you can let them go.” 

“Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing.” Filavandrel replies, standing from his position, moving towards them. “The humans will attack. Many will die… on both sides.” he spits, moving to stand in front of Geralt. 

“The lesser evil.” Geralt gripes, obviously unamused by the current events. “No matter what you choose you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me. “ Geralt says, conviction behind every word. 

Visenya continues to stare straight ahead, not looking at anything in particular. Flashes of Blaviken enter her mind, but she forcibly pushes them away. 

Filavandrel simply shakes his head, he kneels before Geralt. “I can’t. And this is necessary.” he replies, leaning over to unsheathe a dagger. 

“I understand.” Geralt says. “As long as you understand it won’t be long before you join me.”

“Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil.” Filavandrel says. “Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.”

“Chaos is the same it’s always been, the humans just adapted better.”

“You say adapt, and I say destroy.”

“You are choosing to starve. You’re cutting off your own ear to spite your face.”

“Do you think this is about pride?” Rage simmers under the surface of his words, the rage barely kept in check. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of everything they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered. “The Great Cleansing,” humans call it. I call it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… our babies fertilizer for their grain. I don’t want to bury anyone else.”

He pauses, his voice turning more somber.
Like tiny flares, memories flash into Visenya’s mind: Running around The Red Keep when she was a child; tightly holding onto the skirt of her mother’s dress; reading her any book she could find after she gave birth to Aegon and was bedridden for nearly a year. She can almost smell The Red Keep, a cacophony of floral from the gardens, incense trickling through the windows, and the musk from ancient books. 

“I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers, now I’m Filavandrel of the edge of the world.”

There’s a pause, everything in the room growing still. Visenya moves her gaze to her left, looking towards Filavandrel who is still sitting in front of Geralt.

 His face can only be described as defeated. His silvery blue eyes are dull and dead, a stark difference to the glittering brightness they probably used to burn with. They look more like a foggy sky, the crystalline blue sky muddled by dirt and pollution. His lips are pulled into a thin line, lines embedded in his forehead and around his mouth. His cheeks are sunken in as well, dirt spotting his sun kissed skin. 

“I understand.” Her voice is raw, why is it so raw? “When I was six, my family was killed in a rebellion. My mother and siblings were murdered, and my father fell in battle. The savage who killed my mother was pardoned and the killer of my father became king. Neither suffered any consequences. In fact, the bodies of my brother and sister were wrapped in cloaks in the color of their killer to be presented to the new king as a token of loyalty,” 

It’s strange, speaking about past events outloud and remembering each detail so vividly. She’s always known their fate, the sound of her mother’s screams keeping her up in the middle of the night, the sound of her skull being crushed haunting even the sweetest dreams. 

“I was raised in a foreign country by a family not my own. But I adapted.” 

Filavandrel moves from his spot in front of Geralt to instead kneel before Visenya. She manages to wiggle her hands from the partly burnt rope, grasping Filavandrel’s hand in her own. He recoils in shock but doesn’t pull away, his eyes locked on Visenya.

“I never forgot my dead and neither should you.” she continues in a much softer tone than before. “But I adapted,” Visenya says, looking Filavandrel directly in the eye. “And you can too.” 

He simply continues to stare at her, his eyes boring deep inside her own. An air of hopelessness and sorrow surrounds him, his light blue eyes are more ancient than his youthful face should allow. And he’s beautiful, despite how malnourished and dirty he is, dressed in rags that are ill fitting on his scrawny form. She can see past all of that and visualize the former glory he used to possess before everything came crashing down. 

“I can’t.” he says. “If my people come down from these mountains, that would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us. Pariah’s from half-blood children.” he fiercely exclaims. 

“Then go somewhere else.” Geralt interrupts. “Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.” he finishes. Filavandrel releases himself from Visenya’s grasp, moving back to Geralt.

“Like you, Witcher?” 

“I have learned to live with them. So that I may live” Geralt simply replies. The woman stands from her sitting position, moving over to them.

“Please my king. There are others. A new generation. Evellian who wish to fight!” the woman nearly shouts, burning passion lacing each word. “Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now” she finishes. Filavandrel leans over, grasping the hilt of his dagger once more. 

“Wait!” the Sylvan exclaims, grabbing onto Filavandrel’s shoulder.

“Torque, stand aside.” Filavandrel exclaims, jerking his shoulder out of the Sylvan's grasp.

“The Witcher could’ve killed me. But he didn’t. He’s different, like us.” the Sylvan finishes. Filavandrel simply shoves Torque away with his shoulder, staring intently at Geralt, his eyes occasionally flickering back to Visenya.  

“If you must kill me… I am ready. But the Sylvan’s right.” Geralt intervenes. “Don’t call me human.” he holds his head up to expose his neck to the elves. Filavandrel moves to the other side, directly across from Visenya, holding up the dagger high in the air. Visenya’s eyes squeeze shut, not wanting to watch Geralt and their third companion be butchered. Like lightning, the dagger flies through the air and a sharp crack rings in the air. The ropes binding their arms loosens and falls to the ground. Visenya cracks one eye, then slowly the next. 

“Oh good, we're not dead. Love it when I do that.” 

OoO

“That was a nice touch, the whole ‘I know how you feel’ thing.” The man mutters to Visenya, a lopsided grin resting on his face. His floppy brown hair is disheveled, pieces of it sticking to his forehead due to sweat. Some blood spills from the corner of his mouth, where the elven woman hit him - multiple times. His bright eyes look at Visenya like a puppy would look at a child, wide-eyed and full of wonder. “Really sets a vulnerable tone.” he finishes, strumming the new lute Filavandrel had gifted him to replace his now broken one. 

Geralt is a few steps away from them, gathering his weapons and other items the elves took when they captured him. Despite not looking at them and giving no indication he’s listening, Visenya knows he is. His attention seems too intently focused on the pack in his hands. 

Visenya simply rolls her eyes at the man, moving across the room to retrieve her possessions. As she passes him, Geralt nods his head in acknowledgment but says nothing. His eyes are scrutinizing her face like she’s a locked box that he’s attempting to unravel. Not that Visenya can condemn him for his curiosity, only moments ago she revealed a piece of her life in Westeros. However, Geralt was merciful enough to not vocalize his inquiries and for that, she is grateful. 

“I do believe this belongs to you.” Filavandrel stands behind her, a familiar longsword in his hands, offering her the blade. Visenya grasps it, the cool metal of the hilt a stark contrast to her warm skin. The silver dragon design coils around the hilt, the gleaming red gemstones set in the design imitating two draconic eyes peering into Visenya’s soul. The blade makes a soft shing as it’s slowly unsheathed. The smooth metal glistens in the light as the soft sunbeams reflect off it. She takes her time intently inspecting the blade, memorizing each slight imperfection from the extensive battles it’s seen. 

“A dragon on the hilt, an interesting touch,” he notes, watching Visenya tracing the details of the blade with her eyes. Filavandrel notes the reverence in her eyes, often not seen in an untrained soldier with a sword. 

“A gift from a friend,” Visenya answers his unasked question, eyes moving to meet his. His gaze is as intense as it was before, however, the delicate smile resting on his face eases any discomfort. His eyes move to Visenya’s cloak, torn from where Touruviel had ripped it when Visenya was bound. Her hand follows his eyes, feeling the ribbon of the cloak with the embroidered wolf. It limply dangles from her shoulder area, the damage far beyond anything Visenya’s skill could fix, at least to make it appear as it was before. 

“I am sorry about your cloak.” he apologizes, guilt flooding his facial expressions. Visenya simply shakes her head, hand dropping back to her side. 

“It’s fine, could've been worse.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders, not sure what else to say. 

“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that, while the weather is comfortable during the day, the nights are cold - too cold to go without proper supplies.” he rebuttals. His concern for her comfort moderately amuses Visenya. Her lips faintly turn upwards, not a full smile, but enough to show her gratitude towards Filavandrel. 

“I don’t find myself getting cold these days,” Visenya answers, her voice softer than the hints of sunlight flooding the room. A stark contrast to the severe tone she’d used moments ago towards Touruviel. 

An amused expression snakes itself onto Filavandrel’s face, his soft blue eyes alight with humor and an upward curve of his lips. “Even so, I feel I should still apologize on Touruviel’s behalf. She can be overly zealous concerning her convictions.” Filavandrel replies, his tone apologetic. Before he can continue with needless apologies, Visenya reaches her hand out to grasp his own, cutting him off. 

“You don’t need to apologize. Your people have seen the worst humanity has to offer.” Visenya remarks eyes quickly darting to Touruviel who’s been watching Visenya intently, hands ghosting on her dagger as Visenya makes physical contact with Filavandrel. Her gaze moves back to him as she removes her hand from his. “She holds an explosive passion for her people, perhaps you could learn a thing or two from her.” Visenya teases, her words lacking any bite to them. A hearty chuckle leaves Filavandrel’s mouth, the humor returning to his eyes.

By this point Geralt and his companion have walked through the doorway to leave, Geralt awkwardly hanging by the exit watching Visenya, not attempting to be subtle. In his hands, he holds a pack that distinctly resembles hers. 

“Perhaps so.” he muses after his laughter silences. Noticing where her gaze is, Filavandrel turns towards the exit, holding his arm out to Visenya, offering himself as an escort. She delicately weaves her arm around his elbow, a nonverbal cue for them to move forward. 

“If I thought I could, I’d point you in the direction of my aunt, Daenerys. From the information I’ve been given, the people have taken to calling her the Breaker of Chains. Her army and three dragons would make for a worthy ally to your cause and a fearsome enemy to your oppressors.” Visenya absentmindedly says as they get closer to the exit. Upon closing the distance between them, Geralt tosses Visenya’s pack towards her, which her free hand catches with ease.

“Queen Calanthe would be cowering in her palace.” Filavandrel muses in a light-hearted tone. “However from your phrasing and previous information, I gather this aunt is somewhere my people can’t reach,” he adds, taking note of her slightly crestfallen tone. 

“Your assumption is correct.” Visenya plainly replies, staring straight ahead. Her thoughts once again wander home. The desire she’d felt to sail east had burned like ice in her veins upon hearing about the return of dragons due to Daenerys. The only thing keeping her was the loyalty she’d felt to Ned Stark and by extension - Robb and the northerners. A small part of her wonders how different things would’ve been if she had left, sailed to Slaver's Bay and never looked back, joining her Aunt in war as opposed to the North. Would she still become food to the crows, or be covered in glittering jewels worthy of a dragon princess. Would she don glorious plate armor, the design similar to her own father’s? These distant thoughts matter little, Visenya made a conscious choice to stay, and in turn die, in Westeros.

While Visenya was too busy lost in her own mind, Filavandrel had guided her out of the building the elves made their sanctuary, far away from bigoted humans. The natural crevices in the walls act as windows, allowing for natural sunlight to stream into the hall. The sun is in the beginning stages of setting, creating a warm glow, making the beings in the vicinity appear ethereal and surreal. Visenya’s eyes trace the faint halo above Geralt’s head, the sun reflecting off his white hair beautifully. 

Beautiful; not a word Visenya would think to use to describe Geralt, but it fits.

Geralt and his companion wander ahead of them, the Witcher never more than three steps from her. It warmed Visenya’s heart, that despite hardly knowing her, he felt the need to protect her - something Visenya doesn’t doubt he’d be easily capable of. Despite the elves vastly outnumbering them, they were starving and Geralt is highly trained and they were starving.

The elves they pass watch them warily, most wearing vicious sneers on their faces, keeping a scrutinizing eye on the humans. A few of the elves reach to grasp their weapons, preparing themselves for a fight. The floppy-haired man carefully watches his surroundings, his expression giving away his nerves as he worries his bottom lip. Geralt seems completely calm - if he is aware of their hostility, he remains unbothered. But if Blaviken was any indication of his treatment, hostility is something he’s very familiar with. 

The closer they get to the exit, the brighter the sunlight grows, the elves becoming more frequent until eventually, they reach what seems to be the main entrance. Filavandrel pulls his arm away from Visenya’s and moves towards the front of the group. He opens the door, motioning for Geralt to move through. He mutters lowly to Geralt, the witcher replying with a simple grunt. Next through is the floppy-haired man, nodding in acknowledgment at Filavandrel. Visenya’s gaze locks onto Touruviel, who’d been stalking behind them, her razor-sharp gaze locked on Visenya, who offers the woman a small smile, attempting to diffuse the elf’s rage. Touruviel responds with a sneer, clutching her injured hand that had been wrapped in bandages. She spits something at Visenya in her native tongue, lacing the words with venom, but makes no hostile movements. 

“Perhaps the finest thing to come from this is making your acquaintance.” Filavandrel’s words pull Visenya’s attention back to him. He’s still standing by the door, arms outstretched towards her. A beaming smile rests on his face, his eyes no longer weighed down by the responsibilities that were thrusted upon him - at least for the moment, making his timeless face appear more youthful. It’s so infectious Visenya can’t help but return it. She moves towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she passes. 

“I’m flattered, your grace.” Visenya quips, light joking lacing the formality. He raises his eyebrows at her joke but does nothing else. She moves past the door with a hand still on Filavandrel, feeling the fresh air hitting her face. She turns to face him, his body moving like a magnet to match her. “About what Touruviel said earlier about a new generation wanting to fight back,” she remarks, Filavandrel opens his mouth to interrupt, but Visenya pushes on before he can. “You can count me in. It would be an honor to fight alongside your people.” she finishes. The light expression on his face instantly shifts into disbelief, his eyes, however, look at her with an admiration that wasn’t present before.

“You shall be the first ally I call upon,” he claims, managing to regain his composure. Visenya responds with a beaming smile. Her golden eyes - beaming with delight - could rival the sun on the hottest summer day. She leans forward, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek. 

“I promise you, my life is eternally richer by meeting you,” she tells him, and she means it. “Until we meet again Filavandrel,” she adds, before releasing her grip and moving towards Geralt and his companion. Geralt is watching with a neutral expression and his arms crossed over his chest. His companion’s composure is the exact opposite, watching with wide eyes, trying to take in every detail of the scene before them. Unknowingly to Visenya, he is planning his next ballad, based on what unfolded before him. She moves towards them, not stopping once she reaches them but just continues forward. Geralt and his companion follow suit, however, the man rushes forward until he’s keeping pace with Visenya. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure to formally meet my lady,” he comments, dashing to stand in front of Visenya. She pauses her movement as the man kneels before her, grasping her hand in his own. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, but you may call me Jaskier,” he says as he attempts to pull her hand towards his lips but Visenya jerks away before he can. 

“Jane.” she plainly replies, hoping to not encourage the man further. Either he doesn’t get the hint, or he decides to disregard it.

“I am but a humble bard blinded by the beauty of the woman before me…” he begins but is interrupted by Geralt, who is a few steps behind Visenya.

“Leave her, Jaskier,” he demands. His eyes are locked on the man in question, his ashen brows furrowed and lips pulled in a tight line. 

“Perhaps the lady would like to hear a ballad, each line inspired by her beautiful golden eyes.” Jaskier continues, completely ignoring Geralt. Visenya sighs in annoyance, staring straight ahead. She side-eye's Jaskier, sending a chilly glare his way before continuing to move, albeit at a faster pace than before hoping to get ahead of the persistent bard. Similar to when Geralt demanded Jaskier to leave her alone, he chooses to ignore Visenya’s cold reception of him. The soft sounds of a lute begin to resound in the area when Jaskier starts singing a soft ballad, the song lyrics thinly veiled references about Visenya. 

Geralt moves up until he’s walking beside Visenya, leaving the bard in the back. His lips still pulled into a tight line, eyes narrowing in concentration as he stares ahead. There is a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, that grows more apparent the louder Jaskier’s singing becomes. His jaw is clenched so tightly, Visenya could swear a few of his veins have popped. A slight smirk tugs itself onto Visenya's face as she continues to watch his irritation grow. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt notices Visenya’s amusement. 

“Something funny?” he questions, his deep voice closely resembling a growl. Visenya’s gaze moves from Geralt’s face to the rolling fields ahead of them. The soft crunch of the grass beneath her feet is a stark contrast to Jaskier’s incessant singing. A soft giggle bubbles from her mouth, her hand immediately coming up to her lips to stifle the sound. But the damage has been done. Instead of looking at her out of the corner of his eyes, he turns to face her head-on. She shakes her head, unable to silence her laughter. All the while, Geralt continues to stare at her. The only sign of his amusement is the slight twitch in his furrowed brows. 

“It’s nothing. I just forgot how vexed you always seem to be.” Visenya muses, after managing to silence her laughter. His face relaxes as her words sink in, a single brow rising in questioning. 

“This is the second time we’ve encountered each other.” he points out, a teasing undertone hidden in his gruff voice. 

“Then it would seem you’ve made an impression, Geralt of Rivia,” Visenya claims, not missing a beat. She turns her head to meet his gaze for a split second, a teasing grin resting on her lips, amber eyes alight with mischief. A simple grunt is all Visenya gets in response to her banter.

A moment of silence passes between the two of them. By this point, Jaskier’s singing has ceased and instead, he opted to idly strum his new lute, silent for the first time since Visenya met him. The sky is a beautiful blend of vivid oranges and reds. Fluffy white clouds conceal the majority of the sun, causing the rays that peek through the clouds to appear more concentrated. Visenya can’t help but stare, her face alight with childlike wonder at the sky being so beguiling and surreal, looking akin to a painting rather than a natural cause. Geralt sneaks a glance at Visenya out of the corner of his eye. 

“So my fair friends! Where to now?” Jaskier exclaims, rushing to stand in between Geralt and Visenya - his brief silence over. His lute is slung over his shoulder, his face stuck in a puppy dog state. He throws his arms over their shoulders, however, Geralt swiftly shoves Jaskier off of him, continuing forward at a more rapid pace than before. 

“That depends, where are you planning to head off to.” Visenya inquires, side-eyeing Jaskier once again. A beaming smile breaks out on his lips, his baby blue eyes nearly as beaming as the brightest star. 

“Well my lady, I will need to head back to the inn in Posada to gather my things, then perhaps I was thinking about going to Venngerburg. Who knows what the capital could offer a bard like me!” Jaskier exclaims, removing his arm from her shoulder, opting to instead practically dance around her, twirling in front of Visenya, finishing his movements by smoothly kneeling to the ground and brandishing a single flower. It’s a delicate wildflower, it’s petals a vivid red that blends with the sunset above it. Appearing as if the same artist that painted the sky dotted the field with flowers.

“Perhaps the lady would care to join me?” he asks, offering the flower to her. Visenya’s eyes flicker to Geralt momentarily before moving back to Jaskier. His eyes are hopeful as they dart across her features, attempting to discern her reaction. After a moment of contemplation, she grabs the flower from his outstretched hand.

“Perhaps the lady would like to make sure she is on the other side of the continent,” Visenya replies, mimicking Jaskier’s tone. She glides past him, placing the flower behind her ear. Jaskier stays frozen in his position, his brain not fully registering the turn of events. 

She briskly moves towards Geralt to match his pace once again. The only acknowledgment he shows her is a quick glance at her before returning his attention forward. After a few moments, Jaskier manages to gather his bearings and moves to walk behind the duo. The three of them continue in silence. With no conversation acting as a distraction, Visenya finds her thoughts wandering. The elves had struck a nerve in her, their tragic fall from grace too similar to Visenya’s own house's demise. Injustice appeared to run rampant in this world - similar to Westeros. Despite being reborn with fire magic, Visenya still finds herself helpless to do anything to stop it. It was almost better when she couldn’t do anything at all.  

OoO

Eventually, they reach the main road - a brown mare that Visenya recognizes from Blaviken as Geralt’s - is patiently waiting on the side of the road. It snorts and shakes its head as Geralt approaches. He places his hand on its head, gently petting the horse as he softly speaks to it. It’s quite possibly the most tender Visenya has ever seen Geralt act. The sweet smile that had crept onto her face immediately disappears as she notices Jaskier approaching her. Before he has a chance to begin talking, Visenya throws a glare his way. 

“Don’t,” she says before moving towards Geralt. By this point, Geralt is guiding the mare towards the road. Once again, she takes her place beside him. The sound of a lute smacking against a surface alerts Visenya that Jaskier is following. 

“So what now?” Visenya asks Geralt as they wander aimlessly down the road. 

“Leaving.” Geralt mutters.

“Off to bigger and better adventures?” Visenya teases, nudging Geralt with her shoulder, a sly smirk on her face. He snorts in reply, unmoved by Visenya’s attempt to lightly push him. 

“Something like that,” he replies, a hint of a smile on his grim face. “And you?” he asks, his gaze meeting her own. Visenya sighs, not having a clue what her next course of action should be. 

“Well, my cloak is ruined so I’ll need to get it fixed. Which means I’ll need coin, which also means I need to get a job. Maybe the inn has an idiot that needs their gold relieved from their pouch.” she wistfully replies.

“I do!” Jaskier exclaims from the back. Geralt and Visenya stop and turn to look at Jaskier. His arm is raised in the air, a giddy expression lighting up his face. He swiftly lowers his hand upon gaining their attention. He stands up straighter, attempting to smooth out his clothes. “I mean - I might possibly have a job for you my lady Jane,” he adds, trying to keep his voice level and tone nonchalant. 

“Really?” Visenya asks, an amused look on her face as she raises a single eyebrow, watching the man expectantly. 

“Truly,” Jaskier replies, running to close the distance between them. “I find myself in need of a bodyguard of sorts if you will. A bard of notoriety such as myself will need the highest security gold can buy.” he finishes, running his hands through his already messy hair. Geralt snorts, nudging his horse to continue moving forward, leaving Visenya and Jaskier. Visenya momentarily glances at Geralt’s retreating figure before returning her attention to Jaskier. 

“I’ve never heard of you before,” she notes, scrutinizing Jaskier’s face, trying to see if his offer had any double meanings. 

“I assure you, my lady, I’m up and coming. Before you know it, kings and queens everywhere will be begging for me to perform at their parties!” Jaskier exclaims, wrapping his arm around Visenya’s shoulder as he leads her down the road - the same direction Geralt went. “Which means - should I acquire any rivals or perhaps trouble during my travels - I will need someone with a very large sword at my back.” he continues. Visenya once again snorts, watching Jaskier from the corner of her eyes. 

“Fine.” she relents. His eyes widen in surprise momentarily at her agreeance to his offer. “But there’s going to be some rules.” she sternly finishes, narrowing her eyes at him to get her point across. 

“Anything.” he quickly exclaims, with a large smile on his face. With the fluidity of a practiced warrior, Visenya shoves her elbow into Jaskier’s side. The bard crumbles to the ground, moaning in pain as he holds onto his right side, attempting to ease the pain.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, continuing down the road.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

When she was a little girl, Visenya was called into Lord Stark's study nearly every day. She'd shuffle into the room, hiding a coy smirk and mischievous giggles behind a straight face, unable to look him in the eyes as she fumbled through unconvincing lies. At the time she thought herself the finest liar in the Seven Kingdoms, ego growing larger with each doe-eyed look, and words of denial laced with feigned innocence. And each time she stepped out of the room, she'd miss the small smile pulling on Lord Stark's mouth, eyes glittering with amusement as melancholy consumed him, reminding him of times when he was much smaller and the world much bigger.

With age, each step into that study grew less intimidating, the walls growing shorter as she grew longer. At some point between six and ten it changed, instead of swiping pastries from the kitchens, she was hiding away with Jon, waving around a training sword that's too large and too sharp; and inevitably, one morning a large cut blossomed on her face. She went into the study sobbing like an infant while holding a medical cloth to her wound, fears of getting in trouble making her anxiety soar high into the cloudy sky. But instead of sour eyes and trembling lips, she left with a beaming smile on her face and orders to begin training with Ser Rodrik. Immediately she was ushered to Maester Luwin and put on bed rest for the day - Theon called her a stupid girl trying to act like a man, whilst Jon brought her wildflowers from a field. She made sure to hit Theon extra hard during their sparring sessions.

Then there was the time she tackled Theon and beat him bloody when she was a girl of ten and two after he insulted her father; wailing like a banshee, screaming into the universe that Theon and his family were cowards. Her small fists beat into him with as much tact and technique as a wild animal. Everything he ate for a week straight had a metallic aftertaste, while Visenya wore her smugness like a crown. Lord Stark gave her a stern lecture about not hitting people just because they make you angry, yet she couldn't help but preen like a bird when noticing the glint of amusement in his icy eyes. Robb would laugh every time he saw Theon for a full month, meanwhile, Theon's glares didn't disappear until his final scar did. Only then did he begin to acknowledge Visenya's presence again. He never brought up her family again, and she returned the favor.

Of course, she could never forget the time she was brought in - shivering like a leaf, looking as if she'd slept in the deepest ocean - two guards at her side as they escorted her. Lord Stark dismissed them immediately, waiting with patient eyes and a kind smile for Visenya to explain where she'd run off to. The dam broke and she began sobbing, blubbering nonsense that not even she understood. But Lord Stark didn't yell at her, demanding she speak clearly. Instead, he stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and carefully approached Visenya. Kneeling to be eye level with her smaller form, he just hugged her, encompassing her with the fatherly warmth she couldn't remember ever getting from Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe he did hug her when she was a child and the world wasn't crumbling around them, but if he did, she couldn't remember. So she just hugged Lord Stark so tightly she wouldn't be surprised if he had red marks where her arms were.

Then only four years later, she was called in again, only this time Lady Stark stood beside him, strained smiles and stony eyes greeting her, and held tightly in Lord Stark's hand was a letter, the parchment nearly ripping in half from his grip. It was nearly identical to the one she sent off three days prior, with Essos it's destination and Targaryen the receiver, signed with a desperation to connect with blood. Lord Stark gently explained to her that the King may see it as treason if she was found to be contacting the only other remaining Targaryen's, finding the reason to do what he's been itching to do since the rebellion. And Visenya couldn't bring herself to tear apart her family by selfish actions, not after everything they've done for her. That day she didn't walk out triumphant or ecstatic, instead, she burned with rage and shame; rage at the world and shame at herself for caring so much. She never tried to contact Daenerys again.

The final time she ever walked into that study was a week before Robert Baratheon was set to arrive at Winterfell. Lady Stark wasn't there, in fact, no one else was anywhere near the vicinity. He told her to sit down, not willing to delve into the reason that she was there until she complied. Ned Stark was never one to beat around the bush, finding it more practical to just say what needs to be said and move on. That was the first time Visenya ever saw him fumble over his words. Finally, he managed to tell her what exactly the King had demanded when he was in Winterfell. He wanted Visenya married off and out of Winterfell. She was a statue at that moment, having a million things she wanted to say, but simply nodded, turned, and left the room without another word. A day after the King arrived, so did her potential suitors. The King insisted he should be the one to choose her husband, completely crushing the dwindling hope that her future husband wouldn't be so terrible. The decision ended up being between a child of ten and two and a boy only a year older than that, both from two minor houses in the South; until Robb interrupted - respectfully of course - and declared that he would marry Visenya. She couldn't decide what was worse, the prospect of marrying someone she sees as a brother or watching Jon's crestfallen face. Jon wouldn't look at her until the night before he left for the Night's Watch, and she couldn't look Robb in the eyes until he did.

This time, standing in front of the door that leads into the room Jaskier and Geralt reside in, with damp hair and clothes sticking to wet skin, she is a storm. A flurry of emotions raging in her mind; anger, sadness, melancholy, and fear melting together until she can't feel anything, the sensory overload leaving her numb. She eyes the empty hall like an animal stuck in a cage, her heart pounding, seconds away from bolting out of the inn and never returning, living in the forest as far from people as possible. But then the sound of Jaskier talking and Geralt's angry mumbling filters into Visenya's ears. Her anxiety increases, but the storm softens as she straightens her back, all thoughts of running suddenly gone.

'The blood of the dragon must not be afraid.'

Visenya sends a prayer to the Warrior for courage and the Crone to give her the wisdom to not let her anger control her, not wanting to lash out again. She reaches a hand up, pausing it midair for a second. With one last silent prayer, she grasps the handle in hand and pushes open the door.

"--quit your complaining, you look great! Scary and dashing, what more could a Witcher want?" Jaskier says to Geralt, waving his hands wildly. Geralt stands in the room, wearing clothes suited for minor nobility, a stark difference from his usual armor, a scowl chiseled into his beautiful face.

He's in shades of blue: a Stark blue cotton jacket hugging his biceps, a stone grey shirt tucked into his leather pants that hug his toned legs in the most flattering way, wolf pendant hanging from his neck. His white hair is tied back in its usual fashion but appears to have been brushed, clearly the doing of Jaskier. Despite his obvious discomfort, he's like a piece of art, looking like the subject of a painting that hangs in a noble lady's room.

As the door clicks behind her, Geralt and Jaskier look at her. Jaskier's eyes immediately flicker away, face draining of all color as he takes a small step backward. It's small, the change in his demeanor, but it's enough to break Visenya's heart that she thought had been encapsulated by stone and ice. A million words nearly fall from her mouth, at the very tip of her tongue, but she finds herself losing the ability to speak. So instead she turns her attention to Geralt, feigning the smirk that usually naturally falls on her face.

"You clean up nicely. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't think you were just covered from head to toe in monster guts," she teases, willing her voice to sound as light as air, not at all weighed down by the anxiety in her heart. Geralt narrows his eyes, seeing through her façade the second she places it on, but he says nothing. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and grunts, turning back to Jaskier.

"See, I told you it's fine. Now Jane, be a dear and put on that dress in the corner." Jaskier moves through the room like water, stepping behind Geralt and pushing him towards the exit, making Visenya step further into the room, flattening against the wall to allow them to slip past her. Geralt's shoulder brushes against her, and it feels like electricity. Not that she'd ever tell him that. Meanwhile, Jaskier is looking anywhere and everywhere, as long as he doesn't have to look at her.

The door clicks behind them, the shuffling of feet gone, leaving Visenya alone with her thoughts, again. She shuffles over to the other side of the room, seeing a bundle of dark fabric that must be her dress. She closes the distance, holding the fabric between her fingers. It's a deep purple and almost softer than anything she's ever touched. Sighing, she begins to pull her clothes off of her body, haphazardly throwing them onto the ground. She holds up the dress, the ends touching the floor; it's beautiful, with a silver belt cinching in the waist and a slit up the leg, allowing free range of movement. And for a moment she thinks Jaskier chose these colors on purpose, purple for the eyes she used to recognize, and silver for the hair that used to flow freely, but that's impossible. How could he know the importance of those colors when he doesn't even know her real name?

So she pushes those thoughts away and begins the process of stepping into the dress and pulling it on. The fabric drapes loosely off the shoulder, the back flowing into a sort of cloak style. It's light as air, moving in perfect sync with her, ideal for looking pretty but also loose enough to allow her to fight if necessary; nothing like the heavy and restricting dresses of the North. She clasps the belt, adding some shape to her body so it no longer looks like she's drowning in excess fabric. She holds Renfri's broach, the emeralds, and rubies shining and bright compared to her dress. She pins it in the place it always is, over her left breast.

She puts both hands under her hair, starting to pull it out from under the dress when there's a knock at the door. She starts to turn, the dress moving around her feet like a soft breeze, when the door clicks, creaking as it opens.

"Jaskier wanted me to bring you--" Geralt says, trailing off as Visenya turns to face him, the dress fully on display. A smile pulls on her previously dour face, as the last of her damp hair falls over her shoulders. In his hands are a pair of velvet black boots, the heels higher than her usual travel shoes, with a silver buckle adorning them, not as fine as what high royalty would wear, but certainly nicer than her everyday ones. His gold eyes rake up and down her body, mouth slightly agape.

"My shoes? Thank you, I was hoping I wouldn't have to go to this feast barefoot." She saunters over to him, making sure to take her time with every step. She stops right in front of him, tilting her head up to look at his face, Geralt's large form looming over her. His eyes follow her, tilting his head down as well.

She grabs onto the shoes, pulling until Geralt grip on them slacks. Without moving her eyes from his, she slips each shoe on, the inside lined with a soft fabric, making them hug her feet comfortably. Geralt breaths out a laugh, but says nothing else.

"You look nice." he finally says, his voice rougher and lower than usual, causing Visenya's eyes to light up as he struggles to swallow for a moment.

"You don't look too bad either." She raises a single brow, slowly raising herself to stand on the tips of her toes, inching closer to Geralt's face.

"Hmm." He just grunts, leaning down to close the distance between them. And when their lips are seconds away from touching she veers to the left, placing a ghost of a kiss on the corner of his lips.

"See you out there." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

o0o0o0o

"--keep your head down and pretend to be a mute, can't have anyone figuring out who you are," Jaskier mutters to Geralt as soon as they step into the Great Hall. Most of tonight's guests have already arrived, standing in small clusters that are interspersed throughout the large room. They're rowdy, much more like the Northerners that Visenya's accustomed to, tankards of Cintran Ale in the hands of every person. They're dressed in a wide variety of colors, most of the women wearing dresses made from velvet and much warmer fabrics than the chiffon that languidly hangs off Visenya. A season of jewel tones surround them: reds, greens, and purples as far as the eye can see.

"Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!" a voice exclaims, a slew of loud drunken shouts from the nearby crowds following the proclamation. A man in forest green finery that looks slippery to the touch begins to approach them. Well dressed, but certainly not the most expensive-looking man in the room. His shoulder-length thick black hair is pushed away from his face, a matching thick beard covering his chin. Light reflects off of the greying hairs that pepper it, betraying how old he is. His eyes, that are as green as his tunic, scan the three of them, lingering on Visenya but ultimately he focuses on Geralt.

"Oh shit," Jaskier mutters, glancing around the room, smiling and waving awkwardly at everyone looking at them.

"I haven't seen you since the plague," he says, silver tankard in hand as he draws closer, an easy smile on his face.

"Good times, Mousesack," Geralt says, his tone and posture rigid and uncomfortable; never one for crowds it would seem. The man doesn't seem put off by Geralt's dour demeanor, instead, he breathes out a laugh, pointing at Geralt with his tankard.

"I have missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now that the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost." he closes the distance, grabbing ahold of both of his shoulders, the smile on his face falling just an inch. "Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?"

Geralt turns to Jaskier, his signature scowl on his face. Jaskier just turns to look at them, playing with his fingers, eyes wide and nervous, but ultimately silent.

"And who might this be," the man says, moving his attention from Geralt to Visenya. She grants him a smile, much closer to Geralt's stiff one than his easy-going smile. He holds out a hand and she shakes it, trying to match his firm grip.

"Jane."

"Mousesack, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He's charming, with a wide grin on his face and bright eyes. There's also a spark when he makes contact with her. Not the kind that plagues sappy romance novels, but a literal spark of...something that leaves the hair on her arms standing and her spine-tingling.

"Mousesack is a druid." Geralt answers her unspoken question, looking between the two of them with a blank expression.

"I see, and you and Geralt are friends I presume?" Visenya asks, slipping her hand from his tight grasp.

"Old friends, it's been what...50 years?" Mousesack says, glancing at Geralt for confirmation.

"Something like that." Geralt says, scanning the crowd. Visenya turns to him, eyes widening a fraction.

"How old are you exactly?" She asks, eyes narrowing. It never occurred to her that a Witcher would age differently. The passage of time here never occurs to her much. She goes to sleep at night and wakes up at dawn, spending the day traveling, sitting in inns, or looking threatening and mean to potential aggressors, only to start the cycle over again. How much time has passed since she first arrived? Everything seems to pass in a blur, she never bothers to think about it.

"Over 100," he gruffly responds, glancing over at her before returning his eyes elsewhere.

"You don't keep track?" Visenya asks mind short-circuiting momentarily. How is that even possible, to be over 100 years old, yet not look a day over 30? It has to be a side effect of being a Witcher, it's the only logical explanation.

"Why would I?"

"I guess when you're that old it doesn't matter," she says, brows furrowing as her eyes narrow.

"I never thought I'd see the day that someone matched your dour attitude. Come, walk with me," Mousesack merrily exclaims, words slurring together. He flashes Visenya another smile as he begins to effortlessly move through the crowd of people. Geralt follows beside him, Visenya keeping pace with him.

"I've been advising the Skelligen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me," Mousesack says, people, cheering and holding up drinks towards him as he passes.

"Old and crusty," Geralt says. "How long before this horse-trading is done? I find royalty best taken in... small doses."

Visenya snorts as she observes the room around her, trying to memorize every tiny detail. There's a high table at the very end of the hall, with a large throne in the center, like a shining prized jewel. It's nothing near as magnificent as how she imagines the Iron Throne to be, but it's large none-the-less. Sitting by the empty throne is a girl, closer to Visenya's age than not if her appearance is anything to go by. With pale skin that glows in the dim candlelight, her golden-silvery hair compliments her beautifully. It's in an ornate braid on the back of her head, falling over her shoulder, a gold ribbon weaving in and out of it. Her emerald green dress is adorned with a large gold necklace, the small emerald jewels in it dancing in the candlelight, a delicate gold circlet resting on her head. Their eyes lock, and Visenya finds herself entranced by her bright blue eyes, unable to force herself to be aware of her current surroundings.

"I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?" Mousesack says, his only acknowledgment of Geralt's first comment is the small smirk on his lips.

"Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?"

"Come with me, there's much for you to see. It's not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle, Eist Tuirseach." Mousesack says, pointing towards a large man with fiery hair and a matching beard that stands with a large crowd of people, easily one of the loudest people in the room.

Princess Pavetta's fair face wears a frown, similar to her own, but not at all with the fire Visenya holds. Instead, she looks more like a scared girl than a defiant dragon. Not at all unlike herself all those years ago, when she sat at the High Table beside Lord Stark in Winterfell, with weaves of traditional Northern braids in her hair as Robert Baratheon auctioned her off to the highest bidder, like a prized broodmare. But that's the life of a princess, exiled or not, your love is sold off for political and monetary gain. Marriage is never about love for royalty. Yet Visenya's heart aches for the girl who looks like a scared doe, rather than the daughter of the Lioness of Cintra, who fought and won her first battle at only fourteen years of age.

"She doesn't seem too happy about it," Visenya mutters, glancing back at Mousesack. He meets her stern gaze, bright expression dimming just a hair.

"No, I'm afraid not. Princess Pavetta is much softer than her mother."

"They almost always are," Visenya says, eyes moving back to Pavetta, feeling as if she's entranced. Something weeps inside her, shaking so fervently her body almost vibrates. If things were different, that would've been, no, should've been Visenya. But could've, would've, and should've been is nothing when destiny dictates that your world be nothing but ash and ruin. So she snaps her gaze away, unwilling to look at the image of what is always just out of reach.

Mousesack and Geralt continue speaking in low voices, Visenya following them like a ghost, lost in her head. A few minutes in, Geralt moves away, leaving her alone with Mousesack.

"You seem quite focused on the Princess tonight," he muses, pulling Visenya from her chaos.

"She's the most exciting thing in the room right now," Visenya says, raising a single brow at Mousesack, shoving away the sinking feeling that something horrible is going to happen.

"Moving past that insult to my character--" Visenya snorts. "I feel as though it is something more. I can see it in your eyes, you feel for the girl."

"It's hard not to. A man no matter how well-traveled and wise he is will never understand what it feels like to have your whole life laid out for you by someone else. Being sold into a marriage with someone not a good match for you only hurts worse when it's your own mother."

"Personal experience?" Mousesack raises a brow, mouth in a straight line.

"Nonsense, my mother died when I was a child," Visenya says, moving her attention away from him and towards the crowd.

His eyebrows raise causing small lines to form on his forehead, slight shock painting his features. He purses his lips, opening his mouth, only to close it again.

"The life of nobility." he finally says, letting out a sigh as he shakes his head.

"The life of a woman, no matter their status," Visenya corrects him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"All rise for Her Majesty, The Lioness: Queen Calanthe, of Cintra!" a man near the Main Hall entrance cries out, silencing any of the noise in the room.

"Luckily for the girl, horrible husbands tend to disappear rather quickly when you're royalty." With that last comment, Visenya disappears into the crowd, gliding past noble ladies and lords as she maneuvers towards the secluded corner Geralt claimed as his own.

Chairs scrape as everyone scrambles to stand and Jaskier quickly runs over to where the other minstrels are, lute in hand. Nearly in perfect synch, the entire room turns towards the entrance. Shortly after, a middle-aged woman strides through the parted crowd, a smirk on her blood-stained lips. She wears gold armor that's dull from the dark red blood that's splattered over it, fresh from a recent battle. Her dark brown hair is braided away from her face, but not as neatly as expected for an occasion like this, instead, it's wild and pulled apart, in knots and gnarls with dry blood. She holds a helmet in hand that she quickly tosses to one of the many people in the procession following behind her.

"Beer!" she exclaims, grabbing a tankard from the hands of a pompous noble as she passes him, taking a swig from it immediately. "Apologies, noble sers. A few upstart townships in the South had to be reminded of who was Queen," she says, voice oozing with confidence and a tinge of arrogance. This causes an uproar of cheering from the nobles around Visenya, waving their tankards in her direction as golden ale spills onto the floor.

"Fighting is good for one's blood and humor. Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords. My daughter is eager to have this over--" she says, taking another drink from her mug and turning towards the high table. "--as am I." She mutters. "Bard, music!" she yells, waving a finger in the air, towards Jaskier's general direction, stomping up the marble stairs. Jaskier starts the first note of a song, his sweet and delicate singing voice ringing through the room before the Queen swiftly cuts him off.

"No, no, no; a jig! You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes and continuing up the steps. Jaskier sighs, before counting down from three, beginning a much more upbeat song that swiftly blends into the background as the room's noise levels grow. People begin to fill the gap they'd created for the Queen, forming small rowdy groups.

Finally, she closes the distance between her and Geralt, grabbing a tankard of ale from a table as she does. She stands beside him, posture as stiff and straight as his, taking a drink from the cup, eyeing the party. She watches the Queen as she leans down to speak with her daughter, hands resting on the table, her words too quiet for Visenya to discern. Suddenly a man slams his tankard of ale on the table

"You lying little shite!" the man that Mousesack labeled as Crach An Craite yells. He stands to his full height, towering over a scrawnier man he's arguing with. "You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, nevermind a manticore!"

"I've had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as the likes of you perish under my steel," the second man spits back, unfettered by Crach's intimidating aura.

"Under your bullshit, more like. How many stingers has it got?"

"Two."

"Ha. Go away and shite, it's got five. I know, I've actually killed one." Crach An Craite spits at him. He scoffs and turns away from the other noble, as the crowd around them grows more excited as the argument begins to escalate.

The smaller man rushes forward, grabbing onto Crach An Craite's tunic, the small crowd around them rushes in as well, eager for an excuse to fight.

"Enough!" the Queen exclaims, stopping everyone in their tracks. "We have a renowned guest tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth" she says, walking down the steps. In unison, nearly every turns to look at Geralt, and in turn, Visenya as well.

"Neither." Geralt says, not bothering to meet anyone's gaze.

"Are you calling me a liar, old man?" Crach An Craite mutters, face nearly identical in color to his hair.

"The Butcher of Blaviken bleeds utter nonsense," the smaller one says, dismissively waving his hand in Geralt's direction as he leans against a nearby chair. Geralt glances towards Jaskier, who is frantically shaking his head, with puppy dog eyes and a slight pout his only weapon. Geralt sighs, moving his attention back to the impatient nobles.

"Perhaps the lords encountered a rare subspecies of manticore."

The room is completely silent after that, the tension in the room quickly dropping. Visenya breathes out, clenched fist relaxing at her side. The Queen breaks the silence, loud laughter leaving her mouth, gaze solely on Geralt.

"Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?" The room immediately breaks out into cheers. Fists pound on tables, tankards waving in the air, and nobles yelling so loudly their lungs might collapse. Visenya raises her brow, glancing at Jaskier with a disapproving gaze. That stupid song is nothing but embellished falsehoods, so wrong it's nearly infuriating every time Visenya hears it.

"There was no slaying. I had my ass kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut, when Filavandrel let me go." Geralt speaks up, silencing the room instantly.

Instead, their cheers are replaced with boos and loud groans, nobles shaking their heads at Geralt.

"But what about the song?" the shorter man exclaims.

"At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you good Lords, at your final breath, a shitless death." Geralt exclaims, bringing his tankard to his mouth, "--but I doubt it," he mutters, his words once again riling up the crowd. And if she didn't know any better, Visenya thinks Geralt just might like the fanfare, even if he won't admit it.

"It would've been your blade at Filavandrel's throat if you'd been there your majesty. Not that any elven bastard would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field." Lord Eist speaks up, a smug smirk on his face as he looks at the Queen. She looks at him, preening under all the attention with a smug look on her face. The movements cause the dried blood to crack and crumble onto the floor.

"Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher, take a seat by my side while I change."

Geralt simply grunts, rolling his eyes as the Queen turns away, moving up the stairs and disappearing through a side door, a handmaiden following dutifully behind her.

"Come on," Geralt grabs onto Visenya's hand, dragging her behind him.

"She didn't invite me."

"Well she invited me, and I'm not going through anymore suffering alone." Geralt says in between clenched teeth.

"How polite, throwing me straight into the lion's den just so you won't have to face it alone. I never knew you to be so thoughtful Geralt."

He simply grunts in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He moves up the set of stairs, boots pounding under the stone ground. One of the men that came in with the Queen directs Geralt to a chair beside the throne. Silently, he pulls out his chair, glaring at the finely dressed nobleman that is sitting in the chair by him. The man meets his gaze, and to his credit, manages to remain expressionless. However, he still stands, his legs wobbling just the slightest, and moves to the other side of the throne, sitting by the Princess. Geralt nods his head towards the now vacant chair. A smirk forms on Visenya's lips as she moves behind him and into her new seat.

"You get to deal with the Queen if she's unhappy with my presence."

o0o0o0o

The feast is even duller from the High Table. It hasn't even been a full hour, and yet all that's happened is a few arguments, suitors vying for the hand of the princess, and the Queen speaking with Geralt. Visenya sits in silence, scanning the crowd and listening in on the conversations around her. There's still that sinking feeling in her stomach, a dreadful fear she's unable to escape telling her this is all going to end horribly. Crach An Craite stands up from his seat, when suddenly the door is slammed open, a man in full plate armor barreling through, swiftly taking out the two guards by him. Like an unruly bull, he stomps to the center of the room, lowering himself into a kneel. The room is completely still, as Visenya leans forward, grip tightening on the knife in her left hand.

"Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter's hand in marriage," he says, bowing his helmet-covered head.

The room is filled with gasps of shock, women all around covering their mouths in horror. The Queen becomes as stiff as a rock, veins faintly protruding from her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Visenya sees Pavetta go completely still, yet her face doesn't convey the same horror it has with every suitor before.

"A knight... of no renown... from a backwater hamlet... who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?" Queen Calanthe spits out, shaking in rage as her words burn like acid.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight's oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell." Urcheon says, not sounding shaken by the threatening aura swimming around Queen Calanthe.

"Bollocks to that," Lord Eist exclaims, moving forward and knocking the helmet off Urcheon's head. The metal clatters against the ground, echoing in the room, as the knight is revealed to be a...hedgehog man. Visenya leans further out of her seat, nearly laying on the table. Gold eyes wide in shock as she examines each and every needle that protrudes from his face, tracing his animal-like nose and beady black eyes. He looks around the room, very much looking like a cornered animal.

"Witcher--" the Queen hisses, "kill it."

"No," Geralt says, intently watching Urcheon.

"Whatever the price," she continues.

"This is no monster."

"I order you," she continues, the same patience she previously possessed slipping away.

"This knight has been cursed." Geralt says, unable to be swayed by her words that hide serious threats.

"You're as useless as the rest of them," she seethes. "Slay this beast!" she exclaims to the rest of the room.

Two guards immediately move towards Urcheon, weapons in hand. With swift and highly skilled movements, he disarms the guards, knocking them to the ground.

"Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise." he yells, pointing towards the Princess. More guards approach, and to his credit, he attempts to fight back but is quickly outnumbered. He's thrown to the ground, blood pouring out of his...snout. One of the guards lifts their halberd, seconds away from slicing into them. Geralt quickly jumps from his chair, moving past Visenya and down the steps at the speed of light.

"No!" Princess Pavetta exclaims.

At that moment time slowed down. Geralt reaches the scene when the halberd is mid-swing, pulling out his sword and cutting the weapon in half. The top piece slams on the ground and Urcheon catches the bladed part.

It's silent until the Queen breaks it.

"Kill them both!" she yells, pointing at Geralt and Urcheon.

o0o0o0o

Swords ringing, bodies crashing to the ground, and screams ricocheting off the walls into Visenya's ears. It's all familiar. A horror so intrusive and fresh in her mind that feels like only hours ago her whole world crumbled, leaving her vulnerable in a new reality. So different with its magic and dragons, but the same in the way its tragedy claws at her throat, phantom tears following her like the deaths of everyone she ever loved. Like an inescapable curse that continues to stalk her no matter how far or fast she runs. And maybe that's because none of this is real, a delusion she's created in the darkest recesses of her mind, happy enough to grant hope of a better life, yet enough devastation cloaking it to be believable.

She watches in a daze as Geralt moves through the room, dancing with his blade like a master. The porcupine man roars as he charges the oncoming guards, cutting into their flesh with less fluidity than Geralt, yet deadly all the same. Invigoration surging through his body from the White Wolf joining his side, more than happy to slice through anyone who confronts him, whether his foes wield sword or fist. The lords in their fine garb beat, stab, and strangle each other; using the chaos as an opportunity to take down their adversaries. A small group of nobles huddle in the far recesses of the room, cowering and whimpering in fear as the slaughter escalates. Women cry and the minstrels quiver, yet the queen and princess remain at their high table, unmoving. Princess Pavetta watches with glistening blues eyes while the Queen is clenching her jaw so tightly, her face is painted white.

Visenya's hand ghosts over where her blade should be, the empty spot where its sheathe would rest feeling uncomfortably light. A lord drunk on the adrenaline in his veins rushes Visenya, wild like an animal. She knows all too well how this will go if he gets his way: with her bloody and praying for the release of death. But she's not that little girl of five hiding in a crawl space as she listens to her mother's screams of agony. Now she breathes flames each time she talks, eyes like a city turned to ash.

She holds her arm up towards him with an open palm, the movements rigid and not her own, as if an otherworldly creature possesses her. Moments later he slams into her, the width of his neck perfectly fitting in her palm. Automatically her finger closes around him, tightening with each second as she locks him in place. She's emboldened with strength she shouldn't possess, as she raises her arm upwards, his legs dangling in the air, helpless. Gold eyes illuminate, embers of fire she's smothered igniting in that instant, festering pain bursting to the surface. Heat builds, the smell of burning flesh rising in the air, the crackle of skin against fire. He screams, a blood-curdling one that makes Visenya's insides turn. Yet she doesn't release him but holds tighter and tighter until his screams turn to choking, and then silence. With a dull thud, his body drops to the floor, unmoving.

A sharp pain pierces her left side, leaving her staggering forward with an unsteady footing. Howling like a wounded animal, Visenya turns to face her adversary, a heavily armored guard. He jabs towards her, but she manages to move out of the way just in time. She sneers, blood dripping from her mouth. He goes to stab again, but in full plate, he's too slow for her nimble movements. She ducks behind him, grabbing a shard of broken glass from the ground as she does. And before he can comprehend where she is, she stabs the glass into the side of his neck, watching the thick red liquid coat it. He coughs, choking on the blood pouring out of his neck. The guard wobbles, slowly losing his balance as he claws at the air for something to hold onto, then scratching his throat, attempting to save himself. Visenya watches, eyes cold and unfeeling. She lifts her leg and kicks him onto the ground before stepping over his body.

Each footstep thunders in her mind as she presses forward, every face nothing but a blur, and instead of tabards with three proud lions, she sees two blue towers united by a bridge. Every guard and noble that falls is a Northern soldier, with surprise and agony painting their face, while every attacker is a Frey. Sneers carved into their features; screams turning into shouts of glee as they cut through anyone in their way. In a flurry of blood lust, eager to drown her sorrows in the pain of others, she throws punches at everyone within reach, kicking bodies on the floor as they writhe in pain. It's intoxicating, living out her darkest fantasies without a care in the world.

It'll fade, the comedown far worse than the high, but at the moment, it's worth every second of loathing it'll inevitably create. A grunt follows a swift punch to the gut before Visenya grabs a hold of a chair, smashing the wood against the charging noble. His face morphs, no longer a nameless lord, instead, he's one of Walder Frey's sons who sunk his blade in her flesh as his friends shot her down from a distance. The chair breaks into a million pieces as he falls to the ground, unconscious. She roars as the adrenaline pumps higher and higher, the blood running in her veins faster and faster. Geralt appears in the corner of her vision, at some point they move towards each other like magnets, twirling around each other as if they've practiced it a million times. And just as soon as he's there, he disappears into the chaos as Visenya loses herself to the beast inside her.

Another soldier approaches her, a flurry of sword swings and spittle his greeting to her. She dodges out of the way of each of them, moving as if she's the water, her dress fluidly flowing with her. She steps to the side, taking advantage of his blind spot, due to his helmet that obscures part of his vision. She grabs a hold of his sword arm, managing to pull it back far enough to hear a gnarly crack, a loud clang following it, as his sword falls to the marble floor. He sneers at her, but she returns the favor. Yet before she can do anything, another burst of pain shoots through her, and her eyes flit down to the source, a dagger sticking out of her abdomen. She looks up at him as he twists it, before letting go and pushing her away, but instead of falling to the floor to bleed out, she pulls out the blade. Using his surprise to her advantage, she smoothly grabs his sword from the ground, using a maneuver she learned all those years ago in Winterfell to knock his helmet off his head from the back. And as it clangs to the ground, she drives the dagger into his throat.

She stumbles forward, hand clenching her new wound as blood pours out of it. She whirls around, determined to find safety, but a glimpse of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes with a direwolf coat of arms fighting a noble in rich blues captures her attention.

Robb.

Numb to the pain pulsing in her body and the wounds that are dripping with blood, she runs. But it's like walking through thick molasses, feet not moving as fast as they should, no matter how hard she tries to push forward. Desperation rips her apart from the inside out as she tries to stop what's inevitably going to happen, the very same thing she sees in every one of her nightmares. And when she's only a step away, the noble slashes low, throwing Robb off balance, and with one swift plunge of a dagger, he falls limp.

She's too late,  again .

Her legs are never quite fast enough, reaction time a second too slow, and no matter how hard she tries to do it, she never manages to save Robb.

An ear-piercing screams tears through her throat, or maybe it doesn't, it's hard to hear anything above the ringing in her ears.

The noise is a culmination of a lifetime of sadness, but it's also a battle cry, promising nothing but fire and fury. And as Robb collapses, armor clanging against the ground, she reaches out and grabs the hair of the noble, pulling until there's a distinct crack and a shout of pain, a large chunk of brunette locks her prize. With the snarl of a wolf and tight tension on his head, she wraps her other arm around his neck, and a simple flick of her wrist is all it takes as his neck snaps, body crashing onto the ground.

And Visenya falls too, crumbling into nothing but a shaking form, sobbing so hard she nearly throws up all the contents in her stomach, trapped between the dead bodies of Robb and his killer. Tears mix with blood, staining the floor with her misery.

"Robb!" she cries out, but her voice is nothing more than a croak, getting swept away into the chaos of the fight. "Robb!"

A shaky hand reaches out, moving to brush his hair out of his face, but there's nothing there. And as her tears pour down her cheeks, Robb distorts, wild curls becoming a bald head and Tully blue replaced with bleak brown. She removes her hand as if it burnt her, and scrambles to getaway.

Bodies rush past, moving around her as if she's nothing more than a figment of their imagination. Everything slows down in the room, as salty tears slip into her mouth, dark spots covering her vision.

She blinks; once and then twice. Everything is blurry until it's not.

A sea of dead bodies, suffocating her. She throws a hand up, desperately clawing to escape, But each movement only traps her further under them. She screams, the sound muffled yet clear as day in her mind.

" Jane. Jane!" Someone's holding onto her, pressing onto her cheeks, the warmth of soft hands cupping her cheek. "Jane, are you alright?" The voice is distant, yet familiar all the same.

She blinks again, and once more.

Another scream rips through her throat, tearing apart her vocal cords. She continues to claw, fighting harder against the dead weight that presses heavily against her. Gold meets gold as the light shines in her eyes. The first rays of day hit the side of her face, illuminating the cast of dry blood caked with mud on her face. Eyes flicker from the left to the right, seeing, yet not, at the same time. It doesn't register in her mind, the ocean of death she finds herself swimming in, all she sees is daylight, while everything else is blurry.

"Please bring me water or wine, just bring me something!" The familiar voice echoes in Visenya's head, footsteps rapidly tapping against a marble floor following.

A glint in the light captures her attention, something piercing through her hazy vision. It blends into its environment at first, but with a keener glance, she sees it. With new vigor, she wiggles out of the pit, crawling on all fours, eyes on the prize. Six beats, that's all it takes until she closes in on her fixation. A person, a dead person.

The body doesn't have a head, but she already knows its face, the same one she sees every night in her worst night terrors. Unsteady hands reach out, tracing the cloak clasp, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat inside her. Hot fingertips trace over two direwolves meeting in the center. Then she forms a fist around it, holding so tightly small cuts form on the palm of her hand. No tears pour down her face, spilling onto the fine garb Robb donned for his own funeral, there's nothing left to cry. Her eyes are dry like a Dornish desert, she's cried too much to have any left. A second scream tears out of her mouth, sending any scavenger birds flying away with haste, slicing through the silence of the field that is drenched in dawn. It's harsh and coarse, leaving the ground beneath her quaking in its wake.

"What's wrong with her?" A timid woman's voice asks.

"I don't know. Let me see that." There's rustling, ice-cold water hitting her face moments later. "Gods Jane, you're bleeding!"

She blinks one more time.

The field disappears, a ballroom wrought with chaos replacing it. She's flat on the ground with Jaskier kneeling beside her, face hovering over hers. His eyes are wide with distress, gaze solely focusing on her. She attempts to stand, but the weight of her head is too much, so instead, it just bangs against the hard floor. Swords clanging and people shouting filters into her ears again, replacing the devastating silence that once resided in her mind.

"Jaskier."

"I'm here, I just need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?" he asks, holding her hand so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"A sheep can't command the dragon," she mutters, eyes fluttering shut, only to snap open when something cold and wet splashes over her face, again.

"Well the next time we meet a dragon, I'll let them know." She glances over, seeing the weak smile pulling at his lips. His pale face is stark white, the flush of red usually in his face completely gone, with dark and deep bags under his tired and dull eyes.

"You already have, I am the daughter of dragons," she mutters, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

She opens them again, blinking a few times and finding herself back in the open field and kneeling over Robb's body. She stands with unsteady legs and a weary body. Visenya turns around, staring at Walder Frey's keep, eyes solid ice with a stony expression. One step, two steps, and another, and then another, staggering towards the keep. The anger simmers, burning so hot it's cold now. Fire dances on the tips of the fingers, the flames licking up her arms with each step she takes.

"Can you do something? She's been injured?" Jaskier's voice echoes in Visenya's mind.

"Possibly, step aside and I will do my best to heal her," another familiar male voice rings in her ears.

A comforting feeling fills her body, smothering her pain in all things that are warm and homely.

She blinks, opening her eyes and finding herself back in Cintra with Jaskier and Mousesack hovering over her. She's delusional, she has to be. The only problem is, she can't decipher which reality is true and which one is a hallucination.

"Are you alright?" Mousesack asks, grabbing Visenya's hand in his own. Between Jaskier and him, they manage to help Visenya sit up just in time to see Queen Calanthe meet Geralt in battle. She holds her sword up to his neck and Geralt meets her blade with his own.

"Stop!" the Queen yells.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The cool air of night is a stark contrast to the heat inside of Visenya, which grew hotter as the chaos during the banquet did. But now that peace is restored, standing under the night sky lit up by glittering stars, she feels that heat simmer down until it's a comforting warmth. The northern wind is biting, but she welcomes the feeling, the cold reminding her of the North - of home. The cold that would chill her to the bone, leaving her with chattering teeth and icy hands that always seemed miserable is something she longs for; a semblance of normalcy. She inhales and then exhales, watching with child-like wonder as her breath becomes visible in the cold temperatures. So enraptured by the weather, she nearly forgets she isn't alone, and that Geralt is a few steps ahead of her now, watching her with curious eyes. Yet it's Jaskier's voice that pulls her from her stupor.

"So this is it?"

Visenya turns around, gold eyes wide with her lips set in a thin line. Jaskier is standing at the entrance of the castle, the noblewoman previously with him nowhere to be seen. He's disheveled and so unlike the normally prim and proper Jaskier she's accustomed to, his floppy brown hair windblown and sticking up in random directions. His clothes are wrinkled in odd places, ripped here and there, but overall mostly intact. His eyes are wide, as they normally are, but they're glassier than she remembers them being, the stars betraying what seems to be held back tears.

"You don't have to leave, you know, just because the Countess de Stael has agreed to be my patron. I could still use my bodyguard," Jaskier says, smiling, but it's not carefree and easygoing, brimming with his usual mirth. Instead, it's tight and harsh, not quite reaching his eyes. His hands loosely rest in front of him, fingers nervously intertwining with each other.

Visenya smiles, mustering all her strength to appear every bit the soft and docile maiden from every fairytale, looking at him like she would've Bran and Rickon. She sighs, forming and reforming the words in her mind, trying to find the perfect thing to say. But each time she comes short, a harsh reminder she'll never be a good poet.

Instead, she opts to shrug her shoulders and move closer to the entrance, closing the distance between them. She's melancholic, feeling as if another chapter of her life is coming to an end. She and Jaskier traveled together for years, how could she not feel a hint of emotion when it seems like their travels are on hiatus - if not done entirely.

"Come on Jane, you in court, scaring away all the mean people who want to kill me, we'd make the best team!" Jaskier exclaims, trying - and failing - to have his usual enthusiasm behind the words. They fall flat, sounding more desperate and sad rather than upbeat and encouraging. Visenya sighs once more, the smile on her face requiring less concentration as Jaskier continues to ramble. Finally, she closes the distance between them. "I'll never leave you to your brooding when you want!"

"Whilst that does sound interesting, I'm afraid I wouldn't do well in court," Visenya says, reaching out and taking Jaskier's hand in her own.

"I disagree, My Lady," Jaskier says, pursing his lips and looking at the ground, pausing for a brief moment, allowing the wind to whistle between them. "But I understand."

"My place is out there, where I can stab things," Visenya says, raising her brows with a small smirk on her face.

"You could do that here you know? Not to sound like I'm trying to talk you out of your decision because I respect your choices and everything," Jaskier says, his enthusiasm gaining traction with each word. Visenya laughs, a small laugh that's nothing more than a whisper, but it's music to the ears of anyone who hears it.

"I could, but that would get me in trouble with the law," she responds, shaking her head, the smirk playing on her lips morphing back into a gentle smile.

"Right, I almost forgot about that," Jaskier mutters looking up towards the sky.

"Goodbye Jaskier. Though with my luck this isn't the end, I'll run into you sooner or later," Visenya says, a mischievous glint in her normally stoic gold eyes.

"Oh, I'm afraid you won't get rid of me so easily, my fair lady!" Jaskier exclaims, perking up slightly. "Goodbye, Jane. You and Geralt watch out for each other, alright! I won't have the two scariest people I know both dying, then who'll serve as my protection at high-class events!" Jaskier proclaims, some of his natural charisma returning, his blue eyes not nearly as glossy as moments prior.

"I'll do what I can." Visenya places her hand on Jaskier's shoulder, pulling his body towards her's, wrapping her other arm around his neck as she hugs him. Shocked, Jaskier is stiff for a moment, before melting like morning dew under the hot sun and wrapping his arms around her. He breathes in and then out, as Visenya does the same until their breathing is nearly perfectly synced up. She places her face in the crook of his neck, burning the moment in her mind, unwilling to ever forget this moment in case it's their last. She inhales his scent, committing it to memory; juniper and sage, sharp and warm and earthy all at once, with a hint of sweet wine and linseed oil.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, the words muffled against his neck, but Jaskier understands her none-the-less. "I'm sorry for earlier,"

Jaskier's hand moves from her back to the top of her head, soothingly rubbing it as Lady Catelyn used to when Visenya would run to her crying about one thing or another. It's comforting and familiar, nearly bringing Visenya to tears from the simple act.

"It's okay, you're complicated, I paid extra for my bodyguard to be dark and broody," Jaskier says, a slight sarcastic quirk in his tone at the end. "But promise me you won't isolate yourself any more than you already have. Talk to Geralt, he understands broody and dark."

"I'll keep it in mind," Visenya responds, slowly opening her eyes and unraveling from Jaskier. "Maybe I'll tell you all about how complicated I am next time we meet?" Visenya gives him one last smile, slowly stepping away, but not turning her gaze away from him.

"Oh, I'll hold you to that promise, missy!" Jaskier exclaims, wagging his finger at Visenya as if she is a child. Once again she laughs, louder this time, not as restrained as it normally is.

"I'm counting on it," Visenya replies, talking one last step, turning around to face Geralt, rushing towards him, eager to escape the emotions brimming inside her. Trying desperately to not think about how odd it is that she is walking away from Jaskier, the only constant in this crazy world since the day they met.

"Goodbye, you two! Now take care of each other, in every aspect, if you know what I mean!" Jaskier calls out, disappearing into the castle before either of them could retaliate.

She meets Geralt, who says nothing, he simply raises a brow at her, silently asking 'Are you sure?'

"My place isn't in court." Is all she says. Geralt grunts, nodding his head, a stoic expression on his face. "Let's go back to the inn, I need an ale and lots of sleep."

A smirk creeps onto Geralt's face, his eyes shining with amusement, illuminated by starlight. He quietly snorts, turning to face the gate leading out to the main portion of the city.

"I can agree with that." In nearly perfect unison they walk out of the castle grounds, Visenya easily keeping up with Geralt's long strides. They're quiet, the only sound is their feet pounding against the cobblestone road and the ambient noises of guards and nobles around them.

A particularly strong gust of wind blows through the courtyard causing a piece of Visenya's hair to blow in front of her eyes. She grabs a small chunk of hair, intently inspecting the grey-brown strands. With the silver light shining from the otherwise midnight sky, she can nearly see the silvery-golden hue hidden under cheap hair dye. Or maybe it's a trick of her eyes. She lets out a puff of hair, blowing the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears to secure it in place.

"So a child," Visenya says, no inflection in her words as she continues to stare straight ahead. Geralt's steps falter for a brief second before he quickly regains his footing. He sighs, heavily, somehow managing to put in all his frustration and annoyance in one simple noise.

"I don't want to talk about it Jane," he says. His tone is stern as if he's talking to an unruly child. It reminds her of when she, Jon, Robb, and Theon were the terrors of Winterfell, in the days before they grew up and the world became dark. She can't help the faint smile that appears on her face, her gold eyes lighting up like the sun, but not nearly as bright as the summer sun in the South. It's more like the North, where the heavy fog and thick clouds obscure most of the sunlight, muffling the harshest parts of the rays and bathing everything in dim light.

"I know, but not talking about isn't going to make this go away," she says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He's clenching his jaw, veins on his neck slightly popping out. His lips are set in a thin line with eyes like stone.

"There's nothing to run away from," he says. Visenya stops, turning to face Geralt, reaching her hand out and grabbing his shoulder, stopping him in his place and turning him to face her.

"Geralt," she says, her voice serious and stern. "This isn't a joke. This isn't making a bargain with someone in a seedy part of town and running away before they can collect their prize. This is serious."

"I didn't take you as one to think destiny is real." Geralt says, raising a single brow at Visenya.

"We all need something to cling to," she responds, not breaking from his gaze.

"And what do you believe?" Geralt asks.

"That...everything happens for a reason; that there's a purpose behind every tragedy and triumph that we experience - both great and insignificant," Visenya says, keeping her voice low enough that any nosy passers-by won't hear their exchange.

"This isn't some divine plan; this was just a princess using her magic to get her way, destiny has nothing to do with a girl who has no idea how to control her powers," Geralt says, standing firm on his stance. Strong and stubborn; he would've done well in Winterfell amongst the Northern lords.

"Oh cut the shit Geralt, do you honestly have to be so fucking pragmatic that you can't believe in something if you can't see it with your own eyes," Visenay says, keeping her voice low enough as to not attract any more attention towards them. Whilst the crowds are thinning with each moment that passes, even one person seeing their argument is too many.

"I thought you were more intelligent than this, clearly I was mistaken" Geralt responds, taking a step towards Visenya. His eyes glow bright yellow like the fire burning inside of her. Geralt's fire collides with Visenya's ice. He's egging it on, he wants a fight, she realizes. For her to get so angry she yells and screams at him. Why he is, she's not sure.

"Do you have to be such an asshole, Geralt of Rivia? You have no right to insult my intelligence by being so patronizing, I'm not a child, don't treat me as such," Visenya says, spitting the words like they are venom. She steps closer to him, close enough that she can feel his breath and hear his heartbeat.

"Well, it's either that, or you sustained a far worse injury in that fight than originally thought. How could you believe in this horseshit?" He won't stop, adding further fuel to the fire inside her; her pride rearing its ugly head and demanding she win the fight, no matter how petty and uncalled for it is.

Visenya narrows her eyes and clenches her jaw. Her hands form fists at the side of her body, her blood nearly starting to boil from her rage.

"How could I not, after everything that's happened," she says with a voice like ice, so cold that it burns. Her words are quiet, but they're sharp, stabbing into Geralt like sharpened icicles in a winter storm.

"What? What happened Jane? I'm supposed to believe in destiny just because you survived a rebellion?" Geralt asks, a mocking tone lacing his cruel and coarse words. He's not malicious in his intentions, it shines in his eyes, but the words are daggers to her heart none-the-less.

"Stop it," Visenya whispers, taking a step away from Geralt, but he just moves closer. "That's not fair and you know it."

"The gods don't care who lives or dies, why should they care about some child--" Geralt continues, but Visenya interrupts him, her quiet words silencing him.

"I died," she simply says. Geralt closes his mouth, his clenched jaw loosening. Visenya takes a sharp breath and then lets it out, watching as her breath dissipates into the cold air. Heart pounding with shaky hands, Visenya closes her eyes for a moment and then opens them before continuing.

"My family was betrayed and they killed us, butchered at a wedding like we were nothing but cattle. Next thing I know, I woke up outside of Blaviken with this-" Visenya says. Gold eyes dart around their surroundings, searching for any eavesdroppers. Luckily, the streets are nearly empty, the few people still scuttling around not paying them any mind. She holds out her hand, and focuses on...something, trying to recreate the feelings that would bubble under the surface before the fire made its presence known. Her eyes flutter shut, and within a second, a small flame flickers in the palm of her hand, the fire quickly dying out. But it's all she needs.

"Fire magic," Geralt says, breaking Visenya from her concentration. She closes her palm, hiding the arm behind her back as if to protect herself from harm. She looks up, meeting Geralt's wide gaze. "Blaviken burning... that was you,"

Visenya nods, thickly swallowing the lump in her throat, trying to push away the haunting memories of Blaviken burning.

"I lost control and just-- exploded, by the time I came to, everyone was already dead," Visenya says, shrugging her shoulders, her voice hardly above a whisper; soft, weak, and almost completely vulnerable. She purposely leaves out the part where she reveled in the destruction, feeling glee from their suffering. Geralt is silent - maddingly so, it leaves Visenya tense and uneasy. Every second passing feels like a lifetime as Geralt stands in silence and Visenya awaits his response.

But he says nothing, just simply nods his head.

"What now? Are you going to put me down like one of those monsters?" Visenya asks, and despite the self-deprecating words, her tone holds no humor to it.

"You're not a monster." Geralt says, his words like a knife cutting through the thoughts rushing through her mind. "What's done is done."

Visenya nods, taking another step away from Geralt and turning to face the road, eager now more than ever to return to the inn. The rushing wind cools her face and eases the tension in her body, not completely, but enough that she isn't afraid of exploding. Geralt's heavy footsteps pound behind her, his long legs swiftly catching up to Visenya. It's silent, but not the soothing one that leaves Visenya comfortable. Instead, it's tense and awkward, the words from their argument lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," Geralt simply says, his tone not as firm as it normally is. Geralt is always sure of what he says - whether it's sarcasm or not, but this time he isn't. Witchers hunt monsters, not console maidens. The effort causes Visenya to smile, a small sad smile that doesn't fully reach her eyes.

"It's okay, we both have issues," she says.

"If you want to speak about it--" Geralt begins, the words sounding unsure as they leave his lips.

"I know where to find you," Visenya finishes his sentence, the smile on her face growing bigger. "But, if I did, I'd have to kill you," she responds. Geralt narrows his eyes for a moment, before a small smirk appears on his face, cracking the stone in his expression.

"Maybe you should tell Jaskier then, rid me of that bard," Geralt says, turning and continuing to walk towards the inn they're staying at for the night.

"Oh, he's not that bad. I might actually miss the guy," Visenya says, a small smile resting on her lips. "There's never a dull moment."

"That's what I'm hoping for, dull moments," Geralt says. Visenya looks at him, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Well, I'm afraid you may not get that, not with me around at least." Visenya teases, cocking her head to the side as she raises her brows slightly. Geralt looks at her, scoffing quietly.

"I'm counting on it," he replies. Visenya laughs, the sound more similar to a scoff. They continue weaving through the citizens that remain on the streets. No one pays them much mind, too busy in their worlds, but the few that do take notice of Geralt say nothing. And Visenya is grateful, she's had enough excitement for one night.

o0o0o

The tavern on the level below them is particularly rowdy that night; horrible renditions of bawdy tavern jigs being sung by drunks, cackling men and women, and the thumping of feet banging on the floor and mugs on the tables. The wall shakes and the floor does as well, disturbing the small amount of peace Visenya has. She sits on the side of the bed, her bare feet hovering over the floor, only the very tips of her toes touching the cold wood. Except for the ambiance, the room is silent, but not unbearably so. It's comforting and entirely foreign to Visenya to be able to hear her thoughts.

Jaskier hated silence, needing to fill it with nonsensical rambles and filler thoughts to break the quiet. But Geralt revels in the silence, seeing it as a prized commodity he doesn't get blessed with often. The cool metal of her silver dagger cools the heat that's always under her skin. She balances it in her right hand while staring at the blank wall ahead of her. Jaskier always said she broods too much and is never much fun to be around when this way. Geralt is on the edge of the bed across from her, diligently cleaning his blade. Any dirt and residual blood from the feast have long since been cleaned off, Geralt continues to shine it. His ashen brows are furrowed and his lips set in a thin line. There's a small line that formed on his forehead, a dead giveaway that he's lost in thought.

Visenya sighs, placing the dagger back into its small sheath and sets that on the small table near her bed. The bed squeaks as she stands up, the floor creaking as she puts more weight onto it. Geralt pauses his sword cleaning for a split second but continues as if he never stopped.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

The floor creaks with each movement and the distance separating her and Geralt quickly dwindles until it's almost nonexistent, her knees nearly touching him. Wordlessly, she sits beside him, reaching a hand up and beginning the arduous process of unweaving the intricate braids Jaskier put in them. A partially broken fingernail snags in her hair, getting knotted and tangled.

"Fuck," she says quietly under her breath, bracing herself to rip the chunk of hair out. Mentally she counts down from three, pulling with all her force on one. Rubbing her fingers together, she looks at the snaggle she pulled from her hair.

"Here," Geralt says, sheathing his blade and setting it aside. His much larger and rough hand reaches up towards her head but hovers over his head. "Can I?"

"Sure, can't be any worse than me," Visenya says, turning around to give him access to the back of her head. Without another word, Geralt's hand tangled in her hand, but instead of the recklessness Visenya tackled her hair with, he's much gentler, managing to unweave the braids twice as fast as she would've.

"Can I ask you a question Geralt?" Visenya asks after a moment of silence. Instead of answering Geralt just grunts, focusing on a particularly difficult four-strand braid.

"Are there dragons? And are they real?" she asks, putting all her energy into keeping her inflection neutral. She remembers in the Main Hall when Princess Pavetta's scream knocked everyone to the ground and filled Visenya's head with visions of a great fire giving birth to a dragon. She remembers how the clearing smelt and the longing inside of her to run her fingers over the smooth golden scales of the baby dragon.

"Yes, they're real, though they're exceedingly rare." Geralt responds.

"Really? What kinds are there, or are they all the same?" she asks, trying to turn to face him, but his other hand cups her head, keeping her in place.

"There are five: green dragons, they're the most common; red dragons less so; and black dragons are the rarest," he answers. He finally managed to find the tie keeping the four-strand braid intact and began carefully unweaving it.

"What about gold?" Visenya asks, staring at the blank wall as she remembers that dream from the woods when she stood in the Throne Room, The Red Keep in shambles around her as a gold dragon flew above her.

"They're a myth," he says, combing his finger through the undone braid before moving onto the next.

"Oh," is all she says, unsure of what else to say. Disappointment fills her mind, and for the life of her she can't figure out why. They're only silly dreams after all, right? "You say they're rare, why is that?"

"Treasure Seekers, idiots eager to steal the dragon's hoard, all the better if they could slay it and bring back a trophy of their kill," Geralt says, carefully pulling apart a knot in her hair. He's much softer than Visenya would've thought.

"Why would anyone do that?" Visenya immediately says, her brows furrowing. A quiet ow leaves her mouth as Geralt finishes working on the snarl. He mutters a quiet sorry but moves onto the next knot.

"For sport. Slaying a beast of that caliber is seen as a high accomplishment to commoners and nobles alike," Geralt says. Visenya feels heat rush to her face, brows furrowing more, causing small lines to appear on her forehead.

"They're not beasts to me. No matter how terrifying they may be to everyone else, I envy them. To be able to go anywhere you wish and do anything you'd like. It's...nice, romantic in a childhood fairytale sort of what. I'd give anything to see one," Visenya says, her tone of voice similar to a wishful child dreaming of knights and kings, vying for a happily ever after with either. 

"I never said I thought they were beasts. Though I can't say I share the same sentiment as you, I prefer to stay away from fire breathing creatures," Geralt says, glancing at Visenya from the corner of his eye.

"I guess it's just in my blood."

"Is that why you have a dragon on the hilt of your blade?" Geralt asks, throwing the last small leather strip from her hair across the room. Visenya's eyes watch it soar through the sky before smacking against the wall directly across from her.

"Something like that," she answers, absent-minded and lost in thought. "It was a gift from...an old friend," she continues, glassy gaze casting to the dusty floor. She clenches her jaw in a desperate attempt to keep it from trembling.

"Was it--?" Geralt asks, removing his hands from her hair, but Visenya stays in place. She fears if she looks at him she won't be able to control the tears building in her eyes, eager to be free.

"Yes, and his name was Robb. He wasn't my brother, not by blood, but the Starks were the closest thing I had to family. He had it commissioned for me when we went to war. It - and my cloak - are all I have left of them," Visenya says. Her voice breaks with every other syllable, the words barely heard over the jeering patrons from below. The fire in the far corner of the room cracks, the noise drawing Visenya's attention to the flames. They illuminate her eyes - even more than normal due to the unshed tears, bringing out the flecks of white and orange in them.

It's still fresh in her mind, a haunting vision that she can't escape no matter how much she'd like: the sea of dead bodies around her, only to find Robb's decapitated body when managed to free herself. His direwolf coat-of-arms the only thing left that could identify it as Robb Stark. It pulls apart the stitches she meticulously applied to each and every wound that she sustained in Westeros. Months upon months, maybe even years, of work, only for it to unravel within seconds. She wants to forget. To throw herself into something - anything - as long as it frees her from these memories that linger over her like a dark cloud.

She takes a deep breath, trying to erase her rapidly beating heart, slowly thickly to get rid of the small lump in her throat. Her eyes flutter closed, refusing to open until the building tears disappear. Eventually, they do.

"You're not from here, are you?" Geralt says. His sentence is a question, but she knows he already knows the answer. He always seems to know.

"No, I'm not," Visenya mutters, feeling drained as if she just ran a marathon on little to no sleep. She's tired, and she's tired of being tired all the time.

"But I don't want to speak about that," Visenya says, sitting up straighter and moving her gaze back to Geralt.

"What then?" Geralt asks, ashen brows furrowed and eyes gleaming with interest. Visenya leans up, her face mere centimeters away from Geralt's. But she doesn't draw any closer, instead, she stays perfectly still, feeling his breath fan across her face and listening to his steady heartbeat - the pace much slower than her own. Her eyes trace his face, focusing on a faint scar that rests on his right cheekbone. The healed injury nearly glows in the candlelit room. She places both of her hands on his shoulders, using him to steady herself. She feels light as air, getting drunk off of Geralt's scent, inhaling the smell of fresh herbs and leather oil as if it's a drug she's addicted to.

"Oh I'm sure you could figure it out," she replies, a smirk on her lips. A heartbeat later, Geralt surges forward, closing the dwindling distance between them. His lips press against hers, firmer than she remembers, but just as sweet - if not more so due to the sweeter Cintran ale. She leans into him, eager to be as close as physically possible, and even then it wouldn't be enough.

Visenya pulls back, deeply inhaling in an attempt to gain her lost breath. She stares into Geralt's eyes, seeing her reflection in them. They're memorizing and captivating, full of everything Geralt doesn't say with words. The longer she stares the steadier her breathing gets, but the heavy feeling from the feast doesn't lift, and the distraction of Geralt did nothing but provide simple fortification to an already lost cause.

"Oh my god," Visenya mutters, her somber tone a stark difference to the teasing one she used moments prior. "I died," she says, disbelief lacing each word like she can't believe them even as they fall from her own lips. "I was murdered at a wedding and I died," she repeats, the tears returning, only this time with more vigor and she's unable to contend with their will. They pour from her eyes like heavy rain, clouding her sight and judgment, until all she can think about is Walder Frey betraying them over and over again.

The memories she'd buried deep inside her resurfacing. Catelyn falling to the ground, crossbow bolts stuck in her body, and Robb's dead body - head severed and replaced with a direwolf head - being paraded around on a horse.

Geralt pulls her towards his chest, his expression softer than the usual stoic mask he wears, albeit confused at her confession. Of course, her timing could not have been worse.

It's the first time she ever admitted to what happened. That her death - along with Robb and Catelyn's were real.

This is all real.

Objectively, every injury she received; whenever she's thirsty or hungry; or every time she goes to sleep and wakes up should've been proof that she's alive and her surroundings are real. But she's never admitted it, not to anyone and certainly not herself. Westeros is a topic she specifically avoids, keeping it locked away to never be seen. Subconscious denial is safer when survival is a concern.

She sniffles once more and pulls back from Geralt. She rubs her hand across her eyes, drying the dampness. The tears eventually stopped, however, her eyes remained bloodshot and puffy. Geralt carefully watches her every move, removing his hands from around her. She stands from the bed to move back to her own, eager to leave this night behind her. But Geralt grabs onto her arm, keeping her from moving away.

She looks at him with glossy gold eyes but says nothing, and neither does he. Yet he's speaking more clearly to her than anyone ever has in her life. Silently, moves back onto the bed, Geralt moving with her. He pulls back the blankets, motioning for her to enter first. The bed is as uncomfortable and itchy as hers, yet when she finally stops moving and Geralt gets beside her, she's the most comfortable she's ever been.

They continue to say nothing for the rest of the night. Visenya closes her eyes, moving onto her side, facing Geralt who stays on his back. Each time she blinks her eyes grow heavier and heavier, each breath deeper until eventually, she closes her eyes and the world turns black. 

Chapter Text

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Visenya of House Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Jaime Lannister’s face appears in her vision, a much younger version than the one she’d last seen. His gold hair is soft and thick, falling perfectly into place. He holds a wooden sword in one of his hands, resting the flat part of it on her shoulder.

Visenya giggles, the noise hazy and unclear. She stands from her kneeling position, curtseying to Jaime, stumbling forward, and nearly face planting. 

“Thank you, good ser,” she replies, a beaming smile on her childish face. He kneels, so his eyes meet hers. He holds out the small wooden sword, the size suited for a child of five. 

“Now go, protect your mother Queen. It is your duty as a sworn member of her Queensguard,” he says.

“Where are we going, Ser Jaime? Shouldn’t you be protecting my grandfather?” Visenya asks, rushing to keep up with Jaime’s longer strides. 

“I need to show you something,” he says, voice grim but not harsh, yet it lacks the mirth normally present. He stops outside a door, and in her desperation to catch up, she nearly smacks into his legs, but narrowly avoids it since Jaime stops her body. He opens the door, which creaks loudly as it swings fully open. They’re in a room Visenya is all too familiar with, her mother’s chambers.

“Why are we--” Visenya begins, but cuts herself off as Jaime moves into the room. He strides through it, eyes focusing on one wall in particular. She rushes after him, eyes alight with curiosity she needs to sate. 

He stops in front of a wall, crouching down. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge Visenya, even as her smaller feet patter against the stone floor, getting closer to him. She pauses only when she stands beside Jaime, grabbing his arm with one hand, placing her small head on his armored shoulder. A wall, there’s nothing else there but a wall; yet his eyes trace it intently, searching for something she can’t see.

“A wall?” Visenya asks brows furrowed with a small pout on her lips.

“It’s not just a wall, look.” Jaime runs his hand down the wall, pausing on one spot. He digs his fingers into it, grasping onto… something. Visenya watches with wide eyes as a portion of the wall slides open, revealing a small opening in the wall - large enough to fit a child and no more. “A crawlspace.”

“Why’d you show me this? I don’t need to hide?” Visenya asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion. She turns and looks at Jaime, her nose twitching slightly as she looks up at him.

“You will. The war isn’t going well, and if the city is attacked I need you to promise you’ll hide here?” Jaime pleads, speaking in a hushed tone, keeping the words hidden in her mother’s chamber.

“I don’t--” Visenya starts, but is cut off before she can argue further. 

“Promise me,” Jaime says again, his voice more pleading and desperate. It’s a funny sight thinking back on it with adult eyes and a jaded mind: the lion begging for something, throwing aside all pride and appearances of regalness. 

Visenya hesitates, watching him carefully for a moment, eyes too sharp for a child of five. 

“I promise.” 

“Well, if it isn’t little Visenya. Look at you, you’re not a child anymore, no, you’re fully grown, fighting Robb Stark’s little war,” Jaime Lannister says, sarcasm and mocking lacing every word. He lifts his dirt-caked face, looking up at Visenya with wide green eyes that somehow manage to still sparkle, even in all the filth that surrounds them. 

“Shut up. I didn’t come here to talk to you,” Visenya says, keeping her voice as cool and calm as the winter winds. Her voice is low as to not alert any nearby guards, allowing the heavy wind to obscure most of her words. 

“Really? Come to just see the spectacle then? See the state of the man who killed your grandfather and ruined your life?” Jaime spits, but he lacks any real venom. He’s like a lion, trying to make himself appear as large as possible in hopes of avoiding real conflict. Visenya ignores him, however, moving closer into his cell without fear. 

“Or maybe you want to laugh?” Jaime mutters, banging his head against the post he’s chained to 

Silence is his only response. Visenya moves further into his cell, holding something cold and metal in her hands that glints in the moonlight. Once she’s within arm's length from Jaime, she crouches onto the ground, purple meeting green. 

“Well come one, don’t leave--” Jaime begins, but promptly shut his mouth, tightly clenching his jaw with furrowed brows. 

Thud.

The metal chains fall to the ground, inches away from Jaime. His eyes follow the chains that no longer bound him, lines of confusion appearing on his forehead underneath the dirt and blood on it. 

“Thank you, for my life,” Visenya mutters. Jaime moves his gaze back to her, and in her glossy eyes, he softens his armor - if only for a moment. Visenya begins to shake, like a leaf in a storm, remembering the simpler times that she ran around The Red Keep like a wild animal, and when Jaime Lannister wasn’t enemy number one to her family. Then like the wind, Visenya turns, quickly disappearing into the night.

She tries to headbutt the creature again, but she can’t move her head far enough to attempt it.

Chapter Text

“Visenya.” A soft voice echoes in Visenya’s head. It’s delicate and feminine, oozing warmth and comfort. Her name distorts, sounding distant yet close all at the same time. It’s familiar, a voice she’s heard before, but she’s not sure where from. It leaves a hole in her chest, reigniting a deep sadness she’s repressed for so long, but she doesn’t know why.

“Visenya.” There it is again, the voice is closer this time, clearer than before. It causes another pang of pain in her chest, her head throbbing and heart aching. 

But she doesn’t know why.

“Visenya.” This time there’s more force behind the words, a command rather than a whisper. It’s firm and stern, like a scolding mother. It takes a moment, but she realizes why the voice is familiar. It's her mother's voice; the soft and patient tone she always used when talking to Visenya and her siblings. The soothing effect it always had, no matter what the situation. And now it just brings pain, opening old wounds that were scabbed over. 

“Wake. Up.” A different voice this time. 

Her eyes shoot open; heavy breaths and a racing heart accompanying her awakening. Left and right, her eyes dart around the surrounding area. She’s in a tent it would seem, the canvas of it worn and stained, speckled with small tears here and there. It’s relatively empty, sans the wooden table that’s low to the floor, glass bottles and herbs littering its surface. It’s calm, the scent of earthy herbs and sweet florals heavenly, but it’s unfamiliar. 

None of this is familiar, and it immediately sets her on edge.

“You are awake, good.” It’s a woman, the same voice that commanded her to awaken. Visenya looks to her right, eyes wild and nearly feral. It is a woman. She’s dirty, with tangled dark brown hair and tan skin that looks sun kissed. Her eyes are a piercing green, nearly looking through her soul with so much as a glance.

“For a moment I was worried my healing abilities had failed me. I am proud to see they have not.” She speaks with a heavy accent like the common tongue is not common to her at all. The lilt is familiar, similar to the way the elves spoke, but oh so different. It’s thicker, heavier, and more foreign than theirs had been. 

Visenya doesn’t speak, barely even breathes as she watches the woman, wariness clouding her eyes. Her eyes flit to the woman’s ears, the pointed ends of them sticking out through her shroud of hair. An elf, she should’ve guessed as much.

“Don’t tell me your ability to speak has left you, girl?” Her words are devoid of humor, deadpan, and monotonous, yet they aren’t cruel or harsh. Instead, she speaks more like a stern mother. Visenya opens her mouth and then closes it, not sure of what to say. 

What do you even say to a stranger who’s also your savior?

“You saved me.” It’s not a question, but a statement, an accusation hidden beneath the cracks in her voice. No one does anything for free, there’s always some type of trade-off. 

“I did.” She answers, standing from her crouching position near Visenya, moving towards the small workbench. She’s tall, head only inches away from the canvas ceiling. She’s willowy and delicate in appearance, not at all equipped with the body of a warrior. Yet, she’s not frail, with an aura around the woman that speaks of death and mysticism. 

“Why?” Visenya demands, attempting to sit up, but the pain in her body stops her. She groans, only managing to prop her body up with her elbows. 

“Do I need a reason to not leave an innocent to die in the forest?” The woman counters, turning her head to briefly glance at Visenya before returning her eyes to the mortar in her hands. “That alp has taken enough lives, there was no need for it to take yours as well.”

Visenya squints her eyes as they flit around the room, trying to scope out any potential weapons that would be of use to her if things go south. Her eyes move back to the woman.

“I’m human,” Visenya says as if those two words are the only answer needed as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. The woman hums quietly, the noise overflowing with amusement. 

“I did not think you were not.” The woman responds. She grabs a small pale green herb, placing it in the mortar, and begins to create a paste with the pestle. 

“Yet you still saved me,” Visenya says, her frustration growing as the seconds tick by, losing patience with this mysterious woman. While she saved her life, games and half-truths are not something she likes to play. A trait she seems to have picked up from Lord Stark.

“Yes, as I said before, you were dying in the forest. You’ve done nothing to warrant me leaving you to the crows.” the woman responds, unbothered by Visenya’s less than kind attitude. 

“But humans have. They’ve done horrible, terrible things to your people.” Visenya says. She’s in near hysterics, trying to understand why this woman won’t fully answer her question, instead, she gives her half-answers that just spin her mind in circles.  

“They have, but you have not, Jane.” 

Mind blank, all previous thoughts are gone, tension cuts through the noise in the tent-like a knife. Her heart slows, one beat for what should’ve been every two beats. 

‘How did she--’

“I never told you my name, yet you know it. How?” Visenya demands, desperately trying to sit up once more, only to be met with more sharp pain in her body. A million tiny needles stab into her body, overwhelming her until it’s the only thing she can focus on.

The woman sighs and turns around, her mortar in hand. She looks down at Visenya with sharp eyes and a stern expression, as if she’s an unruly child, quickly closing the distance between them. With one hand and minimal effort, she pushes Visenya back so that her back is pressing against a trunk that lies behind her. The pain, however, doesn’t subside. The woman brings the potion up to Visenya's mouth, but she closes her mouth tightly, refusing even a drop of the mystery liquid. 

“Drink.” the woman commands, but Visenya stubbornly shakes her head. The woman sighs once more, muttering something under her breath in a foreign tongue. 

“This will help with the pain. Now drink, you stubborn child.” She holds up the potion to Visenya’s lips once more, and this time, she apprehensively drinks the concoction. It’s bitter and fiery hot as it slides down her throat, yet manages to ease the pain shooting through her body. 

A moment of silence passes as Visenya finishes swallowing the drink. But it doesn’t last for long. Too many questions fly around in Visenya’s mind to allow for that.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Visenya says, less uneasy yet still wary of the woman, the vulnerability of her position enough to keep her alert. 

“Do not fear, I did not come by your name in some insidious manner. Filavandrel speaks of you, very often, if I might add.” From this distance, Visenya can see the faint lines up her eyes, the small wrinkles framing both ends of her lips. 

“That still doesn't answer how you know I’m her,” Visenya says, pressing for more information, drinking it up like she’s been deprived of water for days.

“He spoke of your dragon blade. It was a wild guess, but it appears to have been the right one.” There’s a sly glimmer in her green eyes, an almost teasing tone in her voice.
Visenya nods her head, allowing silence to wash over them for a brief moment, only to break it again. 

“Filavandrel speaks of me?” Visenya asks, darting her gaze to the other side of the canvas.

“Quite a bit. It would seem you made an impression on him,” the woman stands from her crouching position and moves away from Visenya. “He seems to believe you would be a great ally.” 

At that, Visenya scoffs, shaking her head at the thought. 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use, I seem to find myself nearly dying quite a bit,” she says, a sardonic grin on her face. 

The woman hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

“That could be true, but it could also not be,” the woman muses, eyes shining with a smirk pulling at her lips. She stares at nothing, eyes nearly glazing over for a moment before snapping back into reality, returning her gaze to Visenya.

“Now, I believe you need to get back to your Witcher. Who knows what he might do if you don’t return soon.”  

Visenya nods, glancing down at her hands. Geralt would be worried sick, or he may just think she abandoned him and has left the town already. Her stomach churns at the thought, but she quickly writes it off as a fear of being alone. Because she would be. Jaskier is in high court and… beyond him and Geralt she has no one else, not in this world at least. 

“That would be best,” Visenya says, making the third attempt to stand up. This time, she isn’t assaulted with intense, mind-numbing pain, allowing her to successfully get to her feet. The woman sweeps past her, dark hair flying into Visenya's face, momentarily blinding her, the sweet scent of honeysuckle filling her senses. She walks out of the tent, leaving the flap open for Visenya to walk through. 

She slowly steps out of the tent, the soft rays of dawn coaxing her out into the light. She continues walking, she and the mysterious woman switching positions. Visenya now faces the tent, while the woman’s back is to it. 

“Thank you --” The cracks of daylight begin to pierce through the darkness, illuminating the woman in a beautiful and ethereal manner.

“Vanya. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance Jane, even if you spent most of our time together knocked out.” Humor fills her voice, a small smile creeping onto her face as well. 

“That’s probably why you think it was a pleasure,” Visenya snidely mutters, a sarcastic tilt to her grin. The woman cracks a larger smile, shoving a poultice and potion into Visenya’s arms, both of which are heavily wrapped in fresh bandages. 

“You’ll need to change them every few hours. Take that potion for pain, and the poultice to ease the scarring.” The woman - Vanya - turns to enter her tent, but pauses, turning to face Visenya once more. “And do not fear, the creature has been slain.”

“Again, thank you for saving me.” Visenya says, and Vanya nods, a solemn look on her fair face. Once again, she turns to re enter her tent, but pauses midway into it, turning and looking at Visenya. 

“You may find one day you may be returning the favor, war can be a fickle thing.” And with that she disappears back into her tent, leaving Visenya outside, all alone. 

War, what war? Would there be a war? And if so, with who, and why is she so sure Visenya will be involved?

With nothing else to do or say, Visenya simply turns, making her way back to the small inn, where Geralt is hopefully still residing. Mind swimming with more questions and unanswered riddles than she came with. 

OoO

The sun continued to rise, closely following behind her as she walked back to the inn, almost coaxing her towards it. And when she finally arrives at her destination, it’s eerily silent when she steps back into it. The quiet is totally unlike the rowdy cheers and jeers from only hours prior. There are more than a few patrons passed out in various positions; some at tables, some on the floor, and even one lying on the counter. The barkeep is nowhere to be seen, probably fast asleep in his bed by now. The stench of old alcohol and drunken men stings her nose, causing her face to scrunch up in distaste.

Drunks are the same no matter where you go.

The floor creaks under the weight of her feet, the only other noise in the room besides heavy snores and her own breathing. Like a ghost she moves through the room, quickly reaching the old wooden stairs. They creak more than the wooden floor, each step louder than the previous. Luckily, no one wakes up, completely oblivious to Visenya and her presence. 

She climbs the stairs quickly, moving down the long hallway, passing various doors, but paying them no mind. Her mind is solely focused on the one door, the one that the person she dreads seeing most waits behind. And when she does reach the door, her heart is pounding, hands shaky and sweaty from the anxiety coursing through her. She reaches out a hand, tightly gripping the ice-cold metal of the doorknob. 

One twist to the right, and it unlatches with a soft click . 

It slowly swings open, taking its sweet time, moaning and groaning as it does. She places one foot in the room, the wood creaking beneath her step, and then another step. Now she fully stands in the room, gently closing the door behind her. 

The room is quiet, eerily so. The fire doesn’t crackle and spit as it did before, candles don’t flicker in and out; growing stronger and stronger only to then die out and repeat the process. There isn’t the hum of sleepy mutterings or deep breaths going in and out. Nor the sound of rustling under itchy wool blankets.

Silence. 

Visenya moves further into the room, holding her breath, afraid to break the silence and cause a storm. 

Another step into the room, she walks on the balls of her feet, wanting to muffle each step as much as possible. Her eyes focus on Geralt’s still body, which lies in a heap of tangled blankets and long limbs. She pauses in the middle of the room and watches him breathing with his eyes closed, lashes delicately kissing his sharp cheekbones. 

He’s beautiful, inhuman in a way. And technically, she knows that's true. The blood coursing through his veins isn’t human, and certainly isn’t the same as the blood in hers. They call him a mutant, but he doesn’t look like one, nor act like one. They treat him the same way they treat the monster that nearly took her life, but he isn’t. 

He’s more mythical, like he’s pulled directly from the tales woven together about a legendary hero with god's blood who's been sent to save the world. The gods themselves molded him from clay, meticulously carving every curve in his cheeks and the sharp line of his jaw until they breathed life into him. It’s the only way someone could be so beautiful, genetics are never that kind to anyone.  

But it’s more than just his aesthetic appearance. It’s the subtle way he cares for those around him. The quiet laugh that never bubbles out of his lips, but Visenya knows it is there, just under the surface. She can see it in his eyes, the way they light up, the humor he tries to hide behind stony glares and icy eyes. He cares, as much as he tries to pretend he doesn’t, she knows he does.  

Her heart flutters, face flushing the more she thinks about Geralt, pulling herself into daydreams she can’t remember after they flit from her mind. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” His voice is husky and rough, not smooth and silky as it normally is. It’s like sandpaper scraping against her bare skin. His eyes are wide open, the bed creaking and blankets rustling as he sits up. 

“Where else would I go?” she asks, voice nothing but a whisper as she shrugs.

Geralt grunts, still not facing her. “Maybe home?”

She can’t stop the cruel grin that appears on her face. It’s not cruelty directed at him, more like cruelty towards fate. Fate that brought her so far from the only place she knew as home.

Visenya is mute, unable to find the right words to say. He turns his body, sitting up and looking right at her, more specifically, the bandages wrapping around her upper body. 

Suddenly his sullen expression sours, morphing into one of fury and anger. 

“You went looking for it.” It isn’t a question, the ice in his voice not allowing for anything that she might say to soothe it. She swallows thickly, mind a blur, and hands sweaty. 

“No,” is all she utters, it’s the only thing she can say. Geralt raises a brow, his eyes speaking without his mouth moving an inch. 

‘I don’t believe you.’ they whisper, nearly taunting her. 

“It found me,” she says, managing to soothe her nerves, even if it’s only surface level. “I wandered too far from the town, it would seem.” She tries to put some humor behind the words, to ease the tension that suffocates the two of them. 

“Did you kill it?” His voice doesn't hold as much anger in it, nor the distant coldness he prefers to wield. The ice he wielded is melting, making way for the softness hidden in his eyes, the worry for her wellbeing. 

“No. I was saved by an elf that lived in the woods. She killed it,” she replies, moving closer to the bed, like a doe that gets scared by the slightest movement. His eyes stay on Visenya, his gaze moving from her to wounds to her face. He watches with a passive expression as she gets closer to him. 

“I’m...glad,” Geralt says. The words sound awkward and unsure like he doesn’t know what to say. It’s been an awful while since he’s had to deal with emotions beyond killing monsters and getting gold. 

“Me too.” She continues to close the distance until her knees hit the bed frame. She hesitates, not sure where to go from here. But without allowing herself to think too much, she slowly climbs into the bed, keeping her eyes on Geralt, allowing him ample time to tell her to leave. 

He never does. 

Instead, he allows her to crawl into the bed and lay down beside him, resting her head on his lap. Without hesitation, his long and deft fingers begin to comb through her tangled and matted hair, smoothing it more and more with each pass. 

Her eyes flutter shut, enjoying the sensation his fingers create by gently scraping against her scalp. The room is silent once more, but it isn’t suffocating, wrapping her in anxiety and dread. Instead, it’s calming and peaceful, lulling her into a sense of safety and security. 

“Geralt.” Her voice is hardly above a whisper, not wanting to break the intimate atmosphere in the room He hums, a cue that he’s listening and waiting for her to continue, 

“Why won’t you let me hunt with you? I’m sure with a bit of training, I could be of much more use to you.” 

His fingers pause, but only for a moment. He sharply inhales before answering, trying to find the right words to say.

“I don’t want you to die,” his voice is low and rough, but not scratchy or raw, it’s almost vulnerable in a way.  

Her brows furrow, eyes squinting as she stares at the ceiling. 

“Everyone dies eventually.”

And it's true. Death is something that inevitably will dig its claws into everyone, no matter how powerful or wealthy they may be. Her mind momentarily flickers to Stregobor, the mage who thinks so highly of himself and is so sure that he will always escape death’s clutches unscathed. But he won’t. Visenya will make sure of it. She doesn’t know how, and she doesn’t know when. But eventually, she’ll pay him back for all the suffering he’s caused. 

After all, she did promise him that day, after Geralt left the town and Renfri’s dead body dragged into his tower. She swore to him that she would kill him. And she intends to keep her promises. 

Her eyes move, landing on Geralt, focusing on his eyes that seem to gleam in the candlelight, more of a rich amber than a startling yellow. Gods, while beautiful in any light, he’s especially so in soft candle light. 

“Filavandrel has been speaking of me. I suppose he thinks I’m important or something. The elf - Vanya told me so,” Visenya mutters, thinking back on Vanya’s words, how apparently Filavandrel has spoken so much about her that she managed to recognize her by her sword alone. 

“Aren’t you?” Geralt asks with a slight bit of mirth tinting his voice. 

“I don’t feel like it,” she responds, deeply sighing as she saturates herself in the silence, hoping for a semblance of peace in the calamity of her mind. 

Geralt continues raking his fingers through her hair, but suddenly pauses, hand resting on her scalp. He gently grabs onto a chunk of hair, holding it up and carefully inspecting it.  

“Silver,” he whispers, voice so quiet, almost as if Visenya wasn’t supposed to hear. But she does. Her eyes instantly open, flitting to Geralt, wide with panic and uncertainty. She begins to try and sit up, to put as much distance between the two of them. But Geralt's grip on her hair stops her, he isn’t rough nor is his touch painful but it’s enough to keep her from moving too much.  

“What’d you say?” she asks.

“Your natural hair is silver.” Geralt's tone isn’t accusatory nor judgmental; it’s even and calm. 

“It is,” she replies, uncertainty lacing every word. Her mind is nothing but white walls, impatiently waiting for Geralt’s next move. He couldn’t know the significance of silver hair, wouldn’t know what a Targaryen is even if she tells him. And yet the fear of being found out claws at her, the worry that if she appears as a Targaryen she may act like one. And while not all of them were mad, she still fears that she may. It’s irrational and silly, yet the fear tightly grips her heart none-the-less. 

“And you dye it. Why?” he asks, eyes moving from the small bundle of hair he holds back to her face. His hands release the hair and it falls back onto her head. 

“Silver isn’t exactly inconspicuous,” she answers, trying to make her voice as nonchalant and unbothered as possible. 

“Are you trying to hide from someone?” Geralt asks. Without another thought, Visenya opens her mouth, voice hardly above a whisper, the words barely leaving her lips. 

“I feel like I’ve been hiding my whole life.” 

Technically, untrue, her survival and location was never a secret. Everyone knew that Lord Eddard Stark took in the Targaryen princess as his ward, raising her side by side with his own. But inside, there was always this peculiar feeling, a horror so deeply embedded within her that one wrong move would cause her to lose her head. So she tried to be as plain as possible, only showing her true color around a few select people, that circle growing smaller as she grew bigger. 

Technically, her existence has never been a secret. But she still was, in her mind at least. 

Geralt nods, not speaking another word. Visenya shifts, no longer lying on him, yet she stays close enough that she can feel the rumble of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his chest. 

He says nothing, and neither does she. His eyes remain wide open, as do hers. Eventually, once the sun rises and bathes the world in its glow does she speak. Her throat is dry and the words are as quiet as a whisper, but they echo in the room as if she screamed them.

"Call me Visenya."

Chapter Text

He's looking at her again. 

She can feel it; a shiver up her spine, the prickling feeling in the back of her mind to be alert for something, all telltale signs of his eyes on her. Every time she turns to meet his gaze, to try and decipher the whys and whats in his eyes, he looks away. And in the midst of all of her anxiety, she's sure of at least one thing, he's still reeling from her confession. Despite the weeks that have passed since her name, her real name, slipped from her lips. He doesn't say that he's still trying to piece together the puzzle, but he doesn't need to. She can see it in the way he carries himself around her, his lingering eyes and stumbling words. 

More than a few times he's called her Jane, instinctively, if she were to have to guess. And each time she just simply raises a brow at him before he swiftly corrects himself, eyes wild and uncertain, unable to directly look into hers. She never gets mad or annoyed, the exact opposite, in fact. She's never seen this side of Geralt that resembles a fumbling boy who still isn't a man yet; all rosy cheeks and shy conversation. Normally Geralt is so put together, constantly in control of the situation, and yet, something as simple as a name change is all it takes to throw him off. 

Another thing she's certain of is just how much she enjoys the way he says her name, the smooth Valyrian name effortlessly slipping past his lips. It's like a symphony, a sound not even the most renowned of bards could replicate. But she'd never tell him that. 

She continues staring at her face in the old mirror, dust and cracks speckling across her reflection. But she looks past it, staring at her eyes that are like liquid gold, and her fair skin, nearly glowing in the dim light. She frowns, lines appearing around her mouth - lines that weren't always there. Under her eyes are small wrinkles, hidden by the dark circles from countless sleepless nights in the least ideal spots, but she can pick them out a mile away.

She's older, that much is obvious, but how much older is not.

She used to count each day, the wall near the bed in her old room in Blaviken covered in small little lines meant to represent every time she fell asleep. She stopped keeping track after the town burned to the ground. At first, it was too painful to think of anything beyond the basic necessities of her survival. But then time drifted away, things grew easier the longer she spent with Jaskier. She smiled more, laughed more, and felt lighter than she had in a long time. And now she finds herself in an odd position, unsure of how much older she is. 

"Geralt." She doesn't remove her eyes from her reflection. He grunts, a sign that he's listening. Always a man of few words. 

"How long has it been since Blaviken?" She hears a sharp intake of breath before it's released back into the air. It's silent a moment longer.

"You don't know?" Geralt asks, skepticism and disbelief abundant in his voice. 

"No." She reaches a hand up, tracing the new scars that mar her face, they're faint, nothing more than a whisper on her face. To everyone else, they're only visible in the flicker of a candle at the right angle, but she's always aware of them.

"Fifteen years." 

Her hand drops, limp at her side. She turns a flurry of hair and wind, facing Geralt with an odd expression on her face. She can't discern how to feel with that revelation. How is one supposed to react upon figuring out that fifteen years have passed, and they didn't even know it? She wants to protest, to scream that he's lying to her, and demand that he tell her the truth, the real truth and not some practical joke. But the longer she thinks on it, her eyes resting on Geralt's stone face, the more it makes sense. 

She thinks back to Winterfell, trying to remember the smells of her previous home. To remember how everything felt under her fingertips - whether it be in the warm castle or the icy cold. She tries to recall how everyone looked the last time she saw them, tried to visualize their exact heights in comparison to hers, to recall small imperfections that made them not smooth porcelain dolls. Only then, when she focuses so hard on doing just that, does she realize she can't even remember their faces. She can see their general shapes, her mind recognizing them as either Jon, Robb, or anyone else important enough to remember. But when she tries to zoom in and make their faces clearer, they're nothing but humanoid-like blurs. 

Her face twitches, in discomfort or shock, she's not sure. 

"Huh." It's the only thing she manages to say, unable to force her mind to think of another response or to form the words with her mouth. She's utterly frozen in place. 

She almost allows her mind to wander, thinking of what may have happened to the rest of the Stark children. Would they have found peace and safety, or would they have blown away like leaves in the wind, desolated by monsters and grief? But she banishes the thoughts before they could form. What would be the point? All it would do is pull her into another bout of melancholy, the same suffering she was drowning in whilst hiding away in Blaviken. So she does what she's best at; she takes all unpleasant thoughts and ghosts and locks them into a little box in the back of her mind. Leaving it to collect dust until it's long forgotten. 

"You didn't know that?" Geralt asks, breaking his statue-like posture to step closer to Visenya. She doesn't answer, she simply shakes her head, her breathing shaky and unsteady. 

'Fifteen years.'

The number echoes in her mind, it's on repeat and she finds herself unable to escape it. He's silent, Geralt is always silent. But she welcomes it, more so now than ever. 

Her fingers begin to count down as she counts up, the numbers hardly above the breaths she takes. She looks down at the ground, counting the grain in the wooden floors. 

"21, 22, 23, 24…" 

She pauses, finishing the math in her mind. She opens her mouth, cautiously.

"Thirty-five… I'm thirty-five years old now." It makes sense, her face appears much older than when she first arrived, the lines and crow's feet not just a result of poor living conditions and battle scars. 

"Is that a bad thing?" Geralt asks. Visenya looks up at him. His facial expression remains much the same as before, but his eyes glow with a hint of curiosity. Not that he would ever admit to it if she ever called him out on it. 

"No, I just-- never thought I'd make it this far," Visenya says, a sardonic grin pulling at her lips that looks more like a grimace than anything. 

"With the life, you've had--" Geralt starts, his voice low and raspy, but Visenya cuts him off with a bout of laughter that sounds more like knives than bells. He closes his mouth, simply raising a brow at Visenya. 

"You have no idea, Geralt of Rivia." She shakes her head, the grin-grimace hybrid still on her face, yet her eyes tell a different story. They're despondent and regretful, and Geralt can't understand why.

"Then perhaps you should tell me." Suddenly Visenya is no longer laughing. She stares at Geralt with a type of intensity he's never seen in her eyes before. And before he can bring himself to get used to it, to allow himself to sink in the new atmosphere that surrounds them, she dissolves it, eyes turning warm and mischievous once more.

"Give it another fifteen years, and maybe then," she says, feather-light laughter following her words. She turns once more, hair whipping behind her as she continues to stare at her reflection. Her hair is longer, reaching a few inches below her breasts. Her roots are slightly grown out, allowing a little bit of shining silver to peek through the mud brown. She still can't decide if she wants to continue dying it or not. But she tucks that thought away, not wanting to unpack everything that comes with those thoughts. Not after she just packed away unpleasant thoughts that are of a similar vein. 

"Plus, I've told you more things than I've told anyone else, and still I feel as though I know nothing of you," Visenya says, turning around once more, moving away from the dingy mirror. This causes Geralt to laugh - it's rough and dark, the complete opposite of Visenya's. It causes shivers to rush up her spine and a fluttering sensation to form in her stomach. 

She passes by him, a hand ghosting over his shoulder. She exits the room and Geralt swiftly follows. His footsteps are much heavier than hers; she's like a soft summer breeze while he's the terrifying winter winds that threaten to blow everything down. 

They walk the length of the hall, down the winding staircase, and out of the inn where Roach is patiently waiting for them. Throughout their small journey, they maintained not only the same distance between one another but the same space. 

She only pauses upon reaching Roach, a hand resting on the mare's side as she gently pets her. Visenya looks at Geralt, who now stands precisely two paces away from her - one pace closer than he had been five seconds ago. 

"Fair is fair," she says, raising her brows. A grumble of a laugh escapes his mouth, so quiet it could almost be mistaken for the world itself shaking. His laughter causes his eyes to close for a brief second before he opens them once more.

"I can't argue with that. In exchange for what you've told me, I'll tell you about my first hunt. Does that sound like a fair bargain?" he asks, a certain lightness in his eyes that quickly disappears in the time it takes for her to blink and open her eyes again. She holds a hand out, and he places his own in it. They shake their hands, two times to be exact. 

"Sounds like a deal to me."

OoO

"I'd only just left Kaer Morhen, a new Witcher who was naïve enough to think I could save the world. I came across a gang of men who were about to rape a young girl, a few of them holding back the girl's father." Geralt says, his voice quiet and somber, but she could hear each word perfectly. They're both riding on Roach, with Visenya in front and Geralt's arms slung loosely around her as he holds Roach's reins. The mare doesn't need much guidance though, she just follows the winding road ahead of them, and neither Geralt nor Visenya correct her. 

"And then what happened," Visenya asks, resisting the urge to turn around and look at Geralt. He's so good at obscuring any emotion or feelings when he speaks, often opting to talk with a monotonous voice. While hilarious when dealing witty one-liners, it makes it near impossible to discern how he feels. His eyes on the other hand are a completely different story. 

To most, they may seem as empty and dead as a poorly done painting, but Visenya can read him like an open book - spotting small flickers of different emotions. After all, Visenya often employs the same tactic to appear as cold and unfeeling as possible, it's only natural she sees through when others try to do it to her.  

"I killed them, the bald man with the rotted teeth and all his friends. The girl's father fled right after--" Geralt says.

"And the girl?" Visenya says, unable to stop herself from interrupting him. When he promised her a tale of his first hunt, this isn't exactly what she expected, yet she finds herself enthralled none-the-less. A part of her wonders how different her history might've been if Geralt lived in Westeros. What would be different, if anything at all. She knows with complete certainty that the Geralt she knows would have no problem defeating the Mountain. But if Geralt lived in Westeros instead of here, he wouldn't be a Witcher. Which means he'd have none of the capabilities that make him superior to mortals. So her train of thought is moot and pointless. 

But she can't help the twitch of a smirk on her lips as she imagines Geralt slicing the Mountain's head off his body; the cut clean and precise. And instead of a girl about to be raped by a slimy bandit, she sees the Mountain looming over her mother, and Geralt saving her just in time. 

"What happened to the girl?" This time she doesn't fight the urge to turn and look at Geralt. She turns her head just enough to see the right side of his face. His eyes are far away, recalling memories that are probably lifetimes away. The mid-day sunlight aggressively shines onto his face, but it's deceiving in its harshness for it provides no warmth. The air is cold and icy, freezing dead leaves and small twigs into timeless statues that will melt when summer comes again. 

"She was covered in the bald man's blood, but unharmed, not that you'd know that with how she reacted. When I approached her, she screamed, vomited, and then passed out," Geralt says. His tone remains even, not portraying any feelings. 

She turns her head to face the road once more, her lips pursing in concentration. 

Would her mother have reacted the same if Geralt swept into her chamber like an angel of death, white hair his halo, and the blade strapped to his back his judgment? Or would she have thanked him, tears streaming down her face as she held her screaming children? 

"And how did that make you feel?" she asks, not daring to turn and look at him once more. She fears if he takes one look at her eyes, he'll see all the thoughts furiously swimming in the flames that dance in them. She can feel him shrug more than see it, the movement of his shoulders causing his arm to brush against her back. 

"Like shit," he simply replies. Visenya scoffs, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. 

She opens her mouth, a witty quip on the tip of her tongue when she's cut off by a scream. It comes from her right, in the forest, but not so deeply hidden that the dying trees and frostbitten leaves muffle the noises. Her posture turns stiff like a board, the hairs on her body standing up straight. 

"Did you--" she begins, only to be cut off by another scream, this one more guttural than the last, yet not beast-like in nature. Visenya turns, catching Geralt's eyes. He nods, acknowledging that the shouts aren't just in her head, the manifestation of deeply hidden thoughts resurfacing. He hears it too. 

Without allowing a moment of hesitation or for her mind to catch up with her actions, she jumps off of Roach, unsheathing her blade. The dragon hilt is cold as ice, but soothing to the heat slowly rising in Visenya. 

A loud thud follows only a moment later, signaling that Geralt is following her lead. She'd feel touched by his lack of protest when it comes to her charging headfirst into the unknown, but the situation is far too dangerous for any distractions, even if only for a brief second. 

Blood rushing and heart pounding, she turns to ice as another scream echoes in their ears. It's closer this time, sounding as if someone is shouting while choking on their blood. Visenya's pace quickens, her heart racing faster as adrenaline floods her body in preparation for the potential fight that seems more likely than not as each second passes. The grip on her sword tightens as she clenches her jaw. Dozens of battle maneuvers and tactics fly through her mind, all the years of training; both in Winterfell and with Geralt blaring in her mind. 

Another scream, this one deeper than the previous. Visenya picks up her pace again, eager for this confrontation to be over before it even begins. She glances behind and Geralt is right behind her, sword unsheathed and face battle-hardened. 

For the fifth time, another scream rips through the trees, but now that they're closer, Visenya hears the rustling of what sounds like people running. The muffled noise of jeers and mocking voices trickle into her ears.

People, they're dealing with people, and not literal monsters. Though most times, people can be the worst type of monster there is.

With a deep breath that she quickly releases, Visenya reaches a handout, pushing away the branches that separate her and Geralt from the apparent attackers. 

'The blood of the dragon is not afraid.'

The phrase enters her mind without thought. But instead of banishing it away, she embraces it. She imagines Queen Visenya beside her, a stern expression on her beautiful face, lips curling into a snarl that would perfectly mimic Vhaegar. 

When she opens her eyes, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. A group of six or so humans wielding various types of weapons that were dripping with blood stand in the small clearing. The source of the screams quickly became clear; a small family of elves with blood dripping from various wounds. A male elf lays on his stomach, unmoving; meanwhile, a woman cowers in a corner, pressing her body against a tree, three children with her. The smallest of the three were huddled on either side of her as she attempted to soothe them, tears streaming down her bloodied face. Meanwhile, the oldest, only looking to be seven at the most, stands in front of her, the branch from a tree between his unsteady hands. He holds it as if it's a blade, determined to protect what remains of his family. 

The humans are bandits and not very successful ones; with worn mismatched leather armor and blades that look seconds away from rusting. But they wear sneers on the face, showing rotted teeth and foul words. They snap their attention toward Visenya who enters first and watch her for a moment as she watches them, taking in the scene before her.

She expected the worst, but nothing could've prepared her for this. It's too familiar, too close to home. She feels her vision go red, blood pumping in her veins, and skin nearly burning.

"Look at this boys, no need to find a nearby brothel. Looks like our entertainment found us," one of the men says, a twisted smirk curling on his cracked and bleeding lips. Visenya's face contorts into a look of disgust. The other men around them laugh, cackles that sound more like screams than sounds of delight. 

Visenya tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword, teeth grinding as she clenches her jaw tighter. She takes a single step forward. 

"Pretty thing you are, and you look like a fighter. Good, I like it when they fight," the man continues, undisturbed or intimidated by Visenya.

"And I like it when bastards like you are six feet under. Lucky for me you will be, soon," Visenya says, her voice gravelly and harsh like a growl. She smiles, her mouth looking more like the snarl of a wolf that's moments away from attacking. 

The man doesn't falter, instead, he barks out a laugh, pointing his finger at Visenya as he does. 

"Funny," he says. He nods his head at a few of the men, turning his attention back to the elf and her children. "But be a dear and be quiet. I have some business to attend to." He lifts his blade and begins approaching the woman. The child holds his stick up high, about to try and defend his mother when the bandit just shoves him aside, knocking the kid on the ground. A loud crack resounds in the clearing as his small head collides with a protruding rock. 

The elven woman screams, crawling to try and get as far away as possible, clutching her kids tighter against her. Tears stream down her face as vigorous as a waterfall. Dread fills Visenya, all her thoughts consumed by panic. 

"No!" Visenya screams. She moves to charge him, but a grimy hand holds onto her, keeping her from running. She turns towards the man, and wildly swings her blade. It misses, but in dodging it, he loses enough of his footing that he lets go of her.  

He goes to grab her again, but before he can try, a blade slices into his neck, causing blood to gush out of the wound before he drops to the ground. Visenya doesn't have to look to know it's Geralt, but she does anyway. A deep scowl is set on his face, eyes blazing in a way that's eerily similar to Visenya's. He growls, eyes assessing the scene before them. He glances at Visenya, then moves his eyes to the leader. Visenya nods, understanding the nonverbal cue. 

Save the girl.

"A fucking Witcher!" The man spits out. He spits turning away from the elf, no longer able to ignore the threat right in front of him. "Just kill them both, I hear Witchers make good coin."

Then everything descends into chaos. The rest of the bandits charge Visenya and Geralt, but she pays them no mind. She nimbly dodges each one of their attacks, leaving them to Geralt. Her eyes stay on the leader, who's eyes rest solely on her as well. He grabs a second blade from the ground, ripping it from the hands of the dead elf. He strides towards her and she meets him halfway in a clash of blades and fury. 

Their blades meet in a cross, the clang of metal ringing in her ears. She scowls as he snarls, spittle flying into her face. 

She jumps back and pivots to his side. His gaze follows her, body turning as she does. Like a butcher cutting a pig, he hacks down at her. She parries it with her blade, pushing it away as if it's nothing more than an annoyance. His second one comes down a moment later and she dodges to the other side, the blade slicing through empty air. A third swing, his other hand comes down, this time towards her face. She crouches low to the ground as she brings her blade up to block the hit, using her lower position to steady her body as she pushes against him, both hands holding onto the hilt. 

He presses down and she pushes upward, arms shaking from the exertion.  She screams, the sound eerily similar to the roar of a dragon, moments before it decimates its enemies with its fiery wrath. With a burst of power, she shoots up, causing him to stumble back. 

Right and left, she slashes her blade at him. His leather armor takes the brunt of the first hit, but the second one manages to piece into flesh. She snarls as he screeches in pain. Clammy hands begin to shakily smack against his belt, desperately looking for a blade to try and stick her with, but she doesn't give him the chance. 

She kicks him in the abdomen. The force of it slamming his already weak body against a tree. There's a loud crack as his body makes contact, another howl of pain escaping his mouth. 

"Stupid bit--" 

Her blade stabs into his neck, stopping him mid-sentence. Blood pours out of his mouth, a gurgling sound replacing his scratchy voice. 

"Fuck you," Visenya says. She then spits at him, the saliva landing on his chest and disappearing into the blood. 

She sighs, the sounds of fighting die down, and she turns around. Geralt is standing in the center of the clearing, blood speckling his armor and dripping off his blades, but luckily none of the blood is his. Her tense shoulder loosens slightly, the adrenaline leaving with the threats. She tosses her blade to the side, making a mental note to clean it later. 

Turning to her right, she sees the elven woman with her children still cowering in the corner, all three of her children around her, the eldest of them knocked out cold. Now that no threats are looming over them, Visenya allows herself a moment to inspect the three of them. 

The mother looks to be middle age, with wheat blonde hair and pallid skin, her bones protruding in a way that the bones of someone well-nourished wouldn't. Her eyes are down and as large as a doe, the sparkle in them enhanced by salty tears. 

The small girl looks nearly identical to her, her wheat hair in a messy braid that's falling apart. She clutches her mother's hand tighter, moving further into her the longer Visenya looks at her. The other boy is the complete opposite, with dark disheveled hair and blue eyes. His face is blotchy and wet from tears, but he doesn't seem to fully understand why. Staring at Visenya with blank curiosity rather than fear.

"Are you hurt?" Visenya asks, making a conscious effort to make her voice as light and harmless as possible. She takes a step forward, a branch breaking under her foot. The woman gasps, pressing herself further against the tree. 

Visenya stops, holding her arms up, a nonverbal sign that she means peace. The woman doesn't relax, not that Visenya expects her to.

"You--you--you," the woman stutters, tears still streaming down her face, but not as frantically as they were moments ago. 

"Saved you, yes," Visenya says, taking another step forward. The woman doesn't cower, but her fear doesn't lessen. 

"I don't have coin," she says, her voice wavering in between her sobs. Visenya shrugs, a small smile curling on her lips.

"And I have more than enough," Visenya says. The woman continues to stare at her, not uttering a single word. It's like they're frozen in place, only the tears running down her cheeks and their shaking forms giving away that they're in fact real. Visenya feels her stomach twist itself into knots. 

She should grab her blade and leave the clearing behind, get back on Roach with Geralt and ride off to the next destination. At the very least her conscience would be eased by the fact that they kept these band of idiots from hurting the woman and her children. 

And yet…

A voice whispers in her ear to not, that she'd never stop thinking about this moment, wondering what became of them. Did they save them from these bandits only to get robbed and left for dead by the next group of pricks with pointy swords? She couldn't live with it, she realizes. Not if she doesn't do everything in her power to ensure they arrive home safely and alive… wherever home is. A sigh escapes her mouth, so quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. 

"You have no reason to trust me, I get that, but at the very least I saved you from those pricks, so I can't be that bad, right?" Visenya asks, voice rougher and blunter than she intended for it to be. Internally she winces as the woman cowers for a brief second, but then slowly she nods her head.

"Right. Your son is injured, how serious, I'm not sure. I don't know, maybe you have some training in the art of healing, but if you're not, at the very least, I'm no stranger to minor injuries. I can help him," Visenya continues. The elven woman doesn't cower anymore, her rapid tears dwindling to a light drizzle rather than a heavy pour. She nods once more, and Visenya finds herself sighing in relief. 

Without wasting another moment she takes a step forward, turning towards the child on the ground. She crouches beside him, his mother moving to be on his other side. Her shining eyes are sharp, watching Visenya with the likeness of a hawk watching its prey. 

He looks to be a mixture of his mother and presumably his father. His hair is a dirty blonde, freckles dotting his tan skin. He's not nearly as frail as his other siblings, similar to how Jon, Robb, and Theon looked when they first started training in Winterfell. But he seems to have much less meat on his bones. 

Visenya places her warm hands on his face, lifting his head and moving a hand to gently cradle his head. There's a large bruise blossoming on the right side of his forehead, but there's no blood or any other signs of injury. She places a hand on his heart, feeling it beat against her hand, then slides it to the side of his neck, feeling a pulse there as well. 

"He didn't get hit with a weapon," the woman says, whether convincing herself of his safety or trying to feed Visenya information she isn't sure. Or it could be a mixture of both. 

"No, but he took a hard fall, I've seen men twice his size get knocked on their heads and never get back up, and if they do, they're never the same. There's bleeding, but that doesn't mean he's completely safe," Visenya says, removing her hands from his body. 

"Is there anything to be done?" she asks, picking him up and gently cradling his head in her lap. 

"Other than wait and see when he wakes? No. As I said, I'm no healer, but I have a tea that can help ease his pain. He'll have a bad headache and sore body, that much is certain," Visenya says. She looks over at the two other children; a girl and a boy. They're young, that for certain, younger than the boy on the ground. 

"How much?" the woman asks, not removing her eyes from her son. Visenya's brows furrow in confusion.

"How much what?"

"How much will I owe you for the herbs?" the woman asks again, looking Visenya directly in the eyes. Her tears are dry, but her eyes still shine from the residual dampness. 

"Nothing. He needs it now more than I do. I can buy more when I reach the next town," Visenya says, keeping her face as pleasant as possible. The woman purses her lips, clearly in thought. Silence washes over them until it's broken by the woman. 

"Thank you. Not many humans would show kindness to elves, much less two so well trained in fighting." 

Visenya snorts, a smirk appearing on her face. 

"One human and a mutant, actually. But you're welcome. What good is all the fighting talent in the world if you don't use it well," Visenya says, slowly standing from the ground? The woman's eyes follow her form as she stands to her full height. "Our horse is near the road. We can take you wherever home is, and make sure you get there safely."

The woman nods, adjusting her son in her arms so that he is lying across her lap. With Visenya's help, she stands from the ground, holding her son's bridal style. Her two other children stay close, hiding a bit behind her, each one with a hand attached to her dress. Visenya turns, eager to leave the clearing and forget any of this happened, but the woman stops her. 

"I've already lost Aldon, my husband. I could not lose my son too, I truly appreciate what you have and are doing for us."

"I wouldn't speak so soon," Geralt's gravelly voice enters the conversation. They both turn to see him kneeling beside the body, two fingers against his neck. "He's fading, but he hasn't died yet." 

Visenya strides towards Geralt, the woman, still holding her son, hot on her trail while her two children stay in place, silently watching with wide eyes. Visenya sits beside Geralt as the woman nearly collapses on the other side of Aldon's body. She takes a hold of his hand, her grip so tight her fingers begin to turn white.

"Can we save him?" Visenya asks. Geralt grunts, gesturing with his head in the direction behind them. She nods, knowing what he's saying without having to physically say it. She stands and runs the way they came in. Her feet are heavy, beating into the soil and breaking any twigs or crunchy leaves. The world is a blur around her, wind rushing against her skin. They can save him, but only if Visenya can get the supplies back to Geralt in time. 

Either by sheer dumb luck, or the gods truly have shown them favor, Roach is right where they left him. Visenya releases a heavy sigh as she beelines straight for her pack that hangs off of Roach. 

"Good horse. I'm going to give you so many apples once we reach civilization," Visenya breathes out, untying her pack from his saddle. He neighs, happily it would seem. She smiles, patting his side a few times before turning and rushing into the forest once more. 

Everyone is in the exact spots as when she left. Geralt is leaning over Aldon with his wife sitting on the other side of his body. She clutches his hand in hers, knuckles turning white from the tightness of her grip. Her lips are quivering with large eyes, her body shaking every few minutes, the stark contrast of Geralt. With thin lips, hard eyes, and unwavering hands as he cleans the wound to the best of his ability; he's the epitome of stone. Visenya runs towards them, tossing the bag at Geralt once she crosses halfway through the clearing. He catches it in his hand, flipping it open and rummaging through it. He pulls out various bottles; some with powders, liquids, herbs: both brushed and whole, and bandages. 

Visenya slows her pace, moving around Aldon to sit beside his wife. She glances at Visenya for a moment before looking back at her husband. She;'s breathing heavily, the sharp intakes of breath sporadic. A hiccup escapes her mouth every few seconds, eyes on her husband, waiting and hoping for any signs of recovering. Hand on the grass, it moves over until it brushes against her free hand. She doesn't look away from her husband, but she takes Visenya's hand, her cold body instantly feeling warmer from Visenya's proximity. It provides comfort, a sense of reassurance that Geralt knows what he's doing. That her husband will make it out of the mess, and this day won't become a travesty that's burned in her mind. 

Geralt works quickly, each minute passing in a blur. He tears strips of bandages off with his teeth, the tearing sound from it enough to keep Visenya from getting lost in her thoughts. He wipes away the blood with a cloth, pouring a liquid that smells suspiciously like alcohol over the wound. It hisses upon contact but the noise swiftly dissipates. He then grabs one of the vials that contain a thick liquid. It's amber, with various herbs and other ingredients slightly discoloring it. He packs it into the wound, laying down multiple thick layers of the poultice. He then lifts the torso of the man just enough to wrap his torso in bandages. With her only free hand, Visenya helps him keep the body off the ground, mutely watching Geralt work. 

Finally, Geralt sighs, removing his hands from the body, the two of them gently lowering him to once again lay on the ground. Blood is no longer gushing from the wound on the side of his body, unable to seep through the dense layers above it. 

"They were pricks, but luckily they weren't skilled pricks. He would've bled out, but it wasn't a fatal blow. When he wakes he'll be weak, but alive," Geralt mutters. Visenya sighs, eyes moving to the elven woman. She removes her hand from Visenya's grip, moving her child off of her lap. Visenya immediately places hands on the small boy, taking him from his mother and cradling him. The woman cries out in relief, hovering over Aldon's body and placing a hand on his cheek. 

She looks down at the boy in her arms, noticing the way his eyes twitch under his lids. He's dreaming, it seems. And from the small grin on his face, it's a good one. A soft smile forms on Visenya's face, wide eyes watching the boy, her breathing matching his. A familiar tingling sensation runs up her spine. She glances up, seeing Geralt's gaze firmly on her. She smiles, and he returns it. They've done it, managed to save an innocent family, keeping them from being torn apart by stick bastards with pointy sticks. It's...nice.

"We probably shouldn't move him too much in fear of disturbing his wounds. How far are you from here?" Visenya asks, turning her attention back to the woman. She lifts her head, eyes moving from her husband to Visenya. They're wet with tears again, but not tears of sorrow or fear. This time they're from an overwhelming feeling of joy and hope she didn't have moments ago.

"It's a short distance, we live just on the outskirts of Brunwich," she says. Visenya nods, opening her mouth but Geralt speaks before her.

"We just left," Geralt says.

"And we can turn back around," Visenya interjects, looking at Geralt with a stony expression; lips in a firm line and eyes daring him to contradict her. She clutches the child closer to her, not willing to let them go just yet. They need to be safe and back home, and Visenya needs to see it with her own eyes. Otherwise, her consciousness will never be sated. And Geralt gleans this, causing a sigh to leave his lips, not bothering to start an argument he knows he wouldn't win. 

"We can," he concedes, voice lacking any form of enthusiasm or conviction in his words.

"Excellent." Visenya returns her attention to the woman. "Since his injuries are the most delicate, your husband can ride on Roach, and you can ride with him. I can hold your son, but would your two other children be okay to walk? I'm not sure they'd fit on Roach." 

"They won't. We should camp here for the day until he's conscious and well enough to ride," Geralt says. Visenya nods and looks at the woman for confirmation, who nods as well. 

"In that case, I will get Roach," Visenya says. She begins to adjust the boy in her lap to give him back to his mother, but she stands from the ground. 

"I'll come with you," she says. Visenya nods, standing from the ground as well. She walks around Aldon, to stand beside Geralt. She gestures with her chin down at the child. Geralt opens his arms, reluctantly. She places the boy in his arms, and turns, dusting off any dirt that clings to her armor. Visenya nods at her and the two of them exit the clearing. 

The air around them is quiet. They neither speak nor acknowledge each other. Occasionally Visenya glances at her out of the corner of her eyes, and she catches the woman doing the same thing. It's almost like two wolves dancing around each other, trying to figure out how to approach the other. It isn't hostile, neither of them having any obvious tension. It's just….silent. 

The woods are as gloomy as before; a cold chill sweeping through the air with dead trees and crunching leaves in shades of brown coloring their world. Yet everything somehow feels lighter, less dull, and gray. Visenya feels weightless, the adrenaline from the battle still lingering in her veins and the rush from saving innocent lives giving a small skip in her step. 

"I am Amaria," the woman -- Amaria says, making the first move. Visenya nods, continuing to look straight ahead. 

"I am Amaria," the woman, Amaria, says. Her voice is louder than she's heard it, yet the only other times she spoke was during great distress. There's a melodic tone to it, each word slightly flowing together like the lyrics of a song. Visenya nods her head, staring straight ahead. 

"Visenya." Leaves crunch under her boots, matching the pace of her heart, and the distant song that lingers in the back of her mind. It's been too long since she's heard music - and not just the drunken yodeling of tavern goers. She misses music and singing that are enjoyable to listen to. She misses the small tunes and fumbling lyrics that Jaskier always sang throughout the days. Everything is too silent now, and she finds herself trying to fill the silence the way he did. 

"That's a beautiful name," Amaria remarks, stepping over an overly large root. Visenya smiles, glancing over at her. She's only the second person to call her Visenya. It's relieving...finally able to take ownership of her own name once again. 

"Thank you, it's a family name." Amaria nods, falling silent once more, and unlike moments prior, this silence is not an easy one. Nerves fill Visenya, the uncertainty of what to say - if she should say anything at all overwhelming. She mulls over it for another moment, before just opening her mouth and hoping to not offend. 

"What are your children named?" Visenya asks. 

"Rohir is my oldest at seven, he's the one you helped. Then there's Elana, she's only four and my youngest is Vyron, he's only two," Amaria says, a wide smile appearing on her face as she thinks about her children. Visenya watches her with keen eyes, a pang of envy stabbing into her, a piece of her longing to know the feeling of having a family that's all your own. 

"They're beautiful," Visenya says, tightly nodding her head. She drums her fingers against the side of her leg. 

"Do you have any?" Amaria asks. She's seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the awkward air that surrounds Visenya. But it's nothing new, she's never been the best with people. Constantly being around such loud people like Jaskier, or quiet and reclusive people like Geralt, she never notices. But now, walking in the forest alone with Amaria, she can't help but notice how extremely difficult something as simple as conversation is. 

"No," Visenya says, crouching to avoid smacking into a low hanging group of branches. Amaria nods, and then sighs. Her face scrunches into discomfort; pursuing her lips with eyes that are narrowed slightly. 

"Sorry, I should not have asked. I'm sure Witcher mutations make conceiving a child near impossible," she says, her voice sympathetic and apologetic. Absent-mindedly Visenya nods, only a moment later, fully processing the words. 

"Wait what?" Visenya stops in her tracks, turning to face Amaria. Her mouth is agape and eyes wide, ashen brows furrow in confusion with lines on her forehead. She continues a few steps before realizing Visenya is no longer walking with her. She stops as well, turning around and facing Visenya.

"You and the Witcher. Aren't you two..." Amaria trails off. Visenya's cheeks are bombarded with heat that makes her skin bright red. There's a funny feeling in her stomach, tingles rushing up her spine. The thought of her and Geralt together isn't unpleasant, and that's the worst part. She almost enjoys the idea. But she quickly sweeps that away, her and Geralt having children would be disastrous, not that he probably could. 

"Geralt and I are not...together," Visenya says, tone more frantic than she intended. 

"Oh, I just thought maybe…"

"Well, you thought wrong," Visenya says, the words harsher than she intended for it to be. She releases a sigh of frustration, watching Amaria jump, slowly taking one step back from Visenya. Quickly, she crumbles back into the scared rabbit she was when Visenya first saw her. The familiar look in her eyes quickly snaps Visenya out of her frustration. Guild replaces her bubbling temper, immediately dousing out any annoyance in her voice. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean to be so harsh," Visenya says. Amaria nods, frown curling into a small smile. "Please, forgive me."

"You are forgiven. I should not have made such assumptions," Amaria says. She steps closer towards Visenya, a non-verbal sign that she doesn't hold any fear for her. Visenya smiles at her, and the two of them continue walking once more. Silence cloaking them in its aura for the rest of their walk, neither speaking even upon reaching Roach and bringing his back to Geralt and her family.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Rushing wind whips across her face, hair aggressively flying back only to whip back and violently smack her in the face. It’s cold, the temperature so high in the air devastating. Yet despite the frosty clouds that engulf her, chilling to its very core, she’s as toasty as if she were in front of a roaring fire. A shriek of a laugh escapes her mouth, the noise getting lost in the sky, dissipating and becoming one with the sun. Heart racing, adrenaline rushing, and thoughts that reside in pure bliss. She can’t remember the last time she felt like this. The last time life was so…easy. But she doesn’t care to linger, only focusing on the present.

The scales beneath her are rough, the gold a stark contrast to the shimmering white surrounding them. The creature is warm, in a way that only a beast that is fire incarnate could be. It opens its massive jaws, inhaling frigid air before letting out a fearsome roar. The sound vibrates the world around them, sending a shiver up her spine that only heightens her exhilaration.

The power she holds is nearly intoxicating, the knowledge that a single word could decimate cities, killing thousands if only she commands it. It’s ever-present in her mind. The thrill hides in the corner, barely concealed by faint shadows that dance just out of her vision.

She turns her head, fighting against the momentum of the wind, only to be met with darkness. Nothing. Brows furrow, lines on her forehead. There’s nothing there, why is nothing there? She turns her head, facing forward, expecting the scene that was laid before her seconds, yet there’s nothing.

Suddenly she’s on the ground, feet firmly on warm stone. She doesn’t stumble or fall, it’s as if her feet never left the ground. The room is dark, her vision only able to pick up faint outlines of ruins. The room is destroyed, walls dilapidated, remnants of furniture on the ground. The ceiling above her is glass, broken in various places, allowing for snow to slowly dance towards the ground. The glass mosaic on the ceiling is familiar, the reason unknown, like a dream she never fully recalls. Yet the feeling is burnt in her mind. A brand marring her skin for all eternity.

One single pale hand reaches out, capturing the snow in her palm, expecting to feel ice and then water as it melts, but it doesn’t. Instead, it retains its shape and is warm to the touch. It isn’t the pure white of winter winds, instead, it’s grey. Dread forms in the pit of her stomach, eyes burning with tears the longer she stares at the palm of her hand. She’s crying, why is she crying? The gasp from her throat is sudden, disturbing the suffocating quiet in the air. Shaking her hand and letting the ash fall to the ground, she watches the ash fall to the ground. It coats the ground and conceals the dark stone, the air thick with smoke and dust.

Suddenly the left side of her body ignites in pain. It’s dull and nothing more than a poke, but it’s constant. Like constantly touching a healing wound until it bleeds all over again. Left. Right. Then behind. Yet there’s no one near. Slowly, she faces the front. Immediately, a push comes from behind, more forceful than the previous light jabs. Visenya stumbles forward, managing to catch her footing at the last second. She whirls around, fire on the tips of her fingers.

“Get up!” a distant force demands. The sound is whiny, like a child’s voice.

“What--” She begins to mutter, but the rest of her sentence is cut off.

“It’s time to wake up,” another voice joins in. It’s just as childlike as the last, but with a more feminine tinge.

“Come on, get up!” the first voice says, louder this time.

“Who-- who--”

Another push, this one sending her tumbling to the ground, but instead of hitting hard stone, her body turns, back now resting on the ground.

Gasp.

The sound leaves her mouth, body jolting up and off the floor, greenery, and dirt where there once was stone. Inhale. Exhale. Then inhale again. The air is chilly, but not nearly the freezing temperatures of her dream. A dream. That’s all. With eyes shut, it grants a brief solace in the darkness behind her eyelids. The breeze soothes the sweat that covers her body, that still shakes - just slightly.

A deep breath in; a deep breathe out.

In.

And out.

Her eyes open, only to see wide green eyes rather than the sky.

“Finally you wake up,” the person says, the whiny voice from her dream easily recognizable. Visenya blinks, some of the fog lifting from her brain.

Rohir. The elven boy she helped save three days ago. His sister - Elana - stands beside him, watching Visenya with equally wide eyes.

“I--” she begins to say, still hazy from her dream.

“Come on! We’re getting ready to leave!” Rohir exclaims, cutting her off. He reaches down and grabs onto her arm. With a surprising amount of strength, he pulls Visenya to her feet. With her arm still in his, he turns and begins rushing to the other side of camp, trying to pull her with him.

Visenya staggers the first few steps, like a newborn doe, but soon she gains her footing, managing to follow Rohir and Elana without falling to the ground. A breath of a laugh leaves her mouth as she allows them to drag her around. Moss and dirt kick up from the earth at the behest of her feet, footprints marking every move they make.

“You seem eager to leave,” Visenya says, amusement in her voice, she’s just as eager to leave.

“I am,” Rohir says. The past few days he’s grown antsy, longing to leave the perimeter of the camp.

“Me too, I’m tired of this stupid clearing,” Elana says, feet dragging in the dirt. Her lips rest in a frown, shoulders slouching.

Abruptly, Rohir stops, causing Visenya to nearly fall forward from the sudden lack of movement. And she probably would’ve fallen face-first in the dirt if not for the strong arms that stop her.

“Thanks,” she mutters to Geralt. He nods but says nothing else. Like usual, he dons his armor, silver wolf pendant shining in the soft light of dawn. His eyes focus intently on her, the whisper of a smile on her lips. An urge to kiss him overtakes her, clouding her thoughts until she nearly doesn’t. Elana and Rohir quietly squabble, breaking her from the trance, and she sighs in relief, not wanting to unpack those emotions.

Eyes flicker behind him, eager to not fall under a spell again, Amaria stands near Roach with Vyron resting on her hip, Aldon leaning most of his weight against her. Her complexion is brighter, not sullen with grief and possible nightmares. Her eyes shine with life that Visenya has only seen faint flickers of.

Aldon also looks much better. There is more color in his skin, cheekbones not nearly as hollow. His green eyes are still a little sickly looking, not gleaming nearly as much as Amaria’s, but he’s no longer on the verge of death. And despite Geralt’s constant reassurance that the man would live, there were times where his breaths seemed a little too shallow and inconsistent for Visenya to hold faith. And yet here he is, standing on his own two feet.

“He’s up,” Visenya says, looking back at Geralt.

“That’s why we’re leaving,” Geralt responds. He turns around, facing the two elves. “You two will ride on Roach, the rest of us will walk.”

No one argues, Amaria just nodding and turning to help her husband on the horse. A small hand tightly squeezes Visenya’s and she looks down to see Rohir still holding onto her.

“You never finished the story with dragons,” he points out. Elana grabs onto her other hand, squeezing it just as tightly. She nearly vibrates with excitement, her frown dissipating at the mere mention of dragons.

“You’re right, I suppose that’s what I’ll do during our trek back to your home.” The sound of adolescent cheers rings through the clearing as Visenya turns to gather her belongings, anxiously aware of Geralt's eyes on her.

OoO

Remnants of mid-day sun manage to pierce through the fog that lingers in the air. Every breath they take is visible, the crisp air leaving goosebumps all over her skin. The trees are tall, and void of leaves, allowing them to see into the forest. It’s nearly bare, with no sign of the wildlife that would normally breathe life into the terrain. It’s freezing, the constant sound of chattering teeth melting into the atmosphere, everyone except Visenya deeply affected by the cold. To her, it feels more like mid-spring, the warmth in her veins acting like a million fur cloaks.

The soft patter of Roach’s hoofs stepping on the road is just slightly offbeat with her heart. No birds chirp, no animals in the distance singing as they go about their day. Rohir stays in the section between Roach - who his parents ride atop - and Visenya; holding Vyron in his arms, a slight pout on his face.

Her arms securely hold Elana, the girl growing too tired to continue forward an hour into their journey. She is light, a combination of her small size and Visenya’s strength. Her breathing is steady and deep, pointed ears occasionally twitching as she dreams of gods know what. Hopefully of happy memories and bright futures. A small smile rests on her face, lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks.

She looks peaceful, joy bubbling inside of Visenya knowing she could help nurture that sanctity. She’s at ease with the child in her arms, yet the knowledge that she’d never bear children of her own is like death by a thousand cuts. To never have a small family of her own, children to give all the love and peace she never fully knew.

A small home where the fire is constantly burning, the sweet smell of pastries lingering in the air as the children run wild. Visenya would scold them, worry for their safety causing her to appear stern, but inside she’s overwhelmed with happiness at their carefree nature. And perhaps she’d have a husband to share the children with. Someone strong and reliable, a father who’d never abandon his family on a whim. Maybe even a certain white-haired--

’No.’

She banishes the thought before it fully comes to fruition. They’re too complicated, it’d never happen.

Besides, monster hunting is dangerous, even for a Witcher, and she’s no Witcher. Just a simple mortal woman. Even with the ability to control and create fire, she bleeds just as easily as any peasant. The training Geralt provides is life-saving, refining her skills to be more controlled and less wild. There’s no doubt if she would fight any human, she would come out of the fight alive. But monsters are an entirely different story. It’s only a few more years until she dies if she even survives that long.

And at one point it would bother her. The thought of death. The realization she could die before doing anything of worth. But the years are grueling, wearing her down until she no longer cares to live or die. And perhaps that neutrality is the scariest place to be.

Instead of focusing on all the haunting thoughts; what-ifs and regrets that weigh her down - she focuses on now. On the feeling of Elana finding safety in her arms and the easy silence that soothes her raging emotions.

“The children seem quite taken with you,” Geralt says, his raspy voice shattering her thoughts.

“It doesn’t usually take much for children to latch onto people,” Visenya responds. She’s been around children enough in Winterfell to know how to act. What to say and consequently what not to say. It’s not an art, nor is it rare. It’s common sense.

But not for a Witcher, it would seem.

“They haven’t latched onto me.” His voice holds its usual indifference but there’s an undertone of teasing buried under stony expressions. Like he knows something she doesn’t. She barely holds back a snort, the barest of a smirk appearing on her chapped lips.

“That’s because you glower anytime the children even look in your direction,” Visenya responds. “Well, more than your usual brooding, at least.”

Geralt huffs, and she can perfectly picture his amber eyes rolling towards the sky; how his lips curl up, so minuscule you would miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But Visenya does; she always pays attention when it comes to Geralt. Even if she’ll never admit it: out loud or to herself.

“I don’t brood.” His voice falters like he doesn’t even believe his own words.

“Of course, Wolf,” Visenya says, her smirk growing wider. She looks over at him, and he looks at her. “Of course.”

He opens his mouth, a slight inhale with a response on the tip of his tongue. However, before any words can form, a small hand tugs on Geralt’s leg, interrupting him.

In sync, both Geralt and Visenya look down. Vyron stares up at Geralt, not a single thought in his bright wide eyes. They sparkle with an innocence that only a child so small could hold. A dumb smile is permanently on his face, cheeks chubby with youth. Visenya raises a brow, waiting for something - anything - to come from his mouth. Geralt stares down with mild shock, hidden behind stern eyes. They both wait, yet nothing but silence follows, Vyron just watching Geralt. A moment later, his hand pulls on Geralt’s pants again.

Visenya laughs, attempting to muffle the sound with her hand, but is unable to silence herself. Geralt briefly looks away from Vyron to send her a glare full of venom, yet an air of desperation surrounds him, growing thicker each moment the child continues to hold onto him.

‘What do I do?’

Visenya doesn’t need to be a mind reader to see the obvious question.

“I think he wants you to hold him,” Visenya says, managing to keep the laughter out her mouth long enough to enunciate the words.

“I don’t want to.” His voice is firm, nearly hostile. Any other person might take that as a sign to step back. To take Vyron and keep him as far away from Geralt. But she’s not anyone else, she’s much stupider.

So instead she rolls her eyes.

“Too bad! Just do it,” she argues.

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No!” he argues back, annoyance creeping into his tone every time he speaks.

“Oh for fucks sake Geralt, it’s just a child, not a firebomb, just hold him!” Visenya’s voice is low enough that Vyron doesn’t hear but steely enough that Geralt would hear the threat thinly veiled in her words.

‘Hold the child, or I’ll deck you in the face.’

He lets out a heavy sigh, clenching his jaw and reaching down. He grabs Vyron, easily holding up his weight. The small elven child squeals in joy, an expression of pure bliss taking over his face. Geralt simply grunts in response, eyes trained ahead as his footsteps become slightly heavier. He stomps away like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Yet she easily manages to keep pace, floating beside him like a flower flying in the breeze.

Visenya’s laugh rings through the path and bleeds into the forest, in the distance owls mimic the noise. She turns, seeing Amaria watching Geralt and Vyron with a sweet smile on her face, eyes bright with overwhelming affection. They lock eyes, the teasing smirk on Visenya’s face melting away to morph into something less devious and more innocent. Visenya rolls her eyes, but it lacks its usual malice, Amaria mimicking the action, causing the woman to huff out a laugh before returning her attention to Geralt and Vyron - who currently holds a chunk of Geralt’s white hair in his hand.

“It’s not funny,” Geralt says.

Visenya shrugs her shoulders, moving her gaze to the winding road before them.

“I never said it was.” Her voice is sing-song and mischievous, a bounce in her step.

“You didn’t have to. Your face says it all.” His voice is grumpy, like a grizzled old man that just wants peace. Which is a fairly accurate description of Geralt. Witchers do live for a very long time, after all.

She does nothing to hide the smile on her face, the stretching of her lips irritating the already dry skin.

“Just think of it as practice for your child's surprise,” she says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

He grunts, the damn blocking his emotions breaking allowing irritation to flood his features. He lightly swats away Vyron’s hand, white hair falling from the child’s hand. Vyron huffs but otherwise doesn’t react.

“Visenya.” It’s a warning. Normally, that would only spur on Visenya more, grow the desire to poke and prod him if only to watch him lash out for her amusement.

But she doesn’t…this time.

Instead, she just shakes her head.

“Fine, fine, fine. I just wanted to make that a heartfelt moment, but I suppose not.”

“Now you sound like Jaskier,” Geralt says. Visenya rolls her eyes, her smile widening just an inch at the mention of the bard.

“But my delivery is better.”

Slowing down her steps, she keeps pace with Roach. Amaria looks down at her and Visenya looks up at her. Aldon sits in front, hands loosely holding onto the reins. Rohir, now in between Roach and Visenya also looks up at her, a large stick he found within an hour of their journey in hand. He smacks it into the ground, the beat in sync with every step that he takes.

“Is he ever not grumpy?” Rohir asks, a loud smack resounding as he hits his stick on the ground. Visenya snorts and Amaria lets out an indignant sound.

“Rohir, that’s not polite,” she scolds, but even she is unable to keep the slight mirth out of her voice.

“It’s just an observation,” Rohir proclaims.

Smack.

The stick hits the road again.

“Be that as it may, it’s rude. You know better,” Amaria says, sending him a mild glare that every mother masters within the first year of having children.

“Fine, fine,” Rohir mutters.

Smack.

A few moments of silence pass.

Then Visenya leans down, lowering her voice to a whisper. The change of position quickly gains Rohir’s attention, his eyes watching her with a quizzical look.

“But to answer your question, yes, he’s always this angry.”

She straightens her posture, gives the boy a mischievous wink, and then continues forward.

OoO

Day turns to dusk, threads of sunlight still lingering, holding on for dear life before it’ll disappear only to reappear after a few hours. The frigid air is colder, if possible. Owls call back and forth at each other in the once quiet forest, crickets only emphasizing the otherwise silent atmosphere.

Everyone is tired and worn out from a full day of travel - even Geralt, though he’ll never let it show. They would’ve stopped if not for Amaria’s instance that their home was close enough they could make it before the sunsets. With Vyron in her arms, she leads the group. Elana is still in Visenya’s arms, moving in and out of them throughout the day. Rohir sits on Roach with his father, who is more aware and awake than he had been at the beginning of their journey.

“There it is!” Amaria suddenly exclaims. She points straight ahead, Visenya’s eyes focusing where her finger points. In the distance, she sees a small home, the sturdy roof competing with the tall trees around it.

“Finally!” Rohir exclaims, wiggling in his spot, gently patting the side of Roach’s head. The horse snorts, turning its head, almost leaning into the touch

“Finally.” Geralt mutters, his tone is less enthusiastic than Rohir’s. Visenya rolls her eyes, for a moment contemplating smacking him but quickly deciding not to. There is an already grumpy child in her arms. Or perhaps she could lean over and Elana would smack him for her. A coy smile paints itself on her face at the thought of the small elven girl beating onto a Witcher. Elana looks up at Visenya, a smile on her face.

“I can show you my doll!” Elana says, poking Visenya’s cheek. Laughter leaves her mouth, head nodding.

“I’d love it,” she responds.

They continue to move towards the building, feet no longer dragging as they close the distance between them. After a few moments, they arrive at the wooden door. Visenya sets Elana down, turning to help Rohir and Aldon off of Roach. Amaria opens the door, the children running inside like wild animals, Aldon moving inside at a slower pace.

Geralt moves towards Roach, softly petting his head, offering the horse some sugar cubes that are always in his pocket.

“Stay here boy,” Geralt says. Roach snorts in response, moving to try and find some grass to graze on. Visenya looks away, stepping into the house.

The building is small, hardly larger than a hovel, but it’s homely and quaint in a way that makes it feel miles larger. Walking in, it’s an open space, the area dedicated to a small kitchen to the left, a few pillows and chairs in the center of the room, and a hall on the right that leads to the bedrooms. In the corner is a fireplace, cold ashes and remnants of wood left behind practically begging to be lit. There’s a distinct smell of herbs lingering in the air, the fresh smell of rosemary and lavender tingling on Visenya’s nose.

It’s messy. So unlike the perfectly polished and organized houses, she’s seen before, and so far from the grand halls in Winterfell and The Red Keep. But it’s home, their home. The floorboards and walls store a million memories. Every tear shed and celebration is immortalized in the very framework of the house.

Elana wiggles in Visenya’s arms, desperate to feel the wooden floor beneath her feet. Upon touching ground she rushes towards a bundle of pillows and knit blankets. Clumsily, she dives to the floor and rummages through the pile, a blinding smile overtaking her face after finding her prize. Pulling it from the bundle, in her hands is a worn doll. It’s falling apart at the seams, but she holds it close to her as if it is the finest jewel in the realm.

A smile blossoms on Visenya’s face as she loosens her sword sheath, gently leaning it against the wooden wall. The doll looks so similar to one she’d been given, the first gift she received upon arriving at Winterfell. Although they didn’t look exactly alike, and hers had been of finer quality, they hold enough resemblance to make Visenya’s stomach twist.

Rohir rushes off down the hall, booming footsteps echoing in the small building, Vyron tearing off after him, childish laughs of glee following him. His footsteps are like soft rain in comparison to Rohir's thunderous ones. Aldon immediately moves towards one of the chairs in the sitting area, eager to be off his feet and finally rest. Not the uncomfortable rest that camping offers, paranoia creeping in their every thought that if they truly relax they’ll be ambushed. Nor the agonizing pain from injuries that still need to heal, afraid to move too fast or far as to not undo all the progress made.

“I’m sorry it’s so--” Amaria begins, but Visenya interrupts her, her warm hand a stark contrast to Amaria’s cold arm. She looks over at the elven woman, her expression softer than she’s seen.

“It’s perfect.”

Without another word, Visenya moves across the room with the grace of a swan, easily sidestepping the random items that litter the ground. She reaches her destination, the forgotten fireplace. Without a thought, she stretches a hand out, tracing her fingers along the ashes and pieces of wood that remain. A spark erupts from her finger, a warmth filling her body that quickly dissipates as flames flicker to life anywhere her fingers touch. Amber eyes flash bright gold, the whites of her eyes disappearing entirely, but only for a moment.

The newly conjured flames banish the frigid air, replacing it with a comfortable warmth. Visenya stands, moving to sit near Elana, the doll still enrapturing the small girl.

“I didn’t realize you could do that,” Aldon says, looking at Visenya with curious eyes. Yet they aren’t the scared or hateful ones she almost expected. Her gaze moves to him, eyes unblinking like a doe.

“I don’t usually flaunt it,” Visenya says.

Despite the vagueness of her answer and the questions dancing in his eyes, he simply nods. Amaria’s soft footsteps move towards the kitchen, eager to prepare a meal better tasting than wild game and any herbs that they managed to forage.

“Does your doll have a name?” Visenya asks Elana.

“Franchesca,” she simply answers, humming a quiet tune as she plays with the doll.

“What a pretty name. Why did you choose it?” Visenya asks.

“She’s the ruler of the elves,” Elana answers, not once removing her eyes from the doll. Visenya’s brows furrow. Ruler of the elves isn’t --

“I thought Filavandrel was King of the Elves,” Visenya mutters her thoughts aloud, not intending an answer.

“He was. But after his failed attack against Calanthe, Franchesca leads the elves he once ruled over,” Aldon answers. Visenya’s eyes widen, only a millimeter, managing to maintain her cool composure, on the outside at least. Her heart desperately pounds against her chest, not enjoying the sinking feeling in her chest.

“I didn’t realize he did that,” Her voice is no louder than a whisper.

Aldon doesn’t reply, just simply nods his head solemnly and looks away. Visenya moves her gaze to a blank wall, hands shaking, ever so slightly. There’s a pounding in her head.

He led a failed attack against Calanthe. Did they ever even stand a chance against her army? Did he think they did stand a chance or was it a suicide attack?

“Oh you stupid, sad man,” she mutters to herself, quieter than last time. She wishes she could’ve been there. Her ego convincing her that she could’ve turned the tide, changed the trajectory of the outcome. But it’s foolish thinking, one person wouldn’t make such a large difference.

“When did the attack take place?” Visenya asks Aldon. He furrows his brows, eyes scrunching as tries to recall.

“Fourteen years ago,” he responds. Her stomach drops further. It happened before the Betrothal Feast. She was dining with the enemy while his people were suffering from a failed attack. The guilt begins to eat at her, like a parasite that won’t leave.

Dishes clank together, Amaria gathering various bowls and pots. From two of the cabinets, she pulls out herbs and preserved meats. The herbal smell in the room gets stronger, basil and bay leaf overpowering the lingering rosemary and lavender. In her hands is an old apron, stained from use throughout the years that she quickly ties onto her body. From a drawer comes a knife, old and dull, but sharp enough to cut her ingredients.

“We should be leaving,” Geralt says, pointedly looking at Visenya. She opens her mouth to protest, and he notices. His eyes turn sharper, lips tightening like a rope being pulled taut. She shakes her head, sighing, and standing from her spot on the ground. Elana looks up at her with pleading eyes, the doll still in hand, but says nothing.

Clang.

Amaria drops the knife on the counter.

“You can’t leave now, it’s too late for travel. At least stay the night,” she argues. Her eyes flit from Visenya to Geralt then back to Visenya. Briefly, she looks at Aldon, pupil slightly enlarging, exchanging a message only the two of them understand.

“Amaria is right. You two saved our lives. At least let us provide you a fresh meal and a warm place to sleep for the night,” Aldon says. His voice is slightly hoarse from disuse, yet the conviction is clear.

“While it is--” Geralt begins, only to be cut off by Amaria.

“I will not hear it, Witcher.” She unties her apron, moving across the small counter and into the sitting area. Like air, she gracefully moves to stand beside Visenya, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“You saved our lives by killing those bandits, you saved my husband by treating his wounds, and you guaranteed our safety by escorting us home. So for fucks sake, allow us to do this one thing in return.” Her voice takes on a distinct low tone, the cadence very similar to the way lady Catelyn would scold them. She narrows her normally wide eyes, arms crossing over her chest.

Geralt doesn’t speak, ashen brows nearly touching his hairline from how high they’re raised. He inhales, quietly, opening his mouth, a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue. Amaria tilts her head, raising her brows as if to say, ‘Go on.'

He quickly closes his mouth.

“Fantastic, I’ll start making the stew,” she says, turning, and quickly moving back towards the kitchen. Within a moment, the noise from the kitchen resumes as Amaria continues to prep the food.

Visenya bites back a smirk, eyes alight with amusement. Geralt notices the expression, scowling at her in response.

Aldon chuckles lightly, standing from his chair. With a nod and wink to Visenya, he moves down the hall in search of his two sons.

“The Witcher can fight all beasts and monsters but is rendered powerless against a vicious mother,” Visenya teases, walking towards Geralt.

“Hmm.”

He takes his sheathe off, resting his blades by Visenya’s. Heavy footsteps press on the wood floor, creaking under his weight. His stature is rigid, and if anyone were to wander into the building, they might mistake him for a statue, beautifully carved from marble and breathed life into with eyes from amber gems.

He meets her halfway, the smell of musk and the honeysuckle he bought months prior lingers on him.

“Nice fire,” he says, eyes glancing at the roaring fire. Its size is double what it originally was, yet not out of control. It dances with life, illuminating the previously dark room, casting shadows that move like the wind, creating a beautiful display on the bare walls.

A smile tugs on her lips, shoulders loosely shrugging.

“Do you want some tea, either of you?” Amaria asks, interrupting their mild staring contest. Visenya turns to look at Amaria.

“I’d love some.”

“I’ll pass,” Geralt says, stepping past Visenya towards a chair. He pauses, turning to look at Amaria, “Thank you for the offer,” he says.

Amaria nods and Visenya snorts, moving to stand behind the counter with Amaria. She points towards a kettle, cold water inside. With a nod, Visenya moves towards it, lifting the lid and setting it on the counter. It’s a light blue, yet it is chipping nearly everywhere, exposing the old off-white color of the porcelain. Her hand hovers, eyes shut in concentration. She inhales, then softly exhales. Fingertips tingle, warmth filling her body, like a dragon inhaling before devastating everything it touches, but she doesn’t want that.

This isn’t burning her enemies or setting sticks on fire for warmth. She needs to be delicate. Warm, but not so hot it leaves burn scars. Again, she inhales, her other hand on the pot to feel if it changes temperature.

It doesn’t.

Tighter, she closes her eyes. Images of warm water, bubbling under the surface, hot enough to relax in floods her mind; piping hot tea that soothes the chill that Winterfell brought. All the days spent indoors, hiding from cold winds behind stone buildings that towered over her. Sweet smiles and deep laughter from deep within the castle. Drunk lords and ladies dancing through the Main Hall, happy to just be alive. Visenya at a table, drinking sour-tasting mead, only continuing to drink it in fear of getting viciously teased.

The pot gets warmer, slow, and steady.

Behind closed lids, her eyes twitch.

Warm halls and boisterous laughter are replaced by burning rooms, screams echoing in her mind. She sees Robb, barely standing, a dagger sliding into his abdomen; Catelyn screaming as he falls. Visenya’s running, desperate to escape, a sharp pain coursing through her body as a bolt pierces her body, then another, and then another

She couldn’t save them, and she’s left the rest of the Starks to die.

Her grip on the pot tightens, hand growing numb from the force. Her other hand cramps, tense and rigid.

They’re dead.

Sharply, she inhales through her nose; half a beat later exhaling.

Everyone is dead.

Her posture is straight, unnaturally so.

Your mother, your siblings, everyone around you eventually dies. You’re poisonous.

She flinches, yet remains unmoving.

You let Renfri die. And now the rest of them will too.

The veins along her body poke out, nearly bursting.

They-

Crack.

The glass shatters, the water inside getting too hot. Water pours onto the counter, dripping onto the floor. Without thinking she puts her hand on it, desperate to keep it from spreading, but the liquid slips between her hands.

“Fuck,” she mutters. An off-white cloth appears on the counter, Amaria diligently cleaning up the spilled water. She stands beside Visenya, quiet and calm.

“Sorry,” she says. Amaria simply shrugs her shoulders, an easy smile on her lips. Her aura is serene, the opposite of Visenya’s frazzled and anxious one.

“Don’t be sorry. Your magic is better for fights not warming tea to the perfect temperature.” She’s unbothered, not a single line of frustration on her smooth face.

“Still I broke your kettle. I can repay you for it,” Visenya says, already reaching into her coin pouch that’s tied securely to her belt.

“No, no. You’ve already done enough, I’m not going to make you reimburse me for an old kettle that should’ve broken a million times before,” she says, swatting at Visenya's arm with a free hand.

They’re quiet after that. The seconds ticking away, counter dry, and Amaria back to chopping vegetables. Visenya moves, standing opposite Amaria, leaning most of her weight against the counter.

“You aren’t put off by the…fire thing,” Visenya asks, using her fingers to mimic fire being conjured. Amaria chuckles, pausing her vegetable chopping to look at Visenya. Her eyes are lit with delight, her soft smile twisting into a slight smirk. Just as quickly, she looks away, resuming the cutting. She sets aside the leeks, moving an onion to the chopping block.

“Please. If anything in your party is to put me off, it’d be that brooding Witcher,” Amaria says. Visenya scoffs, glancing at Geralt, mind wandering back to their previous conversation; when he was so insistent he didn't brood.

“I suppose. I just-- strange magic doesn’t seem to be accepted,” Visenya says.

“To humans, yes, but we are Eldar. Magic used to be like breathing to my people, that is before--” She pauses, body deflating as she lets out a breath. An air of awkwardness fills the kitchen, nearly stifling to the two of them.

“--The humans,” Visenya says, finishing the statement for her. Amaria sighs, nodding her head.

“Yes, before the humans.” The tension evaporates, the hairs on the back of Visenya’s neck going down.

Amaria looks up at Visenya, setting aside the chopped onions. Their eyes meet, an understanding that she’s only had with two other people since coming to this strange land.

“I just wish I could control it better,” Visenya says. “I’ve had it for 15 years and yet I can’t even boil water without fucking it up.”

Amaria lets out a laugh, the sound musical in an inhuman way.

“Only fifteen years? It takes mages nearly twice that to learn a simple levitation spell, never mind fire magic. It’s dangerous and normally forbidden.” Amaria says.

“Well, when you put it in that light, I don’t seem so pathetic,” Visenya says with a small grin on her lips, but it quickly turns into a frown. “But why is it forbidden?”

 Amaria shrugs, grabbing a wooden bowl, collecting all the chopped vegetables, and setting them inside.

“I do not know,” she answers. “But enough about that, how about you help me by cleaning some dishes to eat from.”

"I'd be more than happy to," Visenya says, pushing herself off the counter to join Amaria in the kitchen.

"Only as long as you promise to not char the plates. It ruins the flavor." She holds her knife towards Visenya, a silent threat that under different circumstances might be threatening. But the coy smile on Amaria's face deceives the threat.

"No promises."

Chapter Text

Dinner came and went, dusk turned to nightfall, loud conversation turned to wild dreams. It felt almost normal, the way Elana and Rohir bickered back and forth. Amaria watched on with thinly veiled amusement, only interjecting on occasion. Aldon spent most of the meal making quiet conversation with Geralt, scolding the kids when necessary. Amaria and Visenya mindlessly chatted, laughing carelessly as they sipped wine. Vyron, as usual, seemed content to giggle like a madman when anyone glanced in his direction. Periodically throughout the night, Visenya would lean over and tickle Vyron in the sides. He'd mindlessly babble at her, and she'd patiently respond in an excited manner.

It was nearly magical, something that was highly embarrassing to admit. Something so mundane that the majority of people have experienced made her feel weirdly euphoric. It was so foreign to her. The Starks had been a family to her, yet dinners were never quite so easy. The Dining Hall was constantly packed, eyes always watching and ears intently listening. Nothing Visenya ever did was without scrutiny, and for the most part she thought that would be all her life would be. It only makes her more grateful to get to experience it.

After cleaning the table and washing the dishes, sleeping arrangements were being made. Visenya and Geralt decided to sleep on the living room floor. Despite the protests Amaria and Aldon were ready to unleash, neither of them would hear it. Visenya wouldn’t allow any of them to give up their beds, not after the chaos the past few days held. Besides, Geralt and Visenya were more used to the hard ground than soft, pillowy beds.

Leading to the current moment.

Visenya lies wide awake, eyes staring at the ceiling, using the blank canvas for her wild imagination. Geralt is beside her, less than an arm's length away. Heat radiates from his body and it does from hers as well, keeping the both of them a comfortable temperature. Only a thin blanket separates her from the air, but it’s more comfortable that way. Too many blankets would only be stifling.

‘This fire magic would’ve been far more useful in Winterfell,’ she thinks, a sardonic tinge on her otherwise neutral face.

“Geralt.” Her voice is quiet, cautious. She isn’t sure if he’s still awake and she doesn’t want to risk disturbing him if he isn’t.

“Hmm.”

She lets out an inaudible breath, body slightly deflating. She rolls over onto her side, eyes landing on Geralt.

“Thank you for letting us stay tonight.” Her voice is a whisper, careful to not wake up the sleeping household. Blankets rustle as Geralt turns onto his side as well, amber eyes meeting Visenya’s. There’s a tired grin on his face, the sleepiness making his eyes seem softer. Or he always looks at her like that but she only realizes now.

Her thanks are needless of course, the both of them know that if Geralt tried to make them leave, Visenya would sooner knock him out cold. She wasn’t ready to pop the bubble of familiarity the elven family brings.

“I--” he hesitates over his words for a moment, as if he’s unsure of exactly what to say. Yet he apparently manages to find the words. “I’m glad we stayed too.”

The small smile on her lips turns into a large grin. She shuffles closer to Geralt, cheeks turning a faint pink the closer she gets to him. She finds it slightly unnerving the way her heartbeat gets just a little faster when her fingers brush against his hand. Or the way she finds humor in his every sarcastic quip, even if it isn’t that funny to begin with.

She’s like a lovesick child.

‘If Robb were here, I’d never hear the end of it, perhaps it’s good he’s dead.’ 

A slight smirk tugs at her lips at the dark joke, but the ache in her chest gets stronger. Most days it’s only a dull ache, but it gets worse whenever the memories come to the front of her mind.

“The children seem quite taken with you,” she says, tone teasing and light, changing her thoughts to avoid drowning in melancholy. Geralt, seemingly none the wiser to her slight change, rolls his eyes in a playful manner, a quiet scoff echoing in the room.

“They do not.”

“Do so! Did you see the way Rohir was puffing out his chest when he was talking about play fighting with swords? He was so desperate for your approval." Faint laughter follows the end of her sentence, the sound symphonic and sweet.

“That never happened, you’re merely seeing things Vis,” Geralt says in a dismissive tone.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what it was.” Now it’s Visenya's turn to roll her eyes, the grin on her face pulling into a slight smirk.

“A mere trick of the eye.”

“Of course,” Visenya says, nodding her head in agreement.

“Don’t patronize me,” Geralt says, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. Visenya scoffs, an expression that feins offense painting itself on her face.

“I’m simply agreeing with you, I have no clue what you're speaking of,” she says.

“You’re doing it again,” he says in a deadpan tone. Visenya’s face returns to a neutral expression, yet the remnants of an easy smirk remains.

“You’re such a killjoy,” she says, a slight pout on her lips.

“And yet I can’t seem to get rid of you.”

“There are benefits to traveling with a Witcher,” Visenya says. Geralt’s eyebrows raise, his interest piqued.

“Oh? And what are those benefits?”

“Well for one, I don’t have to worry about anyone bothering me. As soon as they see you walk in, they give you and me a wide berth.”

“I’m glad the common folk’s fear is of such large benefit to you,” Geralt says in a sarcastic tone. "It's not like I suffer the consequences of their mistrust and paranoia."

“It truly is, and I appreciate it every day, Geralt. Thank you for your sacrifice,” Visenya says, resting a hand on his shoulder. The simple contact is enough to cause her brain to start to get fuzzy and addled. She’s unable to focus on anything other than the feeling of her skin on his. Flashes of the aftermath of the nightwraith attack fill her mind. Despite the event happening years ago, it feels fresh in her mind. The night spent in his room, the only other time she ever fully let down the steel armor that encases her.

She wonders if he ever thinks about it too. If his mind ever wanders to it, hoping to reenact what had happened. Or is she just another on the long list of women he’d wooed during his travels? He’s never talked about it or even implied he wanted anything more. Yet she couldn’t help but hope.

While traveling, it’s easy to block out the longing that creeps in at night. There is so much to do and so many things to watch out for. Never is there a dull or quiet moment, a time she isn’t watching his and her back.

Yet times like this, in the middle of the night, when Visenya can see the stars illuminating his eyes it’s hard to ignore. Nothing in her life has ever gone according to plan, always ending in ruin and tears. But in times like this, the part of her willing to try gets louder and louder. Yet she knows better. The moment dawn trickles in, her fantasies will disappear, reality settling in. There’s no point in starting something she’ll never finish. It could only end one of two ways; her death or her return to Westeros.

So she decides to keep him a mere daydream away for it seems safer that way.

“We’ve been traveling for a long time. Yet I feel like I hardly know anything about you.” Geralt's voice is quiet, breaking her from the internal monologue raging in her mind.

Visenya snorts in a manner that’s completely unlady-like. 

“Says you. Trying to get information out of you is like pulling teeth from a wolf.” 

“Why would you pull teeth from a wolf?” His eyes are lit with amusement, causing Visenya to shake her head.

“It’s a metaphor.”

The room is silent for a moment.

“Well…”

Visenya sighs and rolls her eyes, but it’s a facade, on the inside she feels the complete opposite. Yet she does a good job maintaining indifference.

“My favorite color is purple, apples are my favorite snack, and I hate the taste of ale.”

“But you drink it all the time,” Geralt says as if to refute her statement.

Visenya quietly scoffs.

“Yeah, and I hate it every time. Your turn.” Geralt’s face flashes with confusion. “If I’m opening up, so are you. Fair is far, wolf.”

A puff of breath leaves his mouth, as he hesitantly nods his head in agreement.

“Fair is fair. Gold like the first light of day, honeycomb, and I hate portals. They always make me sick.”

“I didn’t take you as the guy who likes gold. I thought you’d say you loved the color black. Because it was dark like your soul or something.” Try as she might, she's unable to contain the laughter leaving her mouth. 

“That’s my second favorite color.”

Her laughter ceases, a snort signifying its end. 

“And why do you like purple?”

“Other than being a pretty color, I -- uh, all Targaryens had purple eyes, and I did too before I died and all that. I suppose I miss that piece of me. My eyes were always my favorite things about myself, well besides the hair.”

Her eyes move to the ground, feeling uncomfortable and awkward after the confession. It feels like ripping teeth out of her own mouth, voicing the thoughts that constantly fill her head. Yet there’s relief in it, getting the words out of her mouth and away from her head. It’s freeing, allowing someone else in on the burdens weighing her down.

“I think the gold is nice.”

Her eyes move back to Geralt’s, a tiny grin on her face, the anxiety creeping in her slowly fading away.

“Really?”

“It’s like daylight.”

The calm on her face morphs into something more deadpan. Without a second thought, she shoves against Geralt’s chest, hard. But it doesn’t do much. Like trying to push a large rock, he’s unmovable.

“I hate you.”

“You’re more welcome to leave.”

“But then who would keep the people from bothering me,” Visenya exclaims, louder than before, yet still quieter than normal.

“Then I guess you’re stuck.”

Visenya opens her mouth to respond, but the quiet padding of feet against the floor leaves her silent. Sitting up, Visenya stares into the darkness, the vague shape of a person forming. Elana, wearing her sleeping clothes and holding her doll, stands a few feet away from them. Her eyes seem frightened, her lips having a slight quiver. The haze in her mind immediately vanishes, the fight or flight response in her triggered by the frightened child. Her hand slides under her pillow, the metal hilt of her dagger cold in her hand.

“Elana?”

Sharp eyes dance around the room, finding nothing out of the ordinary. No one could’ve come through the front, Geralt and Visenya would’ve heard them. So if there is an intruder, they found another way in.

“I had a nightmare.” Her voice is quiet and weighed down by sleep. Her knuckles rub her left eye and she shuffles forward towards Visenya.

A heavy breath escapes Visenya’s mouth, all the tension leaving her body. She releases the dagger and pulls her hand out from under the pillow.  

 Elana, ignorant to Visenya’s brief turmoil, continues to walk towards Visenya. She all but collapses in her arms, the sudden weight causing Visenya to fall back on her and Geralt’s makeshift bed. The position feels vaguely familiar, reminiscent of when Bran all but imprinted on her when he was younger. 

“What happened?” Visenya asks, hands smoothing Elana's hair. It's wild, most likely from tossing and turning in her sleep. 

“There was a monster,” she mutters, pressing her face into Visenya’s chest. “Can I sleep with you?”

Over Elana’s smaller form, Visenya meets Geralt’s gaze. Yet surprisingly, there’s no annoyance or frustration on his face. His expression may be neutral, but his eyes say a different story. 

‘Just as I thought, what a big softy.’ 

“Of course, but wouldn’t you rather sleep with your mother and father?”

“Vyron is already in their bed,” Elana says, though her words slur together, sleep quickly pulling her back into its embrace.

“Well, then I suppose you can stay here. Although are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in a bed?” Visenya asks, moving the blanket over Elana. “I can sleep in your room with you.”

“I’m fine here,” she mutters, burying her face in the crook of Visenya’s neck.

“Okay,” Visenya mutters, voice bright with amusement. She glances at Geralt and he simply rolls his eyes, rolling onto his back. Visenya buries her head into her pillow, Elana’s steady breathing lulling her into sleep.   

OoO

Goodbyes are something Visenya never gets used to. She’s never good at them. To this day they remain elusive to her, despite how well versed she should be at it. But perhaps the tremendous loss she’s faced is the reason she is so terrible at them? She holds too tightly to people, unwilling to let go in fear of them slipping from her grasp. And if they die, it’s devastating, taking a piece of her away; a wound that remains raw. 

She never lets a single thing go, a statue frozen in the same place they leave her, unable to ever move on. A million different versions of her ghost linger in a million places. And they haunt wherever they remain. Yet at the same time she’s strangely detached from people, dissociating into a false reality until she feels nothing at all. It’s usually only in the darkness of night that her grief returns.

And as she stands at the exit, it brings back every painful memory that usually stays locked away. Amaria and Aldon are smiling, Vyron in his mother’s arms with that same dumb smile on his face. Rohir and Elana stand in front of their parents, a wooden sword in Rohir’s hand and Elana’s doll in hers. The beginnings of tears form in Elana’s eyes, a delicate pout on her lips. Rohir is stoic, puffing his chest and maintaining a strong front. But his eyes glisten in the pale light more than usual.

“I guess this is goodbye.” Her words come out breathy, nearly swept away by the strong wind that whips through the air. She clutches her cloak tighter, more as a need for comfort than warmth. The dragon embroidery moves with it, becoming one with the wolf.

“Farewell Visenya. May we meet again,” Aldon says a peaceful smile on his lips with a voice as warm as the fire she created this morning.

“Under better circumstances, I hope,” Amaria says. She’s smiling, but there’s a harrowing look in her eyes. The travesty that nearly grabbed a hold of her is still haunting.

“Me too.” She nods, once, eyes lowering to the ground as she swallows the lump in her throat.

“Perhaps you’ll be able to make me a cup of tea without breaking the kettle.” There’s a smirk on Amaria’s lips, mirth glittering in her eyes. Visenya breathes out a laugh, nodding her head.

“No promises.” She winks at them, turning to Geralt. He nods towards the forest and she sighs. She turns back to the elves, her grin falling. Yet she doesn’t move from her spot.

“If you ever get the chance, please write to us,” Amaria says, reaching out and grabbing Visenya’s arm. Her grip is firm, but not so tight that it’s painful.

“Would a raven even know where to leave the letter?” Visenya asks. Amaria simply shrugs.

“They’re intelligent enough creatures, but we’re also not far from the nearby town. That is, if you’re that paranoid we won’t receive it,” she says. Lightly, she squeezes Visenya’s arm before releasing it.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Now you better get going, I think your Witcher is getting restless.” Her eyes look over Visenya’s shoulder. With amusement they watch Geralt. He's impatient, glancing around the forest, tapping his foot on the ground.

“Right, don’t want Geralt to get grumpy,” Visenya says, thinking over her words for a second. “Well grumpier than usual I suppose.”

Amaria chuckles lightly, the sound getting swept away by the wind.

“Farewell.” Amaria leans forward, whispering so Visenya is the only one to hear her words. “And I expect for you and that Witcher to finally be honest with each other when I see you next.”

“I don’t--”

“I’ve seen the longing looks when you both think no one is looking.” There’s a conspiratory glint in her eyes. “Life is too short to think so much, my dear.”

It reminds her of Jaskier, the way he would affectionately tease her during their travels. She misses him. Perhaps she can convince Geralt that they should go find him. Though she’s not sure Geralt would enjoy court life, even if only a brief visit.

Visenya doesn’t speak, simply nodding her head. She slowly backs away, only turning her back to them when she reaches Geralt. He gives her a single nod, motioning for her to climb onto Roach. Without a single word, Visenya gets onto the horse.

And then they’re gone, out of the forest and back on the main road before Visenya can so much as blink. Gods know if she’ll ever see them again. She just hopes if she does, it’s not while they’re six feet under.

An hour of travel goes by before either of them speak.

“I’m sure you’ll see them again,” Geralt says in a whispered tone. She’s been unusually silent, eyes focusing intently on the road ahead of them.

Visenya shrugs. “How do you know?”

“I don’t,” he says. The creases in Visenya's forehead deepen, frown growing more sour. “But I do know that mourning something that hasn’t been lost doesn’t do much good.”

For the first time since leaving that small cabin, Visenya meets Geralt’s gaze. The scowl is still present on her face, but her eyes betray the fears swimming in her head. She’s terrified of losing the smallest amount of normalcy she’s ever had. She looks like a child trapped in the body of a battle-hardened warrior.

“But if I do--”

“Then you deal with the grief when it’s there. Do you really want to live a life where you think everyone is going to die?” Geralt asks, eyes burning deep in her soul like he could see every thought that’s ever flashed through her head.

“We all die eventually.”

Geralt does a slight tilt of his head as he thinks over her answer.

“But before that, you have to live.”

She can’t stop the snort, the sound akin to a wild boar. Rolling her eyes, an airy laugh leaves her mouth.

“That’s rich coming from you. Your walls are reinforced with layer upon layer of steel and ice,” she mutters bitterly. Though he’s right, and she knows he is, which only makes it sting her pride more.

“That’s different.”

“How convenient.”

Geralt shakes his head, not allowing her words to cut deep.

“My reservations about forming bonds have to do with my lifestyle. Yours are born from fear,” Geralt says.

“Fear of what?”

She holds her breath, anxiously watching Geralt out of the corner of her eye, waiting for his response. It's not like she doesn't already know what he's going to say. She's self aware enough to know her faults, yet too stubborn and clueless to fix them.

“Of death.”

“I’m not--”

“Not of you dying,” Geralt says, cutting off her sentence. “Of everyone else dying. But more than that, you’re afraid of what happens after people die.”

A witty response is on the tip of her tongue, decades of deflecting prying ears making it as easy as breathing. But she finds the words caught in her throat, mouth dry. It gives her pause as she processes his words.

Could it be the reason her grief weighs her down so much is that she allows it to? There’s a subconscious block in her mind that grips onto everything. With it brought to the forefront of her mind, she knows exactly why she does it.

She’s afraid; afraid to forget. Because if she forgets and learns to move on with her life, everyone she’s ever lost will just disappear. And she doesn’t want that. The memories are all she has; the good and the bad. The thought of change is terrifying, her whole life, the memories were all she had. And she thought to move on would be to forget.

But maybe there’s a way to move on without forgetting?

“How can you be so sure?” Her voice is soft, tone vulnerable in a manner Geralt never heard.

“Fifteen years is a long time to travel together. I may not have known your favorite color until last night, but I know more than you think. It’s why you still wear Renfri’s broach; or why you still wear that old cloak, and why you use the same sword - despite having a silvered one. You’re afraid of forgetting.”

She bites the bottom of her lips, eyes lowering to the ground.

“So what am I supposed to do, oh wise Witcher?”

Geralt shrugs in a nonchalant manner, guiding Roach further down the road.

“That’s for you to decide.”

She nods, silent for a few moments as she gathers her thoughts.

“You’re wrong, about the broach,” she barely utters the words. almost positive Geralt wouldn’t hear. But he does, eyes locking on her. “It’s a reminder to myself; a reminder of what I could’ve become, what I could still become.”

“And what is that?”

“A madwoman, so obsessed with vengeance that I lose sight of reality. Not that Renfri was mad, but she probably would’ve been. Revenge is a slippery slope.”

“You won’t--” Geralt begins to say, yet Visenya continues her sentence as if he never spoke. 

“Half of the Targaryens went mad. I--”

She swallows the lump in her throat.

“I don’t want to be one of them. But I could and I almost did. A person's state of sanity is such a fickle thing.”

“You won’t be.” He speaks the words with such conviction. It's as if he could never imagine a world where she turns into the very things he kills. But she did, in Blaviken, she burned the town to the ground without a second thought. He wouldn't understand and she knew that. No one ever would. Her whole life the actions of her father and grandfather taunted her. The knowledge that she could lose herself without realizing it looming over her head.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is. People aren’t monsters. They can act like them, but everyone makes conscious choices, and that is what makes people who they are. Not some lineage or higher power.”

“That’s all fine and dandy, but I burned down a town in case you’ve forgotten,” her tone is clipped and biting.

“Using magic you’d only manifested within the past year, untrained mages have done worse with less effort.”

“Stop making excuses for me, damn it!”

“Can you not just let someone try and console you for once, Visenya. You made a mistake. That doesn’t excuse the impact it had, but it doesn’t define you.” 

She’s silent, unable to form a coherent sentence. Geralt takes advantage of his apparent upper hand. Hesitantly, he reaches a hand towards her, intertwining it with hers. His hand is much larger than hers, his grip tight, yet not stifling. It’s comforting, a nonverbal acknowledgment that he’s there for her. Reassurance that she needs.

She looks at him, melancholy tinging the small smile she gives him. Her eyes are wide and unblinking.

“You’re a good person Vis, even if you don’t fully believe it sometimes.”

The weight pressing against her shoulder eases up a fraction. She can breathe a little easier, the sun just a bit brighter.

“Thank you.” 

OoO

“So let me get this straight,” Visenya said, sitting on the damp ground, fiddling with a small branch. Geralt stands in the water, casting a net into the clear water. “You can’t sleep, a very common problem. Which would imply it has a very common cure, correct? Yet, your solution is magical wishes?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, he simply grunts, pulling the net back to shore. Empty, just like the five previous times. 

“Have you considered perhaps a medicinal remedy?” Visenya asks. Snap . The twig breaks in her hand, pieces falling to the ground. 

“Doesn’t work,” Geralt says. 

Splash.

The net is cast into the water once more. Visenya sighs and rolls her eyes. Her gaze moves to Roach, mindlessly munching on any grass she can find. She watches, the breeze cooling on her warm skin. Looking up, she leans back, body damp from the wet grass. She stares at the clear sky, counting every cloud and then recounting when she inevitably loses track. 

“But how do you know? Surely you haven’t tried all of the remedies in the world? My Septa used to make me chew on herbs that were supposed to calm me down.” Her nose wrinkles, the stench and overpowering taste still burnt in her brain.

“I’ve already drank every tea there is,” Geralt says, casting the net back into the water. 

“Oh no, she didn’t make it into a tea, always said that would take too long. She always made me chew them whole.”

“That sounds horrible.”

Visenya snorts, rolling her eyes. “Why do you think I don’t like tea? Though I did go to sleep rather fast on those nights.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, simply reeling in the net he cast. 

They’ve been at this for a week now; Geralt tirelessly searching for a djinn and Visenya simply watching, making the occasional snarky remark. 

Three wishes; if she had three wishes what would she wish for. The most obvious would’ve been to go home, but she wasn’t even sure where that is anymore. It used to be Winterfell and everyone there. Years ago, if she’d been given three wishes she would’ve wished away all the horror that followed her like a shadow. But now…it feels wrong. A hesitance to leave Geralt’s side that leaves her terrified. Yet she banishes that thought before it fully forms. 

If given a chance she has to go home. She has to.

“So maybe it’s something else…?” she trails over, rolling another twig in between two of her fingers.

Geralt sighs, looking up at the sky before turning around to face her. His face is pinched in exasperation.

“What are you implying, Vis.”

“Oh, I don’t know. That maybe this is more to do with what happened at Cintra,” Visenya says in a sly tone.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says in a sharp tone. He turns his attention back to the river, continuing to fish for a Djinn.

“Oh, I’m the ridiculous one,” she mutters, pressing the twig against her thigh. “Says the man who is looking for a magic wish giver to supposedly go to sleep.” 

Snap. It breaks against her thigh.   

“Cause you all know, that this bard, loved ladies from Nilfgaard, cause Nilfgaard can kiss my--” Drunken singing fills the otherwise quiet air, branches creaking and leaves swooshing as someone moves past them. Visenya sits up, eyes on the source of the sound. 

“--Geralt? Hello,” Jaskier steps out from behind the brush, stumbling towards the two of them with a lazy smile on his face. His eyes move from Geralt to Visenya, lighting up like the summer sun. “Oh my dear angry angry lady, it is so nice to see you again!” He stumbles towards her, pace faster than before. Visenya lightly chuckles as he all but falls into her lap. 

She pushes him aside, then quickly wraps her arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a crushing side hug. 

“Well, if I’d known I’d receive such a warm reception, I would've found you a long time ago! What’s it been, months? Years? What is time anyway?” Jaskier says, leaning his head into the crook of her neck.

“Nothing but an illusion,” Visenya mutters. Jaskier pulls his head out of the crook of her neck, head swaying as he attempts to look at her head on. 

“Your hair…either you’re going bald or you haven’t dyed it,” Jaskier mutters with a dumb grin on his face. He reaches a hand towards the top of her head, but she smacks it away. 

“Guess you’ll never know,” Visenya says in a teasing tone. Jaskier’s grin brightens, his attention turning to Geralt. 

“I heard you lot were in town. Are you following me, you scamps?” Jaskier asked, forming a loose fist and attempting to punch Visenya’s shoulder. He misses, causing his body to lean forward and almost fall into her lap again.

“How did you know?” Visenya asks, glancing at Geralt briefly. He continues on as if Jaskier isn’t here, pulling in the net he cast out. 

“I mean I'm flattered and everything, but you should really think about getting a hobby one of these days. One that doesn’t involve brooding over traumatic pasts.” Jaskier stands to his feet, stumbling towards Geralt. He lifts a flask to his mouth, taking a particularly large gulp. Once he lowers it, he makes a sour face, visibly unsettled by the taste. 

Swaying, he presses most of his weight onto Visenya’s shoulder as he stands. Somehow he manages to get to his feet without face planting. He winks at Visenya and stumbles forward towards Geralt, who is currently checking the net to see if it caught anything. 

“Do you want some?” He offers the flask to Geralt, who continues to ignore him. “ ‘How are you doing?’ I hear you ask.”

“I didn’t,” Geralt says, tossing the net to the ground. 

Visenya stands, moving to stand beside Jaskier. He looks over at her and offers the flask to her as well. She shakes her hand, not in the mood for whatever repulsive concoction it is. She can smell it from her spot, and it reminds her of smelly, old, socks. 

“Well the Countess de Stael, my muse and beauty of this world, has left me,” Jaskier exclaims, hands held out irritation. “Again,” he adds as an afterthought. Visenya pats his shoulder, lips wearing a grim smile. “Rather coldly and unexpectedly, might I add. I fear I shall die a brokenhearted man.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Visenya says. 

“Or a hungry one, at the very least.” His eyes lock onto the net. “Unless somebody fancies sharing a fish with an old friend?”

“He’s not fishing for fish,” Visenya says, rolling her eyes. “He’s looking for a uh….Djinn, I think he called it?” 

Jaskier’s brows lift towards his hairline, an exaggerated look of shock appearing on his face. Whipping his head towards Geralt, Visenya places her hands on his shoulders to keep him steady.

“A djinn? Are those the wish guys?” he asks, waiting for Geralt’s confirmation. He never gives it. Simply continuing the same thing he’d been doing for well over an hour now. “You know, the floaty fellas with the… the bad tempers and the banned magics, that kind of genie?” Jaskier chuckles to himself, glancing at Visenya as he lightly jabs his elbow into her stomach.

“Yes, it’ll grant me wishes. It’s in this lake somewhere. And I can’t fucking sleep!” Geralt snaps, his eyes wild and bloodshot from the lack of sleep. Yet despite how intimidating Geralt might’ve been to anyone else, Jaskier seems unnerved. He simply follows behind Geralt who is walking further down the river. Languidly, Visenya follows, eyes carefully watching the water. 

“I don’t mean to play priest's ear or anything, but has it occurred to you that maybe you’re merely rubbing salve on a tumor? Not exactly addressing the root of the problem?” Jaskier says, using his hands to further emphasize his statement. Despite the question, Geralt stays silent, briskly walking further down the river.

“That what I said,” Visenya mutters under her breath in a singsong tone, yet neither of the men acknowledge her. 

“I mean maybe, just-- just maybe this whole sleeplessness-ness has got something to do with what the druid Mousesack said to you in Cintra?” Jaskier tosses aside his empty flask, hands resting on his hips, taking advantage of the terrain allowing to stand taller than Geralt. “You know, the Law of Surprise? Destiny? Being unable to escape the child that belongs to you, et cetera, et cetera?”

“No. It’s not that,” Geralt says in a firm voice, casting the net into the water once more.

“Yeah you're probably right,” Jaskier says, eyes focusing on the river, seemingly unconvinced. “But what if you're not?”

Geralt glares at Jaskier form the corner of his eye, exasperation on his face.

“You know, the Countess de Stael once said to me that destiny is just the embodiment of the soul's desire to grow.” Jaskier’s eyes are distant as he stares into the distance. Geralt casts his net into the river for what is probably the hundredth time. 

“Did you sing to her before she left?” Geralt asks, glancing at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. 

“-I did, actually, and she... Why, what are you implying?” Jaskier asks. When Geralt doesn’t immediately respond, he turns his gaze to Visenya. “Do you know what he’s implying?” 

Visenya shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders, trying to hide the coy grin on her lips.

“Oh…” Jaskier laughs, his face contorting in disbelief. He takes a few steps towards Geralt, shaking his head. “We are so having this conversation. Come on, Geralt. Tell me. Be honest. How's my singing?” Jaskier exclaims in a loud voice, his tone stern.

Splash. Geralt tosses the net back into the water.

“It’s like ordering a pie, and finding it has no filling,” Geralt mutters without a moment of hesitation, pulling in the net. Jaskier begins to stutter, wildly wagging his finger in Geralt’s direction. Visenya laughs, the sound quickly drowned out by Jaskier’s loud protests. 

“You need a nap!” he exclaimed, quite loudly. Geralt doesn’t react, simply continuing to reel in the net. To Visenya’s surprise, the net isn’t empty. Tangled within the netting is an ancient looking jar, barely larger than Geralt’s hand. A magical rune decorates the top, the apparent source of the magic binding the Djinn to the bottle. 

The longer Visenya stares at it, the more distant everything around her feels. All she can focus on is the bottle that Geralt and Jaskier fight over. Whispers filter through her ears, filling her head until she can’t hear anything else. Most of them are incomprehensible, but she manages to understand a few phrases in her frozen state. 

‘Lightbringer, I can give you all you desire. Three wishes that will allow you to have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. All you have to do is set me free.’

Subconsciously, she reaches up a hand, grasping onto the broach that once belonged to Renfri. She could change everything, turn back time and make things work in her favor. All the nights lying awake while replaying scenarios and dreams that never came to fruition. They could actually be a reality.

‘Riches, power, and love. You can have it all.’

She wouldn’t have to constantly be afraid of losing herself. She could have her family. Her family would never have lost the war, and she would’ve been the princess she should’ve been. Drowning in jewels and fine dresses, she would never have to want for anything. 

She shuts her eyes, tightly, as if the lack of sight will banish the overwhelming whispers. Desperately, she hones in on the Jaskier and Geralt’s voice, hoping their squabble will tether her to reality.

’Whatever it is you desire, I can give it to you, just open the --’

The whispers immediately disappear, the deafening silence in her head nearly uncomfortable. Apprehensive, Visenya opens her eyes. Jaskier and Geralt are still in the same spot. Geralt holds the cap while Jaskier holds the jar, both of their eyes wide and unblinking. Before Visenya can speak, however, the sky begins to darken, noon suddenly turning into dusk. Yet a quick glance at the sky shows the sun in the exact same position. An air of ominousness fills the area, bellowing wind that nearly causes the floor to rumble following. 

Jaskier is quick to act, rushing towards the edge of the river as if to follow the powerful being.

“Djinn, I have freed thee, and as of this day, I am thy lord!” he loudly exclaims, managing to be heard over the wind. Geralt locks eyes with Visenya, his jaw clenched, eyes glancing around the clearing, as if waiting for a catastrophe. Yet Jaskier seems unbothered.

“Firstly, may Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, be struck down with apoplexy and die.” Jaskier points a finger, as if counting down his wishes. Geralt follows where Jaskier now stands and Visenya follows as well, hand ghosting over her sword.

“Secondly, the Countess da Stael must welcome me back with glee, open arms, and very little clothing.”

The whispering wind gets louder, causing Visenya hair to wildly wave around her face. She looks to Geralt for guidance, yet he seems as enthralled by the presence that’s surrounding them.

“Thirdly--”

“Jaskier!” Geralt exclaims, grabbing onto the back of Jaskier’s shirt and pulling the bard towards him.

“Wha--”

“Stop.” Geralt's tone is firm, leaving no room for going against him. “There are only three wishes.”

“Oh come on, you always say you want nothing from life. Jane, perhaps you want something? You’re always brooding about your sad past,” Jaskier mutters. At first, Visenya doesn’t register that he's speaking with her. It’s been so long since she’d been addressed by her alias. “Or maybe you want Geralt all to yourself. Don’t think I haven’t heard about you traveling around with some other woman named Visenya. The nerve to just leave poor Jane all by herself. I mean--”

Visenya furrows her brow, cocking her head to the side as a look of mild amusement and confusion crosses her features. However, Geralt doesn’t seem as amused, growing more annoyed with Jaskier with every word spoken.
“What are you talking about Jaskier?” Visenya asks, tone brimming with amusement.

“Geralt leaving you to run off with some woman named Visenya? He knows you don’t have any friends other than me and him.” Jaskier says, glancing at Geralt with a scowl on his face. She couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling out of her mouth. 

“I’m Visenya, Jaskier.”

His head turns to look at her so fast, she half expects it to fall off. 

“Wait wha--”

“My real name is Visenya,” she says, clearly enunciating every word spoken.

“Well that’s lovely. I also knew Jane was too plain to be your real name. I’m glad you're finally being yourself, my dear,” Jaskier says, patting her shoulder.

“Now back to you, Geralt,” Jaskier turns his attention back to Geralt. “How was I supposed to know you’d wanted all three wishes to yourself?”

“I just want some damn peace!” Geralt yells, the sleep deprivation making his temper even harsher than normal. Yet Jaskier seems unbothered.

“Well here’s your damn peace.” Jaskier tosses the jar to the ground, a satisfied grin forming on his face.

Geralt leans down to pick up the pieces of the jar, and when he does so, Jaskier begins to gasp. He stumbles backwards, Visenya moving with the speed of a viper to keep him from falling. His hand goes to his neck as he continues gasping for air.

“Geralt,” he manages to utter before he begins violently coughing. Carefully, Visenya begins to lower Jaskier to the ground, hopeful that will help with his sudden coughing fit.

It doesn’t.

“Geralt, it’s the djinn,” Jaskier says. Geralt whips around, pointing two fingers straight out. A blue glow leaves his fingers, following the dark figure that quickly escapes. It flies into the air and out of reach. 

As soon as it’s gone, the darkness surrounding them dissipates, the sun once again shining upon them. Yet Jaskier is still choking on the ground.

“Geralt, he can’t breathe,” Visenya says. Geralt lowers himself to be beside Jaskier’s body, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Jaskier.”

He answers by gasping for air, then opens his mouth and blood pours out. 

“Fuck,” Visenya mutters, watching Jaskier with wide eyes.

“Go get Roach, now,” Geralt says to Visenya. Wordlessly, she nods. She stands from the ground and without hesitation bolts to where Roach is mindlessly grazing, completely unaware of what’s unfolding.

Her heart is racing, each beat perfectly lining up with each foot that presses into the dirt below. There’s a lump in her throat, the anxiety in her building with every second that passes. Tears prick at the corner of her vision, the wind quickly drying them out before they could fall. 

With lightning speed she quickly reaches Roach, without a moment of hesitation getting on her, racing back to where Geralt and Jaskier are. She only hopes she won’t be too late. 

When she reaches the two of them, they’re in the same position they were in when she left. The welt on his neck is larger than before, filling with more blood that every second passes. She gets off Roach, moving to help Geralt lift Jaskier onto the horse. 

“There’s a camp nearby,” Geralt says, not looking at Visenya as he easily lifts Jaskier onto the saddle. 

“And not enough room on Roach for three. There’s a town nearby, Rinde I believe, and I doubt a mage will conveniently be at the camp,” Visenya says, steadying Jaskier’s body as Geralt gets onto Roach. 

“But there should be a healer.”

“And while capable of curing most things, A djinn attack may not be his specialty. Best case, he heals Jaskier. Worst case, we need a mage. I can scope out for one,” Visenya says. Her voice is firm, her stubbornness not allowing for Geralt to change her mind. 

“And what, use your charming personality to get their help?” Geralt says. His tone is gruff as usual, but she can hear the tinge of concern lacing it that he’s desperate to hide. She’s never actually been on her own since Blaviken, and he wasn’t eager to leave her in a similar position. Whether for his own good or hers, he isn’t sure.

“It's better than yours. Just go to the camp and I’ll go to Rinde. If I go with you I’ll only slow you down, plus the camp is the opposite way of the town. This is the best way--”

Geralt opens his mouth to protest, but Visenya continues speaking.

“--and you know I’m right. Now go, I’m not asking. Meet me in the town after visiting the healer.”

Geralt stares at her for a moment longer, eyes silently pleading for her to stay, even if he knows she’s right. And he loathes to admit it. Eventually he simply nods, giving a single kick against Roach. 

And then they are gone, leaving Visenya in the dust.

She lets out a heavy sigh, clenching her jaw tightly. She’s left stunned for a moment, but she isn’t sure why. She’s going to see Geralt again, and Jaskier will be fine. But then again, her track record with people close to her surviving has never been good. And Jaskier didn’t seem very well off. 

And with that though, it spurs Visenya into action. She turns the opposite direction Geralt rode off to and runs.

Chapter Text

It’s nearing dusk when Visenya reaches the town. Her breathing is ragged and heavy, legs numb from the excessive exercise, but she wouldn’t slow her pace. Anytime she did, the sprint morphing into a brisk jog, Jaskier's face appeared in her mind. The pain in his face combined with his inability to breathe spurred her back into action.

She couldn’t let him die. Not like everyone else.

After what feels like a century, she arrives at her destination. It’s small and quaint, painstakingly similar to Blaviken. What she could remember of it, anyways. It appears rather empty, with only a few people lingering in the streets. As she enters the town, she’s met with a few wary glances. Yet no one says anything.

She stops the first person she comes across, an older woman with deep crows feet and graying hair.

“Excuse me, is there a mage in this town?” she asks. The woman glances at her, suspicion burning in her eyes.

“What’s it to you?” she asks.

“My friend, he needs help,” Visenya says. The woman stares at her a moment longer, as if she’s trying to read a lie in Visenya’s face. A sigh leaves her mouth, eyes moving away from Visenya’s.

“She’s at the mayor’s home.” She points straight ahead at the largest building in the town. Visenya nods her head, muttering a quiet ‘thank you’ before launching forward yet again.

Dipping and dodging people, Visenya marches towards the building. Her heart is no longer racing. Instead, it rests at a dangerously faint beat. She can hear the blood pumping through her heart, and can feel the chill of the air against her skin.

Encasing the home are tall walls, a gated entrance that’s left open. She continues to walk towards it, her pace quickening once more.

Approaching the gates, a burly man steps out from behind the wall, blocking Visenya’s entrance. He’s bald and large, towering over her with heavy armor glinting in the fading light. His face is set in a scowl, arms crossed over his chest. He puffs up and straightens to stand taller, an attempt to appear more intimidating.

She comes to a halt only a few inches away from the man, looking up at him with a deep scowl set on her face. He needs to move, and he needs to move now. If he won’t, she isn’t opposed to making him.

“Toll to enter,” he says, eyes scanning Visenya’s body. It makes her skin crawl, the urge to punch him growing stronger.

“I don't remember buildings being blocked by a paywall,” Visenya says, moving to step around him. He moves with her, his hand reaching out and shoving her back. Despite the force behind his push she remains unmoved, leveling him with a glare made of steel.

“This one does. We care deeply of our townsfolk and spare no cost to keep them happy.” There’s a smug glint in his eyes, a smirk dancing on his lips that she wants to slap off his face. But she resists the urge, violence won’t solve all her problems. “Taxes come from somewhere.”

“I’m sure this money is going to the townsfolk, and certainly not lining your pocket.” Again she takes a step to walk around him, but follows every move she makes.

“Pay the fee and you can enter,” he says.

She huffs and clenches her jaw, lips set in a frown.

“I need to get in.”

“Then you need to pay. Money opens all doors, afterall.”

Her jaw clenches, eyes narrowed into slits.

“Or you let me enter and you get to keep your face intact.”

He snorts and raises a single brow, the most patronizing expression crossing his face. The temptation to smack him is only growing. And as that grows, the temperature of her body rises as well. It’s a slow build, not powerful enough that feels like she might burst, yet enough to make her skin scalding to the touch.

“Is that a threat little girl?”

Like cracking a whip, she raises a hand and smacks him across the face. The sound of her palm making contact with his face rings in the air. She put a considerable amount of force behind the blow, enough to knock a grown man off his feet. Her effort is successful as his larger body crumbles to the ground. The faint scent of singed skin fills the air, the smell of burning flesh entering her nose as she eyes the imprint of her hand now burned into his face. A cry of pain leaves his mouth as he tentatively presses his hand against the wound.

“It’s a promise.”

Visenya marches towards the home with a self-satisfied smirk on her lips. As she passes the man’s prone form she makes sure to press her foot down harder than usual. He groans under the extra weight, face pressing into the dirt.

“Might want to ice that when you get the chance.”

She reaches the front door, only pausing for a brief second. Other than the thug currently on the ground, the home is seemingly empty. Normally the home of a mayor or lords have a handful of people going about their days. Whether they’re tending to the yard or coming to and from the market. But this homestead is dead silent.

A flicker of movement in one of the windows catches her attention. The shadow of a person stands in front of it for a moment, clearly speaking with someone. Then as soon as it's there, it moves away.

Suspicious and on edge she grabs the knob upon reaching the entrance. With a faint click and a quick turn of her wrist, it opens with ease, the swinging door welcoming her into the entrance hall. Just like the outside, the first level is void of life. She narrows her gold eyes, cautiously taking a step forward.

“Hello?”

No response. The floorboards creak under the weight of her body as she passes the threshold of the home. Wind rushes past Visenya, slamming the door shut behind her. She jumps at the sudden noise, automatically grabbing the hilt of her sword, and only relaxing when she realizes it was only a gust of wind. She lets out a quiet sigh, returning her attention to exploring the manor.

“Hello?” She calls again. Still no response.

The end of the hall opens up to a larger room, that, like the rest of the home, is empty. It appears to be a sitting area, chairs and couches in the center of the room, facing an unlit fireplace. On the right side is a large staircase that leads to the higher levels.

“Is anyone here?!”

Silence.

“Fucking prick,” she mutter quietly to herself. She stomps up the stairs, her paper thin patience already tested by the man outside the town.

“I know you’re here, I saw your shadow, asshole!” She yells the words out, yet expects no reply. At this point, her yelling was only therapeutic to herself. Like a wild boar, she continues to stomp up the stairs, eventually reaching the top, where she is faced with a hallway, a single closed door at the very end.

She walks towards it, peering into the rooms that she passes. They’re all completely empty, and by this point it’s becoming unsettling. Items are haphazardly laying on the floor, uncompleted tasks people seem to have abandoned, as if everyone up and left out of nowhere.

Her brows furrowed as she racks her brain for monster knowledge. Geralt would beat the information into her and it’s usually not a problem for her to recall it. Yet the time she might need it most, her mind comes up with a blank. A part of her wants to tuck tail and run, but she can’t. She needs to do this. It’s beyond her petty fears.

This is for Jaskier.

Steeling her nerves and steadying her hand, she stops at the end of the hall. She stares at the door for a moment, contemplating knocking, but all that would do is give a potential adversary a warning. And if they weren’t an enemy, her yelling and stomping should’ve already alerted them to her presence.

So she swings the door open, a bored expression resting on her fair face. She wears the indifferent mask like an expert, her fear no longer visible on the surface.

A woman with long dark hair in a black dress is sitting in front of a vanity, carefully applying red lipstick. She seems unsurprised by Visenya’s unceremonious entrance, simply continuing to apply her makeup. From where Visenya stands, the woman is unnervingly beautiful. She seems to be flawless, almost too perfect, and if there’s one thing she’s learned, beauty is often ugly. Her thick black hair frames her face and falls in large loose curls. Her jewelry is light, her eyes drawn to the larger choker she wears. It’s of a compass, a gem set at the end of each compass needle and delicately hanging at the bottom of it is a shining gem.

“Well aren’t you going to say anything?” the woman says. She stares at Visenya through the mirror, raising a single perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“I think I’ve said quite enough on my way up here.”

The woman smirks, setting down the brush she was previously using. Slowly she stands from her chair, turning to face Visenya.

“Well come in, don’t get shy now.” There’s a smirk on her lips, intrigue shining bright in her amethyst purple eyes. They’re entrancing, nearly pulling Visenya under a spell. It makes her hesitate, other than Stregobor she’s never met another mage. Especially not one lingering in an empty village.

But it’s too late to run now. If the mage is going to hurt her, turning her back and leaving herself vulnerable won’t help.

Visenya enters the room, narrowing her eyes as she searches the room for any hidden traps. Anything that might pop out and attack her. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary in the room. A large canopy bed is in the center of the room with silk sheets and a fluffy duvet. The vanity the mage was sitting at has a few products scattered across it. There’s a wardrobe tucked away in the corner, probably storing more lavish, beautiful dresses.

She turns to face the woman and finds her standing right in front of her. Visenya lets out a quiet gasp, heart stuttering for a moment as she stops in her tracks.

“Maybe make some noise,” Visenya says after catching her breath, glaring at the woman.

“What, like you?” the woman says, a faint chuckle following every word she speaks. Her voice is soft and delicate, as melodious as a song. Yet it’s not weak, there’s steel hidden behind the silk of her demeanor. “They probably heard you in the capital.”

“Where is everybody? This place is a ghost town,” Visenya says, eyes narrowing as she watches the stranger’s face. A knowing smirk appears on her lips, like she’s in on a joke that Visenya doesn’t understand,

“Currently occupied.”

“Am I to guess you’re the mage?” She doesn’t have time to exchange light jabs and quips. Jaskier needs help now.

“I am. Am I to presume you need my services?” the woman says. Visenya meets her gaze, gold meeting purple. Her eyes are violet, startlingly so. It perfectly mirrors the exact shade Visenya’s once had been, before getting murdered at The Red Wedding. Before waking up in Blaviken. Before everything went to hell. She’s caught off guard, if only for a moment. She can’t help the envy that stabs deep into her heart. The pretty dresses, the time and care she can put into her appearance, her apparent control of her magic abilities, the confidence she carries herself with. It’s everything Visenya should’ve been.

“My friend, he needs help.”

The woman raises a brow.

“And where is this friend?” Her eyes flit around the room, a coy grin appearing on her perfectly painted lips. “I don’t see him.”

Visenya huffs in frustration.

“He’s not here right now. My other friend took him to a healer.”

“So your friends are elsewhere getting help, but you claim to need mine,” the stranger says.

“Because it was a magical attack. And unless the camp healer is a mage, they won’t be useful. So I came to the nearest town in hope of finding one. And here you are, how convenient for me.”

The woman slowly nods, moving to circle around Visenya like a wild animal that finally found its prey. It’s like she’s toying with her.

“Can you not help him? I sense chaos in you. It’s strong and unbridled, barely contained within you,” she says, a finger ghosting over the back of her neck. It leaves goosebumps wherever she’s touched, the hair on her neck standing straight up. “Untapped power at the tip of your fingers.”

She whispers the last sentence, breath tickling Visenya’s ear. Visenya flinches, turning to try and face the mage. Their eyes meet again, the look in the mage’s eyes academic, like a scholar finding knowledge that had been lost to the ages.

“I’m afraid I won’t be of much help. I’m not much of a healer.”

The mage nods, slowly, a hum of agreement slipping past her lips.

“Fire magic. You manage to wield it while maintaining your life. How?”

Visenya shrugs, eyes slightly narrowing.

“It just happens.”

The woman’s head cocks to the left.

“So you're untrained.”

She thinks back to Blaviken, vividly remembering the only time she’s ever fully lost control. Then she remembers the times it’s failed her, the times she needed it the most and couldn’t summon a spark. She’s like a child holding a real sword after only training with wooden ones. It is doing more harm than good trying to wield something she hardly understands.

“Is it so obvious?.”

“You’re nothing but pure chaos; barely contained rage bubbling under the surface. How have you not killed anyone,” she asks. Visenya stiffens, eyes narrowing into slits.

“I don’t believe any of this is currently relevant.”

The woman doesn’t immediately respond, simply continuing to study Visenya in passive silence for another moment.

“It’s relevant to me, I’m curious. A strange woman barges into my room with an innate ability to use forbidden magic, yet is entirely untrained.”

“You can ask any questions you want, after you agree to help my friend.”

The woman pauses, staring at Visenya with raised brows.

“Oh you really are a bore. All work and no play.” She sighs in an exaggerated manner, rolling her purple eyes.

“Sorry, I tend to be a bit short when someone I care for is on the verge of death,” Visenya says in a clipped tone. Yennefer chuckles, the sound airy and light.

“I suppose you are correct there. I am Yennefer of Vengerberg and you are…?”

For the first time in what feels like hours, Visenya blinks, temporarily moving her gaze away from Yennefer.

“Visenya,” she says in a clipped tone.

“You don’t have a surname?” Yennefer asks.

She raises her eyes to once again meet Yennefer’s gaze, lifting her chin as she responds further

“Targaryen.”

Yennefer slowly nods, a smirk tugging at the edge of her lips.

“Visenya Targaryen, very regal. Your companion wouldn’t happen to be the famed Witcher Geralt of Rivia.”

“The very same. Now, will you help my friend or will you not?” Visenya says, changing the subject back to her original purpose of speaking with the sorceress.

Yennefer sighs and rolls her eyes, a slight expression of boredom crossing her face. “What ails him?”

“A djinn attacked him. His throat was damaged, he’s unable to properly breath and his lungs are filling with blood.”

“A djinn? Who holds the wishes?”

Visenya narrows her eyes, paranoia filling her mind at the woman’s seemingly innocent question. The glint in eye, however, gives away that it isn’t demure prying. Even with power at the tip of her fingers, who knows what this mystery woman would do for one free wish. A djinn’s magic knew no bounds and something about this mage oozes a desire for power.

The innate urge to protect Jaskier is her first instinct. She’ll sooner bite her own arm off before serving Jaskier to danger on a silver platter. Not after all the years he was there for her, his loyalty unwavering. But she needs a mage. She’s stuck in between a rock and a hard place. It leaves her feeling powerless. She can’t protect Jaskier if a Djinn’s attack kills him first.

But no one said she has to be honest.

“I do.” The lie slips past her lips as easily as breathing.

Her smirk widens and so does the pit in Visenya’s stomach.

“And you haven’t thought to use one to save your friend?” she asks.

“I’d rather not waste a wish if it’s not necessary.”

Yennefer stares at Visenya for a moment longer, as if to try and sense any lies. Visenya forces herself to stay still and calm, unwilling to let Yennefer see any tells. There’s a gentle prodding in her mind that almost goes unnoticed. But she feels it, moving around her current thoughts to look at past memories. Visenya flinches back, as if to smack away the magic that’s assaulting her mind. The threads of magic pull out of Visenya’s mind, retreating back to its master.

A glint appears in Yennefer’s eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it’s there.

“I will help your friend.”

Visenya releases the breath she’s holding. She opens her mouth to speak, but Yennefer cuts her off by holding up a single hand. The words get caught in her throat, immediately silencing Visenya.

“In return, I will require payment.”

Visenya snorts.

“I assumed your assistance wouldn’t be free. What’s your price?”

“I’d like to study you. I’ve never come across someone with your set of…skills.”

Visenya looks away from Yennefer, jaw slightly clenching. She lets out a faint breath. She’s pretending to think over the deal, of course. She’s not in any position to bargain, and Yennefer seems to know that.

“Deal. You have a day.”

“Fantastic. Go find your friend, I’ll be here.”

Visenya nods, holding a hand out for Yennefer to shake, a way to seal their deal. Yennefer complies, her hands soft and delicate against Visenya’s own that are rough with calluses. They exchange a single shake of their hands, Visenya disengaging as soon as Yennefer’s grip loosens.

She turns, footsteps echoing in the room as Visenya marches towards the exit.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Visenya. Meet me in the Main Hall, I’ll be waiting,” Yennefer calls out to Visenya as she exits.

A grin appears on Visenya's face as she rushes down the stairs, but it looks more like a grimace than anything. She can’t help but feel like she just made a deal with the devil. But what’s done is done.

OoO

She meets Geralt half ways down the road. It didn’t take long for her to find him as he was already halfway to the town. Leaving Jaskier on Roach, he jumps off the horse, closing the distance between them. Jaskier, using all his strength to try and sit up, watches them with a knowing glint in his blue eyes. He gives her a sly smile, but that quickly disappears when he leans over to spit out a mouthful of blood.

“There’s a mage in the town, Yennefer, she is willing to help Jaskier,” Visenya says. Geralt places his hands on her shoulders, looking over her body for any potential damage.

“What’s the price,” he asks without hesitation. Her brows furrow, a question on the tip of her tongue. “Mages often don’t do favors for strangers without a cost. What was hers?”

“She wants a day with me, to study my magic. She was rather curious about it.”

His expression turns stony, his grip on her shoulder tightening.

“No.” He shakes his head in vehement disagreement.

“I’m not asking. The deal’s already been made,” Visenya says.

“What possessed you to make such a stupid deal in the first place?” Geralt asks, but his words lack any harshness. He’s scared; scared of what this mystery mage might do to Visenya. During their travels, he always took extra care to avoid a predicament just like this, but it seems as if it were in vain.

“It was either that or let Jaskier die and that's not an option,” Visenya says, placing her hands atop Geralt's. While softer than his cracked and rough hands, they weren’t nearly as soft as Yennefer’s. And for some reason, the thought bugs her.

“We could've found another way,” Geralt says.

“There was no other way. And even if there was, there’s no sense in thinking about it now.” She slides her hands off of Geralt, his firm grip loosening. “Now, let's get Jaskier to his salvation.”

She steps away from Geralt and towards Roach. She moves to stand beside Jaskier, rubbing soothing circles onto his back as he continues to spit blood.

“Thanks,” he manages to say, his voice crackly and croaky.

Geralt’s heavy footsteps in the dirt alert her of his presence. She turns to advise their next move, but the words get caught in her throat. His hands grab ahold of her waist, effortlessly lifting her body and placing her on Roach. Taken off balance, she presses her hands into his shoulders to regain some balance.

Jaskier leans forward, head resting atop her left shoulder, body slack against her back. A bit of drool and blood dribbles out of his mouth and onto her chest, but she pays it no mind. Her eyes focus on Geralt, who takes Roaches' reins in his hands and begins guiding him down the road.

It only takes a few minutes for them to reach the gate that separates the city from the rest of the world. Lying in a heap on the ground is the man from before, still clutching his face in pain. Instead of the painful screams from earlier, he simply whimpers, glistening tears falling from his eyes. Geralt turns to look at Visenya upon noticing the burn marks, an eyebrow raised as he waits for an explanation.

“He wouldn’t move, so I made him move,” she says in a nonchalant tone. Geralt doesn’t question it, simply snorting in mild amusement. Behind her, Jaskier laughs, the sound closely resembling a growl. He pats her back in a congratulatory manner.

“Nice one.” His words are incomprehensible, but she manages to get the general gist. She glances over her shoulder and gives him a beaming grin, reaching a hand out and patting his head.

“She’s in there,” Visenya tells Geralt, pointing at the largest building. He simply nods, guiding Roach closer to its entrance before coming to a halt. He comes around to help Visenya down, but she jumps off Roach before he can, nodding towards Jaskier’s struggling form.

Geralt grunts, but helps Jaskier off none-the-less. Jaskier goes limp against Geralt, his feet uselessly dragging behind him.

“Before we go Geralt, there’s one last thing. I--” she stumbles over her words, unable to look Geralt in his eyes.

“What is it?”

“She asked who was the one with the wishes. I panicked and told her it was me.”

Geralt stares at her for a moment, an indecipherable expression appearing on his face. After a moment, it hardens, lips down turning into a scowl and eyes like steel.

“What would possess you to do that?” The words come out sharp, a tinge of fear hidden in the piercing steel.

“Fear. Now we can do a case study on my stupidity later. Right now, we need for Jaskier to get healed. So let's go.”

He doesn’t speak for a moment, then slowly nods his head. Visenya opens the door to the manor as the three of them enter.

“She said she’d be in the Main Hall, wherever that is,” Visenya says. They walk through the house, ending up at the far end, following a winding hall. Like before, the house is completely empty.

The hall opens into a room that appears to be a kitchen. And in the kitchen is a man who is completely naked.

“What the--” Visenya begins to say.

“Woah,” Geralt says at the same time. The man is holding a pitcher in his hands and stumbling as he stares at them with a dumb grin. He drops the jug and it shatters on the floor. Visenya averts her gaze, wishing she could scrub her eyes clean of the memory.

“Welcome…to my home,” the man says.

“You’re the Mayor of Rinde?” Geralt asks. He turns his gaze to Jaskier and Visenya. “Not exactly what I was expecting.”

Jaskier presses a finger against Geralt’s chest. “May--may.” He’s unable to get the words out of his mouth. Geralt returns his attention to the mayor while Visenya pays extra close attention to the door behind them.

“Sorry, he’s in a bad way,” Geralt says, pointing to Jaskier.

“Can we just-- get the fuck out of here, she’s probably through that door,” Visenya says. Geralt turns to look at her, a hint of amusement buried on his face.

“What? Bothered by a naked man, Vis?”

Visenya scoffs, eyes narrowing into an icy glare. “Yes, I could’ve lived a much happier life without having to see that. Now let’s go.”

“Ahh, the apple juice. She wants some,” the mayor says, completely oblivious to anything anyone is saying.

“Yeah that’s nice, let’s go.” Visenya says, tugging on the back of Geralt’s shirt. With a mirthful chuckle, Geralt allows her to pull him away, slinging Jaskier back over his shoulder as he does.

She throws open the double doors, only to be met with a sight that is arguably worse. In the room, where a dozen or so people reside, an orgy is taking place, with Yennefer sitting on a dais watching it unfold.

“What the--”

Geralt cuts her off again, moving into the room. “This is your mage?”

Her scowl deepens as she focuses her eyes solely on Yennefer, the only other clothed person in the room.

“Just move,” she mutters, walking behind him. She jerks away as people reach out to touch her, slapping away wandering hands that get too comfortable.

“Here,” Geralt says, tossing Jaskier in between two women. He wheezes, eyes wide and full of panic as Geralt and Visenya continue towards Yennefer.

“Geralt, we shouldn’t just leave him there.”

“Don’t worry Vis, he’s just fine where he is,” Geralt says, an easy smirk on his face.

“But Geralt--”

“He’s fine,” Geralt says, his tone a little more firm this time. Visenya closes her mouth, a scowl overtaking her face, but doesn’t argue with him.

“There you are, I was wondering when you’d show, my dear. I almost thought you’d run off,” Yennefer says, a smirk on her perfectly painted lips. The black lace mask that covers her eyes creates the illusion of them being more cat-like. Her purple eyes are a screaming color against the backdrop of her all black ensemble.

“Is this what mages do for fun?” Visenya asks, her tone sharp and scathing as she uncomfortably shifts in her spot.

“You both seem to be immune,” Yennefer says, eyes flitting between Visenya and Geralt. “What a shame.”

“You must be the mage,” Geralt says in his usual gruff voice.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.” She places the goblet precariously dangling in her hands on the table beside her.

“Hm,” is all Geralt responds with. “Visenya didn’t mention that, uh…” Geralt trails off, his eyes solely on Yennefer. There’s a light smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, nearly breaking the facade of disinterest.

Visenya, uninterested in the conversation, turns her head, searching for Jaskier. He seems to have disappeared in the sea of people, much to her chagrin. She returns her gaze to Yennefer, impatiently tapping her foot against the ground.

“Didn’t mention…what?” Yennefer asks, though there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. She knows exactly what Geralt is implying, but wants to hear him verbalize his thoughts.

He doesn’t indulge her.

“We need your help.”

“So I’ve heard,” Yennefer says. She stands, slowly walking down the steps towards Geralt and Visenya. “Your heartbeat is incredibly slow, you must be a mutant.”

“A Witcher,” Geralt says.

“The famous White Wolf. Visenya mentioned you.”

At the mention of her name, she raises an ashen brow at Yennefer, who glances at her for a brief second before looking at Geralt again.

“She’s just a friend, I hope,” Yennefer whispers, the sly smirk on her face growing larger. I thought you’d have fangs or horns or something.”

“I had them filed down,” Geralt says in a sardonic manner. Yennefer giggles at his retort, slowly circling around him just as she had when Visenya first entered her room.

“First time I’ve seen a Witcher up close.” She pauses on the other side of Geralt, a little too close to him for Visenya's liking. “What little spells can you cast? Call it professional curiosity.”

“Please, Jaskier needs immediate attention. And then, I’ll indulge your curiosity all night if you’d like,” Geralt says. Visenya glances at him out of the corner of her eye. A pit appears in her stomach, seeing the way Geralt seems to be magnetized by the mage.

“It won’t take all night, but I’m sure we could find a way to pass the time.”

Visenya rolls her eyes, turning around to try and search for Jaskier. She tries to act indifferent. There’s no reason for her to get all worked up. Geralt can flirt with attractive sorceresses if he wants. He doesn’t owe her anything.

And yet…

A sense of dread washes over her. She’s green with envy, hearing the light and flirty banter the two of them exchange back and forth.

‘You just don’t like change.’

It’s what she repeats to herself over and over again to cover the feeling inside her. If another woman were to step into their dynamic it would change everything. Gone are the quiet nights by the fire when on the road. The light and sarcastic banter they exchange while on the road. How gentle he is after a day of knocking on her ass as they train, wrapping and soothing any wounds she retains.

It couldn’t possibly be more than that.

“If you’re quite finished, our friend is dying and you said you’d heal him,” Visenya says, lips pressed into a scowl. She clenches her fist, the annoyance bubbling inside her causing her skin to heat up.

She wants to convince herself it’s just that. But the burning envy in her veins speaks of something else. Something far more terrifying than the fear of losing a friend.

“She said it was a djinn attack, is that correct?” Yennefer asks Geralt, pointedly ignoring Visenya's presence. He hands her a small leather bag which holds the seal that bound the djinn to its previous home.

“It was,” Geralt says. Yennefer holds it in her hand and turns away from the two of them. Faint whispers enter Visenya head, like they had when the bottle hosting the djinn was originally found. It’s not as strong, more of a petty annoyance than anything.

“Gather your friend, I’ll begin the process,” Yennefer suddenly says, turning to face Geralt and Visenya. She clutches the seal in her hand, eyes staring past the two of them. “Ragamuffin.”

Like being startled awake, everyone in the room pauses. Gasps of shock and concern fill the room, people using whatever’s closets in an attempt to cover themselves.

“Right this way,” Yennefer says.

Chapter Text

“You can just set him on the bed,” Yennefer says, motioning to the large bed in the same room Visenya had her first meeting with the mage. Visenya sets Jaskier onto the bed, treating him like she would an object made of glass. She adjusts his head so that his neck would be properly comfortable. He seems in a state of relaxation, the frantic look in his eyes fading. He’d look serene if not for the dried blood on the edge of his mouth and clothes. She brushes the hair on his forehead back. His skin is clammy, and she curses her natural warmth. She could bring Jaskier no other comfort. All there is to do is wait, and hope Yennefer can save him.

Visenya turns, watching Yennefer pull out a number of alchemical ingredients and a mortar and pestle. She crushes fragrant herbs together and whispers an incantation in a foreign language. It’s similar to Elvish, but harsher than she’d heard before.

“It’s a mixture that’ll put him into a stasis-like sleep so that he may heal,” Yennefer says, then turns and meets Visenya gaze. “He won’t feel a thing.”

Visenya wordlessly nods, continuing to glance around the room. On their way to the room, Yennefer had sent Geralt away to bathe, saying something about him smelling up the entire building. While true, Visenya has a feeling that isn’t Yennefer’s only reason for sending him away. It brings brief relief. Maybe she'd read the conversation they shared all wrong. 

“How long will it take for him to heal?” Visenya asks, moving across the room to be closer to Yennefer. 

“By dawn he will be back to normal, not a trace of the djinn’s influence left on him,” Yennefer says, throwing a strange liquid into her mixture of herbs. She walks over to Jaskier as does Visenya. She keeps a close eye on Yennefer akin to a mother watching over a cub. Yennefer opens Jaskier’s mouth and pours the mixture in. He doesn’t resist, eyes closing as he breathes in deeply, Yennefer reciting another incantation, louder this time.

After a few moments she stops and steps away from Jaskier. 

“There. Now he can begin to heal,” Yennefer says, a self-satisfied grin pulling on her lips.

Visenya scans the room, pausing at the end of the bed on the ground. Drawn on the floor is a strange symbol, unlit candles surrounding it. “Strange decorative choice.” 

Yennefer’s eyes follow hers, body tightening ever so slightly. “It’s a mage thing, part of my night time ritual, now--”

She sashays around the bed, the fabric of her dress floating behind her. The tips of her fingers lightly trace Visenya’s skin as she passes. “I’ve done my part, now it’s time to do yours Visenya Targaryen.” 

“I’d rather not. I need to speak with Geralt; to update him on Jaskier,” Visenya says, glancing at the shut door. 

“Trust me, your Witcher is quite alright in the bath. Relax, I can’t imagine you've had the opportunity in quite a while, what with all your traveling.” Yennefer says, walking to the other side of the room with the lightness of a summer breeze. She takes a seat on the cushioned couch, patting the spot beside her. She reaches over to the side table and grabs a decanter of red wine, pouring it into two glasses.  

Visenya looks at her, then Jaskier, then the door, and finally back at Yennefer. After a moment she crosses the room, sitting by Yennefer, who hands her a glass of wine. Visenya apprehensively smells it, the mixture of spices making it smell like autumn. Only after Yennefer takes a drink does Visenya drink from her own goblet. She takes a small sip, finding that it smoothly goes down and tastes just as delicious as it smells. 

“That’s it, see how easy that was. Now tell me, when did your magic manifest?” Yennefer abruptly breaks the ice, intently looking at Visenya’s neutral expression. 

“Straight to the point, eh?” Visenya says, taking a large gulp of her drink. Yennefer simply shrugs and raises a single brow. 

“Why waste time dancing around the question when you already know what intrigues me.”

Visenya meets her stare for a moment longer, before giving a quick nod. “Very well, I discovered my power fifteen years or so ago.”

Yennefer's brows raise in surprise. “I didn’t expect you to have them for so long, they seem so…”

“Uncontrolled,” Visenya supplements and Yennefer nods her head. 

“I was going to say untrained, but that works too. I’m surprised you were never taken to Aretuza.” Yennefer says, leaning closer to Visenya, as if proximity would somehow give Yennefer all the answers she seeks. 

“I don’t make a habit of telling everyone I have powers.”

Yennefer lips curl into a sardonic grin, eyes shining with melancholy and anger, but it’s gone so quick Visenya may have imagined it. “They have a way of finding us.”

Visenya wanted Yennefer to expand on what she meant, to poke and prod at what’s clearly a sore spot. Yet at the last moment, the digging questions on the tip of her tongue, she stopped. She needed Jaskier to live, she could risk it with petty jabs and jealousy. 

“I’d prefer to have it under control but the opportunity never presented itself and there’s only so much I could learn on my own.” Visenya suddenly speaks, breaking Yennefer from her reverie.

“Geralt never offered?” 

“Witcher’s powers work differently,” Visenya says, waving away the notion. Yennefer hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. She leans back, reaching a hand up and pulling the hairpin out of her hair. Long raven hair falls down her back as she tosses the hairpin across the room.

“And how did your power manifest? Surely you're older than fifteen so you haven’t had them your whole life,” Yennefer asks.

Visenya’s mouth grows dry, unformed words caught in her throat. She thickly swallows, but the lump in her throat won’t go away. She takes a deep breath, eyes focusing on the wall behind Yennefer to avoid looking into her eyes. 

“That’s private.” She keeps her tone even but the edges of it are as biting as the winter winds, but Yennefer is unperturbed. 

“And well within our deal. I healed your friend, now you answer my questions,” Yennefer says without a moment of hesitation. A wide grin appears on her face, as if she finds the situation amusing.

Visenya opens her mouth to speak, but then promptly shuts it. This causes Yennefer’s smirk to widen. 

A moment of silence passes before Visenya speaks. "I was attacked and killed; now I have fire magic, nothing else to say.” Technically, it’s the truth, yet not the entire truth. Yennefer has no need to know about her heritage and that she hails from a different world entirely. 

“And…” Yennefer motions for Visenya to continue. Visenya tilts her head slightly, the frown deepening. 

“Nothing. Else.” 

Yennefer simply rolls her eyes. “Fine, touchy subject, I get it.” She looks away from Visenya and sighs. “You have my condolences for the loss of your life. Though you seem to have regained it, maybe I need not apologize.” 

“Apologies aren’t necessary, I’ve had fifteen years to come to terms with it,” Visenya says in a sardonic tone, lips curling into a sarcastic grin. But as she speak, a voice in her head disagrees, 

‘You haven’t come to terms with anything, simply burying it deep inside your head.’ 

She doesn’t pay the thought any mind, focusing on Yennefer before her. 

“How did you come to meet Geralt? Witchers are usually very reclusive when it comes to humans.” Yennefer seamlessly changes the subject, and Visenya is glad for the distraction. 

“I met him in a town he was stopped in, then we both got captured by elves. I traveled with Jaskier for a time before branching off with Geralt,” Visenya says. 

“And are you friends or…something more?” Yennefer asks, a coy grin creeping back onto her face, a certain glint of mischief in her eyes. A faint flush appears on Visenya’s cheeks, heart rate speeding up at the mere mention of being something more with Geralt. She curses the feeling, romance would be disastrous. 

“Just friends,” Visenya says in a firm tone, both trying to convince Yennefer and herself. 

“Truly?” Yennefer cocks her head to the side. “I’ve never seen friends that look at each other the way you two look at each other.” 

Visenya narrows her eyes into a glare.

“Fine, fine, live in denial,” Yennefer says, taking a sip from her wine and setting it back on the side table. “Just trying to speed up what you’ll soon realize. But in the meantime, maybe I’ll have some fun of my own with the Witcher.”

Visenya glances away from Yennefer, a frown darkening her expression. There’s a sour taste  in her mouth and a pit at the bottom of her stomach. She knows the feeling well, she’d spent most of her adolescence covered in it, like it was a dark shadow. But also in Cintra, when she gazed upon the princess who had everything that should’ve been hers. It’s a feeling Visenya has never been able to escape.

Jealousy.

She didn’t want to compete for Geralt’s affections, because she knew that was a battle she’d lost. Or--

She shook her head, banishing the train of thought. She didn’t want to compete for Geralt’s affections period. 

Visenya didn’t care for Geralt’s affections. 

“Please, be my guest.” Visenya wanted her tone to appear unbothered, but a sliver of bitterness still came through. Yennefer’s smirk broadens as Visenya eyes give the room another cursory glance, anything to distract herself from her own thoughts.

 Resting atop Yennefer’s vanity, neatly hidden amongst all the fancy bottles that decorate it, is a dark cork half wrapped in cloth. Visenya narrows her eyes, something familiar and unsettling about the object, though she can’t quite figure out why. Visenya moves to stand, eager to take a closer look, but Yennefer stops her.

“How about I show you a trick of magic, for the road,” Yennefer says, a charming smile appearing on her face. She stands and outstretches a hand for Visenya. “Come.” 

She contemplates it for a moment, thinking of a million things that could come from this moment. But Visenya thinks better than to irrationally act, so she simply goes along with whatever charade Yennefer is planning. 

Visenya sets down her goblet on the same side table Yennefer did, and takes her hand. It is soft and warm to the touch, lacking any calluses Visenya’s are riddled with. She leads them to her vanity. She pushes Visenya to be in front of a full length mirror and stands behind her. She peers over Visenya’s shoulder, looking at her through the mirror. 

“What do you see?” she asks. 

Visenya’s face contorts into one of confusion, looking at Yennefer. 

“Just amuse me. Tell me what you see.”

“I see you and me, standing in front of a mirror.” Visenya cautiously says, as if her eyes have somehow failed her and that’s not at all what’s before her. 

“Yes, but deeper than that. What do you see?” 

Visenya looks back into the mirror and Yennefer reaches forward, placing a hand on the mirror. A faint glow emits from her hand as a quiet hum fills the room. Visenya’s head becomes hazy, like a thick fog covers everything, heavily obscuring her vision. She closes her eyes, trying to concentrate, but she’s unsure what she’s looking for. The room around her fades, Yennefer’s gentle grip on her shoulders disappearing. She’s in complete darkness, heat encasing her like armor; it’s like she’s listlessly floating. 

She opens her eyes, finding herself no longer in Yennefer’s room. Instead she is in a ruin, dilapidated stone buildings all around her. The sky is clear, nothing to be seen for miles. Visenya had never seen this place before, but somehow she just knew this to be the ruins of Old Valyria. There’s a flicker of light and her hand fills with fire, controlled and tempered within her grasp. Suddenly there’s a roar, a shadow blotting out the sun. Visenya looks up as a large dragon flies overhead. It is beautiful and terrifying, its roar causing the earth to tremble. It turns, landing on before her with a thundering bang. 

As it walks forward slowly, Visenya meets it, unafraid. The Targaryen's were dragon riders for centuries, there is nothing to fear. The dragon has amber eyes, much the same as Visenya’s. In the smoldering pits of the dragon’s eyes, Visenya sees her own reflection. She raises a hand to hover just above its face, longing to feel its scales under her fingers, but still uncertain how to approach. The dragon nudges into her touch like a lazy housecat, and Visenya lets out a small breath of elation, closing her eyes. Under the tips of her fingers, the dragon is warm to the touch, like the smoldering cinders of a dead fire.

She opens them again, now in a throne room, standing beside the Iron Throne. There’s a person in the seat, but their face is blurry, she can’t even discern their gender. She’s dressed in a silk dress, jewels making her body glimmer, a tiara resting on her head. Her silver hair cascades past her shoulders, set in an intricate style. There’s no mirror to peer into, but she just knows her eyes are a purple hue. The edges of her lips are tilted into a serene grin. It’s the distant dream she’d held onto her entire life. A faithless with to live out a life ripped from her, the peace and happiness she’d been denied. A life of safety. She closes her eyes as she laughs at something the figure beside her said, their words disjointed. But she laughs all the same.

“Open your eyes,” Yennefer’s voice fills her mind. It snaps Visenya into reality as she opens her eyes. She’s back in the room with Yennefer, staring at her reflection. Nothing in the room is different, yet Visenya is changed. 

“We mages remake ourselves on our terms. No one else in the world has that power. We can be whoever it is we want to be.”  Yennefer speaks the words as if she were reciting something someone once told her, the ghost of a melancholic grin on her face. 

“I’m not a mage,” Visenya says.

“But you do have magic. Which in my eyes, makes you a mage.”

Visenya stares back at her reflection, taking in her hair that shimmers in the candle light, any traces of dark brown hair dye washed away from whatever magic Yennefer used. Her eyes that for the past fifteen years were a bright amber are now a startling purple that shines like a thousand amethysts. She’s starstruck. It’s been years since she’s seen herself like this, she’d nearly forgotten her face with true Valyrian features. Her fingers reach up, tracing the lines of her face before combing through her hair

She looks like a real Targaryen. 

In that moment, as Yennefer exits the room, the door clicking behind her, something shifts inside Visenya. She fears she’ll never be the same, whether for the better or not. 

She grabs a strand of hair and peers at it. Unlike the silvery-gold in the reflection, it’s that same dull brown. A cold chill rushes up her spine, unsettled in a way she can’t explain. 

----

Visenya sits in a plush chair by Jaskier, holding his hand in hers. For the first time in years, she begins to mutter a soft prayer. 

“Mother, in strife, I ask that you please aid Jaskier in his healing, to stave away the Stranger’s cold touch. I--”

She pauses her words, embarrassment washing over her like a tidal wave. The gods have never listened to her before, why would they start now? She shakes her head, gripping Jaskier’s hand tighter. She’ll now have to put her faith in a dodgy witch. 

“Visenya.” She turns her head, seeing Geralt standing at the door. His clothes are different, a pair of black pants and a loose white shirt on his body. His hair looks brushed and his hair retied with new leather. 

She stands and stares, silent. He walks towards her, only stopping when there’s only a few feet separating them.

“Were you praying?”

“I was, though it's perhaps a waste of time, the gods have never deemed to answer my prayers before.”

Geralt opens his mouth, only to shut it. Visenya narrows her eyes, waiting for him to speak, but he never does. At that moment, Yennefer sweeps into the room, wearing a white slip dress with beads that make it shimmer against the candlelight. 

“As you can see, both of your friends are okay,” she says, walking past the two of them. “Satisfied?”

“No,” Geralt says in a deadpan tone. “But don’t reproach yourself Yennefer, I’m rarely satisfied.”

Geralt looks at Yennefer, then across the room. Visenya follows his gaze, their eyes landing on the seal. Visenya’s heart drops, she completely forgot about the seal, so wrapped up in her own reflection, quite literally. Internally, she curses herself for getting so distracted. 

“The seal…” he trails off. “We’ll be taking Jaskier now. Visenya, grab him.” 

She moves towards the bed but is stopped by Yennefer, who’s hand tightly grips hers. It stops Visenya in her tracks, even as she tries to rip herself free.  

“If you wake him before he’s healed the spell won’t take. Do you really want your friend to die?” Yennefer says, raising an accusatory brow at Visenya. Her lips press into a scowl as she pushes Yennefer off her. 

“The djinn is already gone. If that’s what you want, you’re too late,” Visenya says, her tone low and gravelly. 

“Visenya is right, the amphora’s broken,” Geralt chimes in. After he speaks the candles in the room ignite with indistinct whispers echoing in the room. The air turns cold, and Visenya knows it as she sees everything breath she exhales. 

“Do go on. Tell me how stuff works. The Witcher and his pet mage who can’t ignite a flame on command,” Yennefer says with a snide tone, a hint of malice in the smirk on her face. Visenya’s glare deepens, her pride wounded by how accurate the statement is. 

“The djinn is tied to this plane and its master. How many wishes have been expressed?” She focuses her attention on Visenya, as she still believes her to be the holder of the wishes, but it’s Geralt who speaks.

“You want Jaskier to make his last wish,” Geralt says.

“Jaskier? No I thought--” she trails off, her piercing eyes focusing on Visenya. A smug smirk appears on Visenya’s lips, like a wild animal baring its teeth.

“You lied.” Yennefer’s voice is harsh, but opposite to the fury on her face, Visenya wears a serene expression. Yennefer looks like she would breathe fire if she could, but Visenya doesn’t fear the flame. 

“You only just now learned that. I thought mages were all knowing,” Visenya says in a nearly haughty tone and raises a single ashen brow.

“Your friend is one who has the djinn’s wishes, not you,” Yennefer continues to rage, pointing a single finger at Visenya, drawing closer until her finger is a mere centimeters away. Geralt steps forward to interfere, but Visenya raises her hand in his direction, silently commanding him to stay still.

“After everything I did for you, you lied. We had a deal,” Yennefer says. 

Visenya stands from the chair, standing a good four inches above Yennefer, but the woman doesn’t shrink away. Her lips flatten into a scowl, eyes as cold as ice. 

“We had a deal, yes. Our deal was you would heal Jaskier and I would indulge your curiosity for a day. Never in the terms of our bargain were the djinn wishes mentioned,” Visenya says, staring down at Yennefer. Their eyes match now, though Yennefer’s looks like a blazing sun while Visenya's is like a winter storm.

“You still lied to me,” Yennefer says. 

“And you’re still trying to capture a djinn,” Geralt interjects, taking the attention away from Visenya’s dishonesty. “The djinn will fight you.” 

Yennefer begins to walk towards Geralt, the whisper in the room expanding in volume. He shakes his head and closes his eyes. A grunt leaves his mouth as he attempts to fight Yennefer’s enchantment.

“What are you doing?” Visenya moves towards Geralt, but finds her feet unable to move. 

“That scent…” he trails off. “Lilac and--”

“Gooseberries,” Yennefer finishes for him as Visenya struggles against the magic permeating in the room. It clings to her, keeping her stuck in place. A delicate breeze that feels like a gentle caress passes through the room.

“Tough to get in your head. You have a strong will, but you can’t contend with me,” Yennefer says in a coy tone. “Sorry I couldn't be direct with you, but I knew you’d fight it.” Yennefer runs a finger along his cheeks. “And I do love a good ole-fashioned trap.”

“A good ole fashioned nap…” Geralt trails off, speaking as if in a trance. He then turns and walks out of the room, not uttering another word. Finally the magic binding Visenya dissipates. 

Without hesitation she rushes forward, catching Yennefer off guard. She shoves Yennefer against the wall, a hand on her throat and another hand pressing against her abdomen to hold her down. 

“Whatever you did to him, undo it. Now.” Her eyes are in slits and her voice a contender with the cold of the far north.

“It’s a simple spell, harmless really. It’ll wear off sooner or later, your Witcher will be fine” Yennefer replies, still smug even with Visenya’s hands around her neck. “I’m surprised you're unaffected. Your magic is stronger than I anticipated.”

Visenya tightens her grip.

“Undo the spell now.” Visenya commands. 

“No, he’ll only get in my way. I need him gone to recapture this djinn.” 

Visenya grits her teeth, body vibrating from frustration. 

“So why am I still here?” 

“You're powerful, a feat that could be used to help me cast my spell,” Yennefer says. “Let me go, and the sooner we finish the spell, the sooner you three can leave.” 

“And if I kill you?” Visenya asks. 

Yennefer chokes out a laugh at the threat, her smug expression taunting Visenya. She’s confident, veering into overly cocky. It’s humiliating, the way her eyes look at Visenya in such a patronizing way.

Visenya breathed in and momentarily shut her eyes, gripping the tendrils of magic she’d never fully grasped onto. She remembers the way it felt anytime she’d successfully harnessed it. There’s fire coursing through her veins, bubbling just below the surface.

She just needs to--

 The scent of singeing replaces the heavily aromatic incense in the air. Visenya opens her eyes to meet Yennefer’s panic filled ones. All laughter and amusement is wiped from Yennefer, not a trace left behind. There’s a scorch on the fabric of her dress, a slight burn left on the delicate skin of her neck 

A warning, nothing more, and certainly not enough to leave a scar. Yennefer, no longer having the upper hand in the scenario, discards her cool and collected demeanor. That knowledge sends a pleasant burst of pride within Visenya. 

“If you kill me Jaskier dies. Isn’t that enough,” Yennefer exclaims. Visenya’s eyes flicker to Jaskier’s still form, grip slackening subconsciously. His position unchanged, Jaskier remains unmoving. 

It seems Visenya celebrated her victory too soon. Yennefer still holds the winning hand; they’re backed into a corner. If she wants Jaskier to live, she’ll have to follow Yennefer’s inane plan. 

Defeated, Visenya growls, removing her hands from Yennefer and stepping back. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

Yennefer grins, a glimmer of relief in her eyes. 

“Consider this lesson two in your training. Come--” She grabs Visenya’s hands, guiding her to the center of the room, where the now lit candles lay. Looking at the symbol Yennefer drew, it looks identical to that on the Djinn’s seal. Mentally, Visenya kicks herself, all the signs were right in front of her, if only she wasn’t so wrapped up in herself. 

Yennefer pulls down the top half of her dress and with black ink begins to draw a symbol on her stomach. “Expose your stomach to me.”

“Why?” 

“For the ritual. Now would you just--” Yennefer moves towards Visenya, who in turn quickly discards her shirt, only left in her pants and breast band. Yennefer begins tracing the same symbol on her stomach, instead of black however, her’s is a blood red colored ink. 

“What is this?”

“I had something taken from me, and I want it back,” Yennefer says, retracting her hand from Visenya. “Now repeat--”

She begins to speak in that same language that sounds like a bastardization of Elvish. To the best of her ability she mimics the words.

From the bed, Jaskier groans and begins to stir. Visenya’s head whips in his direction, relief flowing through her veins. She reaches down and pulls her shirt up. 

“Jaskier, can you hear me?” she asks, rushing to his side,

“Visenya? Where are we? And where’s your shirt?” His eyes glance behind Visenya and notices Yennefer with her chest still exposed. “When. Uh…right. Good. Um…not to be untoward or anything but-”

“Are you alright?” Visenya asks, forcing his eyes to look at her.

He then turns his attention to Yennefer. “Thank you, now--” He stumbles out of the bed. “Let us be on our way then. So sorry to leave so soon but I uh…left my cat...on the…uh…stove.” Jaskier stumbles and hops as he puts his boots back on. 

“Express your deepest desires and you can be on your way.” 

“Well, my deepest desires are currently satisfied, thank you so much.” Jaskier stutters, finally getting both of his boots on. “Come on ‘enya.”

Before she can react, Yennefer throws her hand up, using magic to force Jaskier against the wall. A shout leaves his mouth as Visenya yells at Yennefer. She pays Visenya no mind, sliding up to Jaskier with a knife in hand. 

“How’s your throat?” she asks. 

“Uh…”

“Perhaps you should try some scales,” she suggests in a cruelly teasing tone. 

“Uh…” Jaskier stutters. “Toss a coin to your Witcher--” he apprehensively sings the lyrics. “Oh valley of--PENIS” He screams the last word in panic as Yennefer holds a knife up to his throat. “Oh god, ‘enya please help!” Jaskier yells and continues to press himself closer to the wall to put space between him and Yennefer.

She steps towards the two, but Yennefer holds out one of her hands, forcing Visenya back.

“If you want to keep all you have--”

“Just make your last fucking wish Jaskier so we can leave,” Visenya exclaims over the rushing wind. Her voice isn’t angry, but desperate. She wants all of this to be over with.

“So he can leave, I’m not done with you.”

Jaskier looks at Visenya, his breathing labored and uneven. Her eyes plead with him to just make the wish and go. She hopes he can understand it, even in the chaos of the room. 

“Fine fine fine, I very much wish to leave this place.” 

Yennefer releases Jaskier and falls to the ground, landing in the arcane etchings on the floor. Wasting no time, she begins to chant, eyes closed and head thrown back. Visenya rushes with Jaskier towards the exit, swinging the door open. Jaskier steps through, stopping and turning towards Visenya, a hand stretched towards her. But Visenya can’t come with him, not yet.

“Go find Geralt,” she says. He opens his mouth to argue, but Visenya interrupts him. “Go, now.” 

He stutters, an internal war waging within him before finally nodding, turning and running.

Visenya turns to Yennefer, frozen. 

“Get over here, now!” Yennefer yells, temporarily pausing her chanting, face etched with pain. Visenya does as she’s told, taking her place across from Yennefer. They interlock hands as Visenya mimics the chants falling from Yennefer’s lips. A surge of energy shoots through her body, her skin feels like it’s being peeled back, slowly. She scrunches her nose and eyes in pain, but continues to chant. The blood under her skin boils. She feels like she might just die at that moment.

The wind in the room grows more ferocious, nothing untouched as it whips through the room. The candles manage to stay light, coloring the air with faint black smoke. As Visenya screams, they ignite, taller and brighter than before. The only thing keeping grounded to reality is Yennefer’s tight grip on her hands that get tighter with each second. 

She wants to stop, to make the pain in her body go away, but she doesn’t. 

“Don’t.” Geralt’s voice cuts through the chaos of the wind and a disembodied voice that keeps roaring. Quite frankly, he looks horrible, though Visenya doubts she looks much better. His hair is matted and his clothes are covered in blood and dirt, stains of a similar substance on his face. 

“You're free. No longer under my spell,” Yennefer utters, completely out of breath.

“You have Visenya. I’m staying,” Geralt says.

“You seem to want to meet your end,” Yennefer says in between chants, screaming in pain. “The djinn, why isn’t it weakening? The bard expressed his last wish, but it--it’s getting stronger!” Yennefer releases another cry of pain that Visenya mimics. It feels as if her insides are being put on her outsides. 

“That’s because I have the wishes!” Geralt yells. 

Visenya inhales, deeply, trying to force away the pain. She straightens her back, beads of sweat forming on her head. She feels someone or something pressing into her. It’s trying to enter her, to invade her thoughts and become intertwined with her very essence.

“Then what are you waiting for? Use your last wish!” Yennefer yells. 

“Becoming the vessel will have you lose control, not gain it! Can’t you see that? It’s going to kill you both!” Geralt yells. 

“True transformation is painful.”

“Release the djinn! I’ll give you my last wish, just stop this madness!”

“You heroic protector,” Yennefer says in a mocking tone. “Noble dog! Permitting my success so long as you command it yourself. Fuck of! I’ll do it myself!” Yennefer yells.

“Damn it Yennefer, tell me what you what?” 

“I want everything.” Her body bends backwards as she screams the words. She waves a single hand and throws Geralt against a wall. 

A banshee-like wail escapes Visenya’s mouth, the house shaking and walls crumbling from the power in her shout. Screaming in her own mind, Visenya beats against invisible barriers and endless darkness for control, but the djinn is too strong. Her gold eyes flash blood red, voice deep and disembodied as she speaks.

“Make your wish. You can have anything you want. You could choose not to be a Witcher. What do you desire? Mortality? Riches? Fame? Power?” Geralt stares at her in horror, rendered silent. 

He needs to save her, to keep Yennefer’s hubris from getting Visenya killed, but Visenya isn’t there, not really. In her own mind, she sees visions of Westeros. Cities burning, people screaming, and an army of dead. The djinn whispers in her mind, promises she knows it would never keep. It promises her home, safety, and everything she’s dreamed of. All she needs to do is to let it in. Allow it to make her body its new vessel.

She sees the Starks, alive and well, even if they’re faces are blurred and unfocused she knows it's them. There’s another figure, with three dragons flying above her, a veil of silver hair her crown. In a moment of weakness, Visenya wants it all. Even when she knows the djinn is only lying. 

Visenya wants to go home. 

One hand outreached, she tries to grasp the vision in hopes it would smother all her sorrows.

She isn’t sure what happened next, but suddenly the pain dissipated as did the visions. The wind in the room ceased and all the candles flicker out. The djinn appears to be gone, Visenya watching the remnants of gray mist exit through the window. 

Visenya collapses, but Geralt catches her before she can hit the ground. He steadies her, leaning most of her body against his. 

“The djinn-” Yennefer croaks out. “Where did it go?”

Before anyone can speak, the ground is taken out from under them. The second floor collapses, their bodies falling before landing on the first floor. Visenya, previously held by Gerald, now lands on top of him, body limp and as she hisses in pain. Visenya rolls off from her position on top of Geralt and lets out a groan. 

“Visenya,” Geralt rolls over, brushing hairs out of her face. “Are you okay?”

Her only response is a groan and a weak smile before her vision goes dark; she falls out of consciousness. 

And in her sleep, she dreams of home.