#oloreaa writes

[cregan-starks]

Flames of Deceit

Summary: Aemond and Visenya reunite amidst the Dance of the Dragons.

Words: 13,005

Pairings: Aemond Targaryen x OC, Cregan Stark x OC, Alyn Velaryon x OC

Warnings: canon-typical incest (Aemond and Visenya are cousins, as well as uncle and niece), book and show spoilers, Westerosi geopolitics, mentions of imperialism and slavery, canon-typical violence, war, blood and gore, fire and burning, mass death, mention of amputation, mentions of torture and captivity, mentions and threats of execution and physical harm, mentions of poverty and starvation, parental neglect, food and eating, alcohol and drinking, sexism, victim blaming, slut-shaming, ableist language, explicit language, nudity, smut (vaginal sex in flashbacks), unresolved sexual tension, grief/mourning, trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, survivor guilt, mutual pining, emotional/psychological abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, and death in childbirth, mentions of child/infant death, mentions of infidelity. If I missed any warnings, please let me know! Under no circumstances can you copy, plagiarize, steal my work, or post it somewhere else!

Notes: This totally didn’t take me almost 7 months to write. Cregan Stark is the protagonist of Fire & Blood. Rise, Cregan nation. My OC Visenya is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s daughter, and Jace’s older twin. Superfecundation, baby. Visenya and Jace are born in 111 AC, not 114 AC. The Battle in the Gullet still occurs in 130 AC, soon after the events of this one-shot. Reblogs and comments are encouraged and immensely appreciated. If this does well, I’ll post a reader version.

Credits: Huge thank you to my betas @maharani-radha-writes 💛 @aereth 💖 and @revolution-starter 🩶, and to @haystack-boy @lavendertales @buttercup--bee @agirllovespancakes and @oloreaa for their constant patience and support. It means a lot, and I’m immensely grateful. Apart from my OC Visenya, all characters belong to George R.R. Martin. Gif by @aemondtargaryensource (x)

Ao3 | Masterlist

EARLY 130 AC

HARRENHAL, THE RIVERLANDS

          The sheer immensity of Harrenhal had provoked dizziness in Visenya. She had heard the story innumerable times. For four decades, King Harren Hoare had built greedily and obsessively, sacrificing thousands of slaves, and beggaring the riverlands and the Iron Islands. The indestructible construction had been no match for Balerion, whose fire had consumed the tyrant and his sons inside it, ending their line. Most Westerosi believed that the phantoms of the Hoares wandered the castle halls. The fortress is costly to maintain, and it devours its possessors. Qoherys, Harroway, Towers… All extinct. Whether cursed or not, Harrenhal remained a strategic location – the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms.

          The current castellan – and Larys Clubfoot’s great-uncle – Ser Simon Strong had recently surrendered Harrenhal to Daemon Targaryen. The presence of Caraxes might have contributed to his hasty decision. Following the victory at the Burning Mill and the subsequent submission of Stone Hedge – terminating Green strength in the riverlands – Queen Rhaenyra’s allies had commenced their gathering at Harrenhal, in accordance with the Prince Consort’s stratagem.

          Visenya had departed Dragonstone on the same night that Daemon had summoned her, having been granted safe passage by the Velaryon ships patrolling the Gullet. At the outbreak of the war, the Sea Snake’s fleet had closed off Blackwater Bay, choking trade to and from the capital.

          As soon as she had dismounted her dragon in the castle yard, she had sensed the eerie ambience that had haunted Harrenhal’s colossal curtain walls and fissured, melted towers. Formidable and dreadful. Harren’s monument and tomb. Blackwing had responded to Caraxes’ fervent shriek with her own, flapping her wings at him. Happy to be reunited.

          Her father had offered her a warm welcome and a tight embrace, had even insisted that she sit on his war council, wherein she had befriended Alysanne Blackwood, whom she had grown quite fond of.

          At last, Visenya had thought, on the morning that Daemon had sent for her. Though she loved him dearly, her father hadn’t invited her there because he had missed his daughter. Visenya had met with Daemon alone, in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths – she had counted thirty-five – grander than the throne room in King’s Landing, the discolored ceiling looming loftily above them. Her father had donned his chain mail over his crimson tunic.

          Does he sleep in that? Or am I the threat?

          ‘Ser Crispin and the Kinslayer are marching on Harrenhal,’ Daemon had informed her, instead of “good morrow”, pressing a rolled parchment into her palm, ‘They mean to join forces with the Lannisters’, at Stoney Sept.’

          Her heart had jolted at the mere mention of his title. Aemond… At the Usurper’s farce of a coronation that the Hightowers had compelled her to attend – dressed in green – Visenya had kissed him farewell, forsaking any glimmer of hope for a future with him. I have demonstrated where my loyalties lie. I have chosen my family.

          Her lilac eyes had skimmed over the scrawled message on the sheepskin, the wax sigil foreign to her. The White Worm?

          ‘You are strangely poised,’ Visenya had observed, suspicious, studying her father’s amused expression.

          ‘I’ve been waiting for this,’ he had confirmed, smirking wickedly, curling his hand around the hilt of sheathed Dark Sister. Another one of his traps… and he’s pulling me into it. Daemon had gently cradled her cheek, purring, ‘I have a mission for you, sweetling.’

EARLY 130 AC

STONEY SEPT, THE RIVERLANDS

          Her host had encamped half a day’s ride from the town, with sufficient provisions for a fortnight. The arduous advance and the muddy soil had wearied men and horses alike, so Visenya had relied on the Greens’ tardiness to provide the respite that they had needed.

          Her dragon had brazenly exploited that ploy – napping during the day and hunting at night, increasing the risk of being discovered. Surpassed by Vhagar in age and size, Blackwing had never been ridden before a seven-year-old Visenya had claimed her. They shared a temper, a wildness, and a fierce devotion to each other. My twin in dragon flesh, Jace would jest.

          ‘You have become too spoiled,’ she had reproved, affectionately, tapping Blackwing’s dark scales, heated to the touch.

          The beast had objected, idly, releasing a guttural noise, smoke rising from its nostrils.

          For five days, her scouts had reported nothing of enemy activity. Her anxieties had continued to fester and to gnaw at her. What if I fail? What if I die? I would condemn my people in vain. And Aemond… What am I to do about him?

          On the sixth day, they had burst into her tent, blurting that the Greens had arrived at Stoney Sept. The maester had quickly dispatched a raven to Prince Daemon, at Harrenhal.

          ‘We attack at dawn,’ Visenya had declared, resolute.

          I’ll do my best, father.

          The fray had been gruesome, stretching for hours upon hours. A thick mist had settled over the Blackwater Rush, impairing visibility. Visenya had been the surprise element, concealing herself to deceive her foes, and striking unexpectedly, in the midst of battle. She had flown on her daunting Blackwing, laying waste to men and reserves indiscriminately, amongst the sounds of steel clashing with steel, shields splintering, arrows whistling, and soldiers screaming as they fought, suffered wounds, and perished. Hundreds of Greens had been engulfed in her dragon’s flames.

          Aemond had been slow to deter the princess. Afraid to face me? Visenya and Blackwing had used the fog to their advantage, climbing higher and higher into the sky – the Kinslayer chasing after them on hoary Vhagar.

          ‘Dracarys!’, she had ordered, and Blackwing had descended on Vhagar, unleashing a cloud of fire that had only incensed the latter.

          The dragons had spun, locked in a vicious struggle of claws and fangs, wings thrashing, until Aemond had suddenly swiveled Vhagar, slamming her into Blackwing. Their deafening roars had pierced the air. The collision had knocked Visenya from her saddle – the searing flames licking at her arm – and had sent her plummeting towards the Blackwater below. Having crashed into the Rush, she had surfaced seconds later, her hefty armor and the river’s currents hindering her endeavors to stay afloat. Visenya had looked up, able to distinguish a faint form lunging at another – the beasts’ screeches reverberating far above.

          Blackwing will not be coming to my rescue.

          Her tribulations hadn’t stopped there. A glimpse at the golden dragon banner of the Pretender, and she had realised that the currents had pushed her in the wrong direction… too late. She had already been spotted by the scouts on the shore, who had alerted their captain. They had aimed their crossbows at her, waiting for the Blackwater to present her to them on a silver platter. I think not.

          Visenya had bitten into the hand of the man who had dragged her out of the water, then she had tossed him into the Rush.

          ‘Cunt!’, the next attacker had bellowed, charging at her.

          Slowed down by her injuries, her movements had been clumsy. Visenya had ducked under his first blow, stumbling to retain her balance. She had unsheathed her sword to parry his second blow, and had driven her blade through his breastplate. She had slashed a guard’s belly, his entrails spilling out. A soldier’s glove had caught her weapon, yanking it from her grasp. Disoriented by a swift welt to the side of her head, Visenya had been tackled to the ground – the impact rendering her breathless. Two fists had savagely pummeled her face, again and again and again – a massive weight crushing her. She had desperately fumbled for her scabbard, had withdrawn her dagger, and had slit her aggressor’s throat. Hot blood had spurted out, blinding her. She had been hoisted to her feet, her dirk wrenched away. Howling with rage and frustration, Visenya had scratched at the man’s eyes with her nails, had kneed another in the groin, and had torn off an archer’s ear with her teeth.

          Alas, she had been one enfeebled person against all of the odds… and a dozen Greens. Her apprehension had been inevitable.

          The capture of the commander had prompted the capitulation of her army. Visenya had been delivered to Ser Crispin in chains, covered in blood, dirt, and grass, braids disheveled, dragonscale armor soaked, body aching, left arm throbbing. I will not quail. Those traitors will receive no such satisfaction from me.

          Attired in the white garments of the Kingsguard, Ser Crispin had been the living depiction of virtue and chivalry. Lickspittle. He had immediately discarded courtesy, referring to her as a “bitch in dragon’s clothing.” In retaliation, Visenya had dubbed him a “sheep in sheep’s clothing”, earning herself a cuff across the face from his steeled gauntlet. Blood had flooded her mouth, her cheek stinging sharply.

          Ser Crispin had further commented that her men had been rather committed to her, alluding that she had fucked them to obtain their service. Every woman is an image of the Mother, to be spoken of with reverence.

          ‘It’s not as high of an honor as warming the Dowager Queen’s bed,’ Visenya had admitted, slyly, and had spat on his boots, ‘Hand of the Usurper. Does he wipe his ass with you?’

          Crispin would have hit her again, had the Prince Regent not intervened. Wary, she had surveyed her surroundings for Vhagar – not in evidence. I might wind up her supper.

          ‘Enough, Cole,’ Aemond had interrupted, solemn, causing Visenya to tense, drawing their attention to where he had been standing, imposing, smeared with ashes and smoke, ‘She may be our prisoner, but she is still a princess, and shall be treated as befits her station.’

          Any shred of scorn had abandoned her, ousted by fear and uncertainty. Her father had foreseen this. If you bend, you will break. Remember who you are. She had inhaled deeply, striving to even her respiration. I am the blood of the dragon, daughter of Queen Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon, and heir to the Iron Throne. I will not cringe for them.

          Aemond had instructed the maids to prepare her a bath and a warm meal, and to fetch her dry clothes. Visenya had grinned, baring her bloody teeth at Ser Crispin, as the guards had led her away. She had been escorted along the smoldering ruins of houses, inns, and brothels, trampling charred corpses – mindful of her step. Carrion crows had circled above, the timid sun peeking from grey clouds. The foul, stifling stench had twisted her stomach, tears needling her eyes. Mine and Aemond’s handiwork. Only the sept, the square, and the trout-shaped fountain had remained intact. When dragons flew to war, everything burned, her mother had warned at the Black Council. What have the people of Stoney Sept done to merit this devastation? What power do they have over their lives? We play our grisly game of thrones, and the commonfolk bear the immeasurable cost.

          The encampment had spread interminably – miles of pavilions, armories, forges, stables, latrines, wagons, and baggage trains – crawling with Greens cussing, mocking, and shouting at captives, pages distributing letters, squires polishing armor, honing weapons, feeding, watering, and combing horses, patrols walking to their posts, smiths hammering boisterously, cooks chopping vegetables, skinning rabbits, disemboweling deer, and roasting boars, giggling washerwomen hurrying by, and maesters ministering to the wounded. The turmoil had imbued Visenya’s senses. Mesmerised, she had watched a wailing, writhing man have his leg amputated, until one of her assigned guardians had shoved her forward.

          She had assumed that Blackwing had flown away… but, having escaped the battle unscathed, and always loyal to a fault, her dragon had landed in the enemy’s camp, razing barracks and roaring ferociously, seeking its rider. After it had mauled the Greens who had attempted to approach it and shackle it, Aemond had begrudgingly permitted Visenya to comfort her feral companion. Blackwing had nuzzled its snout against her, coiling its tail around her, protectively, while Visenya had murmured “lykirī”, caressing its scales – her taut restraints impeding the action. Her chest had constricted agonisingly when the traitors had forcibly separated them. I will return for you, I promise.

          She had been ushered into a vacated chamber, where the maids had obediently unchained her wrists, had removed her armor, had unbraided her hair, and had helped her undress for her bath, evading her glare and her nakedness – scarcely addressing her. What grim tales have they been told about me? Under the ewerers’ supervision, Visenya had washed herself – her uninjured arm vigorously scrubbing her skin with a bar of soap – and had dried off on her own, using cloths and rags. They have taken away my gear. Her indignation dwindling, she had slipped on the plain shirt, brown breeches, pelts, and a pair of flat shoes that they had brought her – tucking her salvaged brooch in her pocket. Is this meant to humble me?

          She had sluggishly eaten her bland yet nourishing food, on a bench, by a candle, goggled at by blushing serving lads.

          Aemond had summoned her to his tent, along with the maesters, who had cleansed her burns, had applied a poultice that had reeked of lavender and vinegar, had bandaged her arm, and had rubbed balms on her cuts, bruises, and split lip. Visenya had endured their ministrations in utter silence, grinding her teeth and clenching her fists. She and Aemond hadn’t exchanged a single word.

          The pavilion had been modest for the Prince Regent, consisting of a firepit, an oaken war table – stripped of its tomes, maps, scrolls, ink, and wax – chairs, rugs, and a featherbed, with books scattered atop it. The colors red and black dominated the tent of a proud and eminent Green, who carried the golden banner of the Pretender. Aemond cannot deny his Targaryen heritage. Had Otto Hightower dyed his locks silver-white and ridden a dragon, he could have sat his ass on the Iron Throne and ruled in his own name. Instead, he urged the King to make my mother his heir, coerced his daughter to seduce him, and installed his grandson on the throne. Puppets upon puppets, plots within plots.

          With the maesters dismissed, Visenya finally had the opportunity to regard Aemond. He hadn’t changed much since she had last seen him, at his brother’s false coronation. In the fire’s light, he had been a sight to behold; the flames illuminating his attractive, distinctive features, his mouth seemingly lodged in a permanent smirk, his eyepatch obscuring his missing eye, his tresses cascading down his back. Aemond had cleaned himself up, shedding his armor – now resting on a rack – for his usual black leather tunic, fastened with a belt that had his sheathed dagger attached to it, and a lengthy coat sewn with fur around the neck. He cast a tall shadow in the pavilion, his posture impeccable. Half dragon, half feline.

          ‘There’s a lack of dresses,’ informs Aemond, obdurately calm, retrieving a flagon of wine and two cups from the servant at the tent’s entrance, ‘And we had to find clothes that would suit you.’

          ‘I gather that there’s some poor stable boy currently running around naked,’ quips Visenya, tugging the pelts around herself.

          Aemond huffs through his nose, amused, and sets one of the goblets on the table, proceeding to fill it with Arbor Red for her. The war evidently hasn’t affected the Usurper’s notorious love of drinking. Lord Redwyne smelled profit, and pledged his support to the Greens, to ensure that their wine supply never dries. An onerous task. The Pretender has ample ambition in that respect.

          ‘Don’t fret,’ assures Aemond, upon heeding Visenya’s skeptical, arched eyebrow, ‘It’s not poisoned.’

          ‘Surely someone spat in it,’ she guesses, convivial, swirling the liquid in her cup.

          Aemond smiles, drinking his wine. Visenya tentatively lifts her goblet to her lips, and sips. Delectable flavors invade her mouth, soothing her nerves – albeit a little. She mulls over her next words… half carefully.

          ‘I reckoned that you and Ser Crispin would share a pavilion,’ she confides, lewdly, crossing one leg over the other, ‘Though your prides would not fit together.’

          Aemond’s gaze darkens, his mouth subtly pressing into a thin line. His disposition could make Mushroom miserable... and it has.

          ‘You could lose your tongue for such insolence,’ he cautions, sternly.

          ‘What’s new?’, suspires an indifferent Visenya, ‘I can write this down as well.’ She pauses to take a swig, then demands, bluntly, ‘Where is Blackwing? And my men?’

          ‘The dragonkeepers are tending her,’ explains Aemond, irritation in his tone, leaving his empty cup on the table, ‘Your men are being questioned.’

          Good fortune. They know nothing. The laughter and singing outside contradict Aemond’s claim. Drunk on victory. A weakness that she could later exploit. If I could reach Blackwing… lest they harm her.

          ‘Blackwing was your companion prior to Vhagar,’ she mentions, heatedly, flexing and unflexing her hand, ‘If you touch her–’

          ‘You are in no position to launch threats, Visenya,’ chastises Aemond, coldly, prodding at the logs with a poker, the wood crackling in the fire, ‘Your treatment depends on my good will. As does your fate. You have my word that Blackwing will not be harmed.’

          ‘The word of a kinslayer,’ spits Visenya, venomously, eyes darting to him, ‘If you are under the impression that minor acts of benevolence shall convince me to talk, you are gravely mistaken. You overestimate my family’s trust in me.’

          ‘They trusted you enough to put you in command of an army four thousand strong,’ reminds an earnest Aemond, ‘And you expect me to believe that you have no knowledge of your twin’s whereabouts?’

          I wouldn’t trade Jace for the Iron Throne. ‘We shared a womb, not a brain,’ she corrects, tracing the rim of her goblet with her digits, contemplating refilling it. I need my wits about me. ‘You are wasting your time, nuncle. Mine, too. Fetch your torturers, and be done with all this bother.’

          ‘I will do no such thing,’ he rebuffs, inclining his head.

          ‘You will torture me yourself?’, asks Visenya, feigning innocence, brushing her loose silver-white hair over her shoulders.

          ‘You are being difficult, Visenya,’ he accuses, exasperated.

          ‘What do you intend to do with me?’, she interjects, involuntarily fiddling with her absent rings, ‘Executing me would be unwise. I presume that you will have my dragon killed, and me delivered to King’s Landing, where your usurper of a brother awaits, warming my mother’s rightful seat… or is he still broken and bedridden, lost in poppy dreams?’

          ‘Mind your tongue, Visenya,’ warns Aemond, louring at her, melting some of her resolve.

          ‘The Clubfoot will probably throw me in a cell and dispatch his floggers to visit me,’ she concludes, scratching her thigh. Stable boy must have had fleas.

          ‘I’m not sending you to King’s Landing,’ announces Aemond, with apparent mirth towards her gesture.

          ‘You will ransom me to my father?’, taunts Visenya, smirking wickedly, ‘He’s the poorest man in the Seven Kingdoms.’ Aemond’s demeanor refutes her insinuation. She continues, all semblance of jest vanishing, ‘You cannot justify keeping me here. Once the Pretender learns about my capture, he will order you to send me to King’s Landing.’

          ‘Aegon does not concern me,’ he grumbles, clasping his hands behind his back.

          ‘Pār ivestragī nyke jikagon,’ she advises, coyly. Aemond hums, musing, a glimmer in his eye that doesn’t indicate outright negation. ‘We are at war, and you allow your feelings to cloud your judgment?’ (Then let me go.)

          ‘Iksi daor rȳ vīlībāzma,’ argues a mild Aemond. (We are not at war.)

          So, you did not slaughter Luke? That’s a consolation. ‘Iksis bona skoro syt emā daor ossēntan nyke?’, inquires Visenya, masking her anger. (Is that why you have not killed me?)

          ‘Killing you would be as imprudent as freeing you,’ he reasons, purposely oblivious, ‘You are worth more alive than you are dead. You lost a fair battle, you surrendered, and now you are my prisoner.’

          ‘I’ve heard stories about how you and Ser Crispin treat your prisoners,’ she disputes, mordant, ‘And I never yielded. You ride the largest dragon in the world. That’s hardly a fair match.’

          Cole and the Usurper’s forces had sacked the port town of Duskendale, putting the ships at the harbor to the torch, hundreds of men, women, and children to the sword, and beheading Lord Gunthor Darklyn for supporting her mother’s cause. Hundreds more had been massacred at Rook’s Rest, where Lord Staunton, too, had been relieved of his head. Besieged by the Greens, he had barricaded himself inside his castle walls, and had requested assistance from the Blacks. With Prince Daemon at Harrenhal, and Queen Rhaenyra griefsick in the aftermath of her son’s murder, command of the Black Council had passed to the Velaryons. Rhaenyra had forbidden her children from answering their ally’s plea, so Princess Rhaenys had flown to Rook’s Rest instead. She and Meleys had fallen in battle against the Pretender, the Kinslayer, and their dragons. Sunfyre had been rendered flightless, the Usurper had suffered severe burns, and Aemond had assumed the title of Prince Regent – to rule in lieu of his older brother.

          Visenya’s side hadn’t fared any greater. A wroth Sea Snake had blamed Rhaenyra for his wife’s demise. Jace had named him Hand of the Queen, to appease him – a measure that Visenya had commended. Better than Ser Crispin.

          ‘You ambushed us,’ reiterates Aemond, incredulous, ‘We would have presented you with terms, to avoid bloodshed.’

          Oh, please. You don’t believe that. ‘Fuck your terms,’ curses Visenya, waving dismissively, ‘I suppose that being twice a kinslayer would have marred the carcass of your reputation.’

          ‘I spared your life,’ he chides, vaguely baleful.

          ‘A clemency that you did not extend to my brother,’ she sneers, bilious, her nails digging into the table’s surface.

          ‘Half-brother,’ deadpans Aemond, promptly.

          ‘If you had to slay your own kin, personally, I would have picked your dear brother, the Pretender,’ proffers Visenya, honeyed.

          ‘Perhaps you should have killed him,’ he retorts, untroubled, ‘You had your chance.’

          Her family had gone to King’s Landing for the Driftmark petition, where her father had created a ghastly spectacle – publicly beheading Vaemond Velaryon for defaming her mother and her brothers. The Targaryen method of solving quarrels. Viserys himself had sat the throne, and had favored Luke as the heir to Driftmark – adhering to the Sea Snake’s wishes.

          Due to his declining health, the King had been the first to retire during the subsequent supper that they had all attended. Visenya hadn’t been surprised by his condition; she had frequented the capital, unlike her parents and her siblings. The gathering had soon turned disastrous. Jace had invited Helaena to dance with him – offending Aegon and Aemond. She is so sweet. Alicent had been evil to marry her off to that cunting demon. None of them deserve her. Visenya herself had danced with Daeron, grinning the entire time. We had once been engaged... I could have loved him. He would have been a dutiful Prince Consort and a doting father to our children. Aemond had toasted to her Velaryon brothers, referring to them as “strong.” Fighting had erupted betwixt her siblings and her uncles, and her father had intervened to break them apart.

          That evening, her family had sailed for Dragonstone, but Aemond had insisted that she stay in King’s Landing with him. Against her better judgment, Visenya had accepted. She ponders whether it had been a ploy of the Greens to take her hostage, and Aemond had simply played his part. Her grandsire had tragically expired overnight – poisoned by the Hightowers, according to her father. Visenya isn’t so certain. He hadn’t required meddling. He had been rotting for decades.

          On the morrow, the Greens had locked her in her chambers. Visenya had refused to swear obeisance to Aegon – had even spat in his face – and to bow at his false coronation. Blackwing and the Princess Rhaenys had come to her rescue – emerging from underneath the Dragonpit on Meleys. Visenya had mounted her dragon, and had addressed the crowd, her voice clear and fierce, laced with fury.

          “People of King’s Landing! The Hand and the Dowager Queen deceive you. King Viserys named my mother the Princess Rhaenyra heir to the throne. For twenty-four years, the succession remained indisputable and unchanged. Rhaenyra is the rightful and lawful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By crowning Aegon, the Hightowers have committed the highest of treasons and have usurped the Iron Throne, violating the King’s will. Aegon shall show you neither kindness nor wisdom. Remember today. Remember that you lived by the mercy of Rhaenys the Queen Who Should Have Been and myself. If the Hightowers do not cease in their treachery and do not bend the knee, I vow to return with fire and blood!”

          Blackwing had roared so intensely that the Conqueror’s crown had been hurled from the Pretender’s head.

          Aemond has the right of it. We could have bathed Aegon in flame, quelled their rebellion then and there.

         On Dragonstone, the news of Viserys’ death and the Hightowers’ betrayal had driven her mother into an early labor. Her father had descended into madness, determined to levy war. Their losses had continuously piled… and the Seven Kingdoms would bear the cost.

          ‘I am no kinslayer,’ snarls Visenya, slighted by the idea, tearing her gaze away from Aemond.

          ‘I made you a generous offer that would have foiled the war,’ he broaches, the grievous memory still raw for him.

          Oh, how could I have displayed such ingratitude? She wouldn’t describe his proposal to marry him and rule together as “generous.” It had been an odious humiliation. Aegon – who had not wanted the throne, declaring himself “unsuited” – would have embarked upon a ship and departed Westeros permanently. The Iron Throne is not his to relinquish. Visenya knows that Aemond has no love for his father, but asking her to usurp her mother’s throne? An audacious affront. She had vehemently spurned him, and they had traded sour words – their prides injured.

          ‘Our families would have started a war to kill us for it,’ drones Visenya, flatly, ‘And what of my parents? They would have never abided by your… solution.’

          ‘They have no consideration for your happiness and welfare, yet you still toil in their service,’ observes Aemond, provocatively.

          ‘And you have?!’, she opposes, her fist slamming on the table, ‘You conspired to usurp the throne and slaughtered my brother, the Princess Rhaenys, and their dragons. You are in no position to launch accusations.’

          ‘Even now, you feel compelled to defend them,’ he comments, dejected.

          ‘Lucerys was my blood!’, snaps Visenya, wrathful, standing from her seat and storming up towards him – stopping a couple of feet in front of him.

          ‘As am I!’, booms Aemond, towering over her, ‘And you have never defended me half as much as you did him! He took my eye when I was but ten, and to even that the imp felt entitled, while you gladly dismissed it as an accident and moved on!’

          Outside, Blackwing and Vhagar grow agitated, shrieking and flitting their wings, stirring the wind. It seemed to Visenya that Aemond had often been harsher on her than he had been on Lucerys. He loves me… or he used to.

          ‘It was an accident,’ she maintains, tamer, ‘We were children. Our parents mishandled everything. I’ve told you numerous times that I profoundly regret what happened to you. It’s the truth. I cannot undo Luke’s actions.’

          It’s been ten years since then, and forgetting the incident has been impossible. Aemond wears the consequences of it on his face, in his daily life. Our unease at the sight of his gash is a small price to pay.

          He had delivered several blows – and had broken Luke’s nose – afore he had been overwhelmed by all five of her siblings, and Lucerys had slashed one of his eyes. Visenya’s absence from the fight had spared her from the interrogation, wherein Rhaenyra had suggested that Aemond be “sharply questioned”, Alicent Hightower had demanded Luke’s eye to compensate for Aemond’s, and Viserys had been eager to abandon his conciliatory obligation. The discord had exposed the personal feud between Rhaenyra and Alicent – their rhetoric diverting from “vile insults were levied against my sons” and “my son has lost an eye” to “duty and sacrifice are trampled under your pretty foot” and “you have been hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.” The Queen had gone so far as to attack the Princess – slitting her arm with the King’s dagger.

          Visenya hadn’t spoken at all – displeasing Aemond and her siblings. To her, matters hadn’t been so absolute. Although Aemond had claimed Vhagar too soon – disrespecting Laena Velaryon’s memory – his assault and maiming had been unwarranted. I love Rhaena dearly, but Vhagar was not stolen. The dragon never belonged to her. Aemond and Vhagar chose each other. Visenya had later communicated her opinions to him, and she had reassured her sister that she would have a dragon.

          The next morning, the Targaryens and the Hightowers had exchanged false courtesies and falser apologies. Her family’s exile to Dragonstone hadn’t prevented Visenya from writing letters to Aemond, Helaena, and Daeron, or from flying on Blackwing to visit them in King’s Landing.

          Alas, the bloody seeds of strife had been sown.

          ‘No, you cannot,’ concurs Aemond, glancing at her lips, ‘No one can. That is why I sought justice for myself.’

          ‘Justice?’, echoes Visenya, disdainful, her glare piercing, ‘Had you had your other eye, you would still be as blind as you are now.’

          Aemond growls, lashing out and grabbing her roughly, their lower bodies pressing together. Visenya glowers at him defiantly, placing her hands on his breast, to preserve some distance betwixt their upper bodies. The effort shoots a jolt of pain along her arm.

          If he meant to scare her, he failed. Aemond would not harm me.

          ‘Hold your tongue, Visenya,’ he exhorts, through gritted teeth.

          ‘Or what?’, she challenges, her face inching closer to his, ‘You will have it removed? You will butcher me as you did my brother?’

          ‘You are brazen, to speak of your half-brother, of my wrongdoings and my crimes,’ berates Aemond, his jaw clenching, ‘What of your family? What of my nephew Jaehaerys?... Iā tresy syt iā tresy. Nyke gīmigon īles aōha kepa.’ (A son for a son. I know it was your father.)

          Aware of what Aemond alluded to, Visenya hesitates, her response withering on her tongue.

          After the tragedy at Storm’s End, a raven from her father had arrived at Dragonstone. An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged. She had deduced that Daemon had hired the assassins who had executed Prince Jaehaerys – the Usurper’s six-year-old heir – with Alicent, Helaena, and the latter’s other children as witnesses. Visenya had confronted him about his heinous deed at Harrenhal. Undaunted, her father had firmly admonished that the “pious one-eyed flea of a traitor who slobbers over you” had slain her brother.

          In retaliation for Jaehaerys, the Pretender had sent Ser Arryk Cargyll to Dragonstone, to assassinate Jace and Joffrey. The knight had entered the castle in his Kingsguard attire, disguised as his twin Ser Erryk – Queen Rhaenyra’s loyalist – whom he had encountered on his way to the royal apartments. By the conclusion of their duel, the two had mortally wounded one another.

          I owe the Hightowers nothing, least of all my sympathy. Children should not be the target of our ire. How do we differ from the Greens if we perpetrate and perpetuate the same crimes that they do?

          ‘Nyke ēdan daorun naejot gaomagon rūsīr bona,’ clarifies Visenya, sincerely, albeit faintly. (I had nothing to do with that.)

          ‘No, you are merely the spectator,’ scoffs Aemond, haughty, ‘Proudly passing judgment while others bloody their hands. You are passive. Passive in your beliefs, your guilt, your love.’

          Visenya blinks against the tears that prick her eyes, her breath hitched. His cruel and bitter words cut deeply, rooted in years of grievances, enmities, neglect, and abuse. Aemond had once been a sweet, innocent boy – her closest friend, her betrothed. He’s the product of his conditions, his upbringing, and his parents’ influence… as am I. Both confined in a prison of our parents’ sins. Perhaps we inevitably inherit the burdens of our forebears.

          Though Visenya may not be the sole reason for his resentment, she is present. Aemond hadn’t blamed her for her family’s actions. He condemned her for not loving him enough. That is unfair. I’m not culpable of that.

          A consuming poison has been dribbling inside of her, on the verge of gushing. Visenya has strayed too near to the edge – now wavering, uncertain whether she wishes to tread the line and unravel the truth. That is not why I am here...

          ... but her decision has already been established.

          The truth is important to me.

          Summoning her courage, Visenya reaches behind Aemond’s head to peel off his eyepatch, lifting the veil between them. I need to see him, so that he cannot deceive me. She tosses the item aside, neither shrinking nor averting her gaze. She caresses his face, drinking him in – his scar, the sapphire in his eye socket, the flesh that had healed crookedly. Aemond tenses, watching her intently, his respiration ragged. His grip on her slackens.

          ‘Gōntan ao ossēnagon zirȳla kesrio syt hen issa?’, murmurs Visenya, circling his wrists, impeding his retreat. (Did you kill him because of me?)

          At the Black Council, Jace and Luke had offered to act as their mother’s messengers, to acquire support for her claim. The twins had been tasked with the difficult mission – negotiating with the Eyrie, the Three Sisters, White Harbor, and Winterfell. Lady Jeyne Arryn would declare for Rhaenyra if dragonriders defended the Vale. Jace and Visenya had met with Lords Borrell and Sunderland at Sisterton, and at White Harbor, they had arranged for Joffrey to marry Lord Desmond Manderly’s youngest daughter.

          The news of Luke’s death had accosted them in the Vale. Visenya had collapsed in Jace’s arms, wailing as her twin had embraced her tightly. She had agonised over her brother’s demise every night, plagued by what she could have done to save him, weeping into a tumultuous sleep. Visenya had never listened to the rumors and the gossip. Lucerys had been her family, her brother, her blood. I fed him, bathed him, read to him, sparred with him, played with him… yet I could not protect him from Aemond.

          She possesses little knowledge of what had occurred betwixt Luke and Aemond at Storm’s End. The weather had been atrocious, her brother’s dragon too small to withstand it. In the following days, bits of Arrax’s carcass had washed up on the shore of Shipbreaker’s Bay. Luke had never been recovered. He may have died a dragonrider’s death, but he had died alone and afraid. Had his demise been slow and painful, or swift and painless? Her brother had sworn on the Seven-Pointed Star that he would not fight – merely deliver the Queen’s message. Aemond had taken no such oath. Had Visenya known, she would have held on to Luke and besought him not to go.

          If I had flown to Storm’s End in his stead, Aemond could have slain me, and my brother would still be alive.

          ‘Daor,’ whispers Aemond, at last. (No.)

          Visenya stifles a sob, tears escaping her eyes, dampening his thumbs. She foolishly believed that her grief would wane. His confession barely scrapes the surface. Visenya feels no relief, no closure. Has she been on an erroneous campaign to absolve herself of any responsibility, to alleviate her own conscience, and to forgive Aemond – chasing these ends to the detriment of Luke’s memory? If I wanted to bring justice to my brother, I would have slit his killer’s throat and let him bleed out on the ground.

          When Aemond succumbs and pulls her into him, Visenya doesn’t resist. The buckles of his tunic are cold and rough against her cheek, contrasting the warmth that he radiates. She releases the exhale that she has been withholding. Her greatest flaw rears its hideous head – a flaw that has sown division amongst her family and has rendered her an outcast. Visenya had suffered for her refusal to forsake her friendship with Aemond, enduring disapproving scowls from her parents, mean jests and malicious accusations from her siblings, and a lack of compassion – all serving to remind her of her tenuous position.

          Her proximity to Aemond had even prompted her mother to spurn her as her heir – arguing that he would undermine her as Queen. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. I am the eldest child. By all rights, the throne should pass to me.

          Shoving those thoughts away, Visenya clutches his sides, sobs wracking her body. Aemond timidly buries his mouth in her locks, breathing in her scent.

          ‘Daor,’ he repeats, definitively, cradling the back of her head. (No.)

          The remainder of her defenses crumble. Visenya loathes that she errs, that she seeks and welcomes comfort from the man who is the source of her sorrow. With the realm plunged into war after Lucerys’ death, there has been no time to mourn – not for her grandsire Viserys, nor her sister Aemma, nor her brother Luke.

          An unavoidable war. We are Valyrian, and prone to violence. A testament to power corruption. Prior to the blood magic, the dragons, and the conquests, Valyrians had been a peaceful community of shepherds. They had become increasingly tyrannical and ambitious as their power had soared. The peak of our Freehold… and its ruin. Forewarned about the Doom by Daenys Targaryen’s prophetic dream, her forebears had fled to Dragonstone – a venture that the other, unsuspecting dragonlords had considered cowardice and had ridiculed. We had the last laugh.

          Targaryens have always been stubborn, passionate, fierce. Visenya is no exception. Despite their families’ hopes and despite his crimes, her love for Aemond hasn’t dwindled. Their bond is too strong, their souls and fates entwined. I am the blood of the dragon. Nobody dictates whom I love.

          And love is seldom simple.

          Aemond brushes his lips over her temple, causing her skin to tingle. Visenya lifts her eyes to meet his, and recognises the same ache and longing that lay dormant inside her. Affection blooms in her chest. She could stop this from flourishing, spare them both the misery. As children, they had found solace in each other’s company whenever their families had been the reason for their anguish, so they had promised to never hurt one another.

          A part of Visenya still yearns to love Aemond freely. Must her logic always be at odds with her emotions? The only man that I have ever desired, and I have been deprived of him my entire life. I have never been in control. The forbidden aspect merely furthers the appeal of the dalliance. She wants to surrender to the temptation, repercussions be damned.

          Visenya traces his mouth with her fingertips, reverently, and strokes his face – recommitting it to memory. Aemond leans into her touch, reveling in the gesture, his respiration shallow. The tips of their noses graze against each other. He wipes her tears before his digits fall on the sides of her neck, feeling her quickening pulse under the pads of his fingers. Aemond’s eye gleams with lust, igniting the same blaze within her. She peers at him from underneath her lashes, drowning in the depths of his blue eye. A shiver runs down her spine. Her lips tremble in suspense, the proximity making her dizzy.

          Aemond dips his head to capture her mouth in a tentative kiss. Visenya surges upwards to reciprocate, inhaling sharply through her nose, eyes slipping shut. Their lips mold together, their flame rekindled. His large, calloused hands grip her jaw, to guide her. She splays her hands over his chest, fisting the lapels of his coat, desperate to draw him closer. Visenya parts her lips, granting him entrance, tasting the lingering flavor of the wine that they had shared earlier. A familiar ardor seeps into her belly, immersing her body. Her fire has burned quietly for too long. Now, it has stirred again, emboldened to emerge.

          Aemond sinks his teeth into her bottom lip, splitting it and sucking the blood, famished. Visenya groans, her breath blowing the loose strands of hair that cover his forehead. Her knees weaken, and she grasps his shoulders for support, grateful that he wraps his arm around her middle. Her pelts land on the floor. Aemond steps forward, backing her into the table, and hoists her on it impetuously.

          Aemond kindly adjusts his belt, to remove the dagger betwixt them. The irony isn’t lost on Visenya. She spreads her legs, inviting, allowing him to settle between them. He sprawls over her, caging her in, his heavy weight almost crushing her against the table’s rigid, uncomfortable surface. His silky hair cascades around her head, framing his face, conferring a strange sense of privacy. Visenya peppers delicate pecks over his chin, continuing along his jaw, her digits prodding at his smooth neck.

          She fervidly awaits a kiss that never comes. Aemond hums affably, his arrogant smile shooting to her core. Their breaths mingle, his hands traveling up and down her sides with modest curiosity. Visenya huffs in exasperation, and shifts, ticklish, the heels of her feet digging into his ass. Her thumb catches his lower lip, pressing into it. Aemond holds her gaze, parting his lips enough to engulf her thumb. He swirls his tongue over it afore sucking on it gently. She watches him, captivated, her mouth slightly agape.

          The knot in her belly snaps, her patience having thinned, ousted by resolve. She pushes him off, so she can sit up, impelling him to stand. Aemond obliges without objection. Visenya hooks her fingers in his belt, to bring him nearer, and deftly unbuttons his tunic, revealing his bare chest – inch by inch. She drinks in the sight, caressing his glistening skin. The intolerable heat induces sweat to drip betwixt her breasts and to trickle down her spine.

          She leans in, only for Aemond to jerk his head away and deny her another kiss – the tip of her nose bumping against his cheek. He smirks, conceited, despite his ruddy complexion. Visenya gnashes her teeth, intent on retribution. Straightening her body, and looping her uninjured arm around Aemond, she licks his earlobe and bites it softly, eliciting a growl from him. He squeezes her hips in silent warning, and sneaks a hand under her shirt, to fondle her breast and pinch her nipple until it stiffens. Visenya moans, hushed, her head lolling back into her shoulders.

          Aemond rests his free hand on the base of her throat, his digits winding around it, lips latching onto her exposed neck. Visenya suppresses her whine, the air deserting her lungs. He incessantly strokes her bosom, his teeth abusing the sensitive skin of her neck. She drops her arms – mindful of her wounds – one hand surrounding his wrist, her other fumbling, blindly cupping his hardened member through his breeches. A salacious grunt rolls out of Aemond’s mouth, filling the tent.

          His fingers release her throat to tangle in her tresses, and yank, his hips grinding against hers, creating friction. He withdraws his lips from her, and tugs her hand away, his other hand raking down her abdomen. Her chuckle turns into a gasp as Aemond languidly rubs the wet area between her legs, his breath fanning her face. Visenya relishes in the waves of pleasure enveloping her body, her spine arching, though her soaking cunt clenches around nothing. She heaves her thighs higher, hugging his waist – lest he dare pull away from her.

          A metal item pokes at her thigh.

          My brooch.

          Visenya peels her eyes away from him, scrambling to salvage her composure. Aemond ceases his ministrations. He raises her chin with his thumb and forefinger, coaxing her to look at him. Her heart stutters, her vision bleary beneath his suffocating leer. The clouds in his eye have cleared… or he conceals them well. Their lips crash in a frantic kiss – her veins aflame, scalding. He swallows her wanton moan, kneading the flesh of her ass. Aemond cannot fool me. A constant tempest festers within him, ravenous for blood and revenge. Visenya would never be able to tame it. Nothing would.

          Numbing remorse smothers her fire. She had forgotten herself and her loyalties. She breaks the kiss, tasting ashes on her tongue. His mouth chases hers, his hand curling around the nape of her neck, to reunite their lips. Aemond bends her back, cradling her against him – the pressure on her shoulder tearing a whimper from her. He lays a tender, apologetic kiss there. Her digits slide into his locks, thwarting him. Visenya stares at the shadows dancing across the ceiling of the pavilion – Aemond’s head pillowed on her breasts.

          What am I doing? Where am I going? With him? Distant limbs envelop her, lips ghosting over her skin. He licks a stripe up the column of her throat and nips at it, nuzzling his nose against her neck. I would never betray my family. I cannot have both Aemond and the Iron Throne. The dream is over. Bury it, and crawl out of this bottomless pit of vipers.

          He has been stretching seconds into minutes, delaying the inevitable, but he cannot stop it. The die has been cast.

          ‘Aemond, wait,’ pants Visenya, her own voice foreign to her, her nails clawing at his back, ‘We cannot. I am–’

          ‘Betrothed?’, deadpans Aemond, cocking his head to peek at her, crimson lips swollen, hair and clothes disheveled, ‘I’m aware. Your half-brother told me, at Storm’s End.’

          Her heart leaps into her throat, yet Visenya falters, preferring to disregard his comment and its implications. If Aemond and Lucerys had exchanged insults – and her brother had mentioned her betrothment – it might have incited the former to attack the latter. A door best left shut.

          ‘Lord Stark is a good man–’

          ‘Have you sunk so low?’, criticises Aemond, reproach etched on his features, ‘You are a Targaryen princess, the blood of Old Valyria. Dragons do not mate with other beasts, and we do not consort with lesser men.’

          Visenya blinks in incredulity, scanning his face for any indication of pretense. He has been collecting dangerous beliefs. Undoubtedly the result of Ser Crispin’s and Alicent Hightower’s influence. King Viserys had been too neglectful to bear any blame in that respect. He’s overly culpable in innumerable other matters.

          ‘If I have sunk low, I do not wish to imagine what hell you wander in,’ she retorts, dour, shoving him away, her lower back pressing against the edge of the table, ‘I do not require lessons on our heritage. Valyria is gone. I do not adhere to the Doctrine of Exceptionalism, nor do I delude myself about our superiority. According to this logic, your Westerosi mother is lesser. Everybody has their history and their pride. The Starks are the blood of the First Men, descendants of Bran the Builder. Cregan is my equal, and I will not bring him dishonor. You once said something similar to me, when we were younger.’

          Visenya purposely omitted that Cregan would have taken additional offence if Aemond – a usurper and a kinslayer – had been her choice of paramour. Following the annulment of her betrothment to Aemond, she had snuck into his bedchamber, and had urged him to claim her maidenhood. It would have compelled our parents to marry us to each other. He had adamantly refused, reiterating that he would dishonor her by doing so. Visenya wonders whether his consent would have changed the tide, whether he rues his decision now… were he capable of it.

          ‘I remember,’ mutters Aemond, cupping her cheeks, brushing his nose against hers, ‘Yn īlon issi daor riñar dombo.’ (But we are not children anymore.)

          ‘No, we are not,’ she assents, doleful, undeterred by his lingering lips on her forehead, ‘I am a woman grown, my mother’s daughter, and I vowed to marry Cregan. My word is not fickle. A foreign concept to you and your family.’

          She had suggested the match herself, on Dragonstone, prior to hers and her brothers’ departure. Supposing that the Queen’s appeal failed to persuade Lord Stark to pledge the North to their cause, Visenya would offer her hand in marriage.

          The memory of beholding Cregan for the first time still exhilarates her. She had been climbing down from Blackwing while Jace had approached Lord Stark, to greet him. Cloaked in furs, he had been an imperious presence – tall, brawny, handsome, graced with grey eyes, dark, wavy locks that cascaded to his shoulders, and a dense beard. His gaze had frequently drifted towards her. Jace had suavely introduced her, and Cregan had curtsied, addressing her as “princess.” Visenya had answered with “my lord” – her smile timid, her eyes wicked.

          The harsh weather hadn’t spoiled the northern capital’s beauty, magnificent structures, and rich culture. The twins had received a warm welcome at Winterfell, amidst the winter preparations, and Lord Stark had been a most hospitable host, entertaining his guests with drinking, sparring, and hunting trips in the wolfswood. Visenya had mingled with the commonfolk, conversing with them, helping them with their errands, and teaching their children how to read and write. Cregan had often watched her, fondly, from afar. Some servants had been intimidated by her appearance and her station, stammering through their responses. She had instructed them to simply call her “Visenya.”

          Whenever his duties had permitted, Cregan had accompanied her on walks around the castle, to the library, the ancient godswood and its hot springs, and the disturbing crypt that had contained the tombs of the deceased members of House Stark. His direwolf Splinter had ambled after them everywhere. They had discussed history, politics, trade, and their families, and had comforted one another in their grief, as Cregan’s wife had recently perished in childbirth. He had even confessed that Jace had reminded him of the brother that he had lost more than a decade ago. She had met his sweet babe Rickon, whom she had doted on. Cregan had bestowed upon Blackwing the highest distinction, deeming her a “formidable beast” – with his habitual morose disposition. Visenya had become besotted with him, regarding him as virtuous, conscientious, tenacious, and reputable.

          By the end of the twins’ stay in Winterfell, the Pact of Ice and Fire had been formed, whereby Visenya would wed Lord Stark, and the North would side with Queen Rhaenyra. He had forged a direwolf brooch for her, and she had gifted him one of her rings, to wear it as a necklace. Cregan and Jace had sworn an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood.

          ‘You sold yourself to a wolf pup so that you may rally his army to your mother’s cause, and you boast about honor,’ accuses Aemond, scornful, satisfied that he discerns her imagined act, ‘Twas a different kind of sword that you required.’

          Sold myself? Visenya’s mouth twists downwards, her latent, crude contempt quivering. Blackwing rattles her shackles, screeching viscerally. He views me as property. I paid my price in kindness and youthful promises, so I am constrained into being his property. I have no freedom, no intuition, no capacity for judgment. I am a frail puppet dancing on my family’s strings, dependent on Aemond to rescue me. He would rather I were a fly in his web. What sort of person expects me to fulfil the vows that I uttered as a child?

          ‘Cregan would have honored his late father’s word,’ she contends, smoothing her garments, heedless of Aemond’s eye roaming over her body, ‘Lord Rickon Stark swore an oath in the throne hall, and acknowledged my mother as King Viserys’ heir. All of the Westerosi lords did, great and small.’

          Upon his lord father’s death, Cregan had inherited Winterfell at the age of thirteen, so his uncle Bennard had ruled as regent until his nephew had reached manhood. Bennard’s reluctance to relinquish power had spurred Cregan to imprison him and his three sons. Akin to Queen Rhaenyra’s plight, his kinsman had attempted to supplant him. Lady Jeyne Arryn – Queen Aemma’s cousin – had thrice endured uprisings that had contested her inheritance of the Eyrie.

          A hereditary curse. A woman’s curse. In this world of men, we women must band together.

          ‘Over twenty years have passed since then,’ specifies Aemond, shrugging blithely, ‘Most of those lords are dead, including the wolf pup’s father. Bones are all that is left of them and their vows.’

          Pup. A peculiar term to use for Cregan – a man older than they are. Aemond’s vanity confirms that, to the Greens, King Viserys’ succession amounts to nothing. Their cause is false – founded on quicksand, conspiracy, and murder – and they bury themselves deeper and deeper into an abyss of lies and treachery.

          ‘They represented their Houses and spoke on their behalf,’ corrects Visenya, her shoulders slumping from the sheer absurdity of having to explain this, ‘Enlighten me, nuncle. How does your situation differ from mine? Are you not betrothed to one of Borros Baratheon’s daughters for her father’s troops? Or is it all four daughters? I have heard varied accounts.’

          The illiterate Lord of Storm’s End – another traitor responsible for Luke’s demise. Her brother Joffrey had sworn a terrible oath of vengeance against him and the Kinslayer. The Velaryons had prevented Joff from instantly mounting his dragon Tyraxes to exact revenge. Would I have done the same? He is merely a boy, too young to know such hatred and grief. He and Rhaena are in the Vale, out of harm’s way. Willful Baela remains on Dragonstone, to fight by Jace’s side. Aegon and Viserys, the youngest, are with them. We must ensure their safety, else the war will strip them of their innocence… and their lives.

          Dragonstone, Harrenhal, Winterfell, the Vale, King’s Landing, Stoney Sept… My family is divided. If only I could protect them all…

          ‘I did what was asked of me,’ defends Aemond, forlorn, resting their foreheads together, ‘I never intended to wed her.’ He adds, his words scattered among hasty, consecutive kisses, ‘We have always agreed that we would marry one another. I have neither forgotten, nor forsaken that. I want you.’

          ‘I thought that we were not children anymore,’ she echoes, shrewd, bending to retrieve her discarded pelts, ‘Our parents annulled our betrothment years ago. You would have us marry without your mother’s blessing? I value my well-being, even if you do not.’

          ‘You are mistaken,’ coos Aemond, holding her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles, her palm, her inner wrist, ‘It’s not too late. There’s still a chance for us.’

          Visenya had once shared that sentiment. He lives in the past, clinging to it, misconstruing it. Matters betwixt them would never be the same – a truth that he hasn’t accepted. I would have waited for him... Aemond had usurped the throne and had slain her brother. Now, he hopes to abuse her clemency. What stops him from mistreating her, from hurting her? Why must I always be patient and compassionate? Why must I always forgive and forget? What will I gain from it? Aemond? It’s not enough. His redemption is a prolonged, tedious endeavor that she will not partake in.

          I’m severing my noose.

          ‘A chance?’, snarls Visenya, in conjunction with Blackwing’s shrieks, ‘Is that what you offered my brother when you unleashed Vhagar on him?’ She folds her arms over her chest, her furs caught between them. ‘You have already spilled my blood. I will not present you with a chance to do it again. Aye, I once wanted to marry you. A summer dream of summer children. Winter is coming.’

          Ripping the cord that binds her to Aemond will be excruciating, like slashing a part of herself. He is the thorn lodged in her side, her twin flame, his scent and touch imprinted on her, haunting her asleep and haunting her awake. The only power I wield over him is denying him myself.

          ‘You have returned to threats,’ chides Aemond, buttoning his tunic, visibly irritated by her usage of the House Stark words, ‘Parroting words that are not your own, chirruping tales that others have stuffed your head with, like a little bird.’

          ‘‘Tis not a threat, beloved,’ purrs Visenya, woven with venom, savoring his indignation, ‘It is a fact. The maesters of the Citadel will release the white ravens soon, to announce its arrival.’

          She had witnessed the foreboding signs with her own eyes, at Winterfell – the resplendent snow, the howling winds, the bitter cold. Winter is upon us… and we are vying for the throne.

          ‘‘Tis also a fact that your wolf pup has a wolf pup of his own,’ jeers Aemond, donning his eyepatch, ‘A son whom he fathered on another wench. A son who will inherit Winterfell and all of its attendant lands, titles, and incomes. A vile indignity, a humiliation, to you and your brood. You would submit to a puny northern savage, as his second wife?’

          Puny northern savage? Innovative.

          “Our children will sit the Iron Throne,” Visenya had told Cregan in the godswood, with the snow floating around them, piling in thick layers on the ground, the trees, and the castle walls. I kissed the snowflakes on his lashes, and they melted on my lips. Her heart flutters at the memory. My sullen wolf. She longs for him more than she can express.

          Would that appease Aemond? Nothing would. He has become spiteful. “Wench.” Lady Arra of House Norrey had been Cregan’s late wife and cherished childhood companion. She had dismally died birthing Rickon. I will not debate Cregan’s family with Aemond, a jealous craven threatened by suckling babes.

          ‘Rickon is an innocent babe,’ reasons Visenya, hugging herself, suddenly feeling naked without her armor, ‘Aye, he is the heir to Winterfell, and no threat to me. I will not set my children against their brother, nor will I encourage them to steal his birthright. I am not your mother.’

          And, oh, how you despise that…

          ‘I suppose that you will be no threat to him, either, should you die in childbirth,’ ventures Aemond, elated at the notion, his eye shimmering in the light of the flames, ‘And your wolf pup would be twice widowed.’

          Visenya lashes out, striking him so viciously across the face that his head whips to the side. Blackwing’s mighty roars rumble outside. Aemond doesn’t even blench.

          She had never hit him before. If he is startled or enraged by the assault, he masks it – devoid of any emotion. Visenya quashes the temptation to shout at him, to call him a dog, a pig, a rat. He is beneath these creatures. He has no conscience, and his cruelty is boundless. Her grandmother Queen Aemma and her aunt Laena had both expired in childbed. Her sister had been stillborn. What does Aemond know about the perils and throes of women? Nothing.

          I could flee, go anywhere but here... Her flesh crawls. I’m his captive in so many ways. Briny tears well in her eyes.

          Tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          ‘Do you love the wolf pup?’, challenges Aemond, his demeanor impassable, though she distinguishes a crack in his frigid tone.

          And if I do? You would flay him alive, and force me to watch. The question of Visenya’s suitors continues to be intricate and contentious. The Disputed Lands of Westeros. She had been engaged to Aegon, to Aemond, and to Daeron, and had been courted by Westerosi Houses, Essosi princes, triarchs, archons, nobles, magisters, merchants, and generals. The Red Kraken would have made me his salt wife. Visenya had rejected all of them. Adulterers and drunkards old enough to be my grandsires and fat enough to crush me beneath them.

          Rhaenyra had been sympathetic to her daughter’s predicament; she herself had initially opposed marriage. My mother had been younger than I am when she had birthed me and Jace. Visenya shudders at the thought. Her father hadn’t been concerned, confiding that she could wed out of duty and fuck whomever she pleased. Men always do so. Why shouldn’t I? Her twin had convinced her that she would find a suitable pair, to her liking. Jace had the right of it. I chose Cregan, and he chose me. She touches her brooch through her trousers. I’m assuming control of my life and my future.

          ‘I will,’ declares Visenya, seething, jutting her chin, ‘He is neither a usurper, nor a kinslayer. Cregan is worth a thousand of you, and more.’

          ‘Yet you delay marrying him, and the wolf pup delays assembling his banners and marching,’ admonishes Aemond, his reddened cheek beginning to swell, ‘Perhaps you are not as devoted to each other as you think you are.’

          A surrounded animal, slinging its final, pitiful blows. Her wolf’s motives for not marching had been warranted. He awaits the collection of the harvest, so that he can feed his subjects throughout the winter. The Southrons seal themselves in their castles with their bountiful harvests, whereas the Northerners bear the brunt of the burden – snow, frost, famine, death. Cregan’s obligations lie with his people and his lands.

          As for herself, Visenya prefers to marry him during peace and stability. He could mourn his wife properly, and he would not be widowed again, if I were to… to…

          ‘His Winter Wolves are at the Twins,’ she states, noting Aemond’s mouth twitching, ‘They have joined their forces with the Freys’, and will resume their advance south. They are merely a fraction of the North’s strength. I assure you. Cregan will honor his vow.’

          She had wept upon reading Lord Roderick Dustin’s words to Lady Sabitha Frey. We have come to die for the dragon queen. Cregan had taught Visenya about the Winter Wolves – elderly men who leave their homes in order to conserve supplies for their kin. Grisly custom. Those warriors hope to die for glory and plunder. They will never reunite with their families. Wretched conditions, wretched measures.

          Aemond must have observed a spark in her eyes, heard something amiss in her voice that aroused his suspicion.

          ‘What have you done, Visenya?’, he demands, narrowing his eye, fixing her with a hawkish glare.

          I fucked the wolf pup. And Alyn Velaryon… Not both at the same time. She had befriended Alyn and his older brother Addam shortly after hers and Jace’s return from Winterfell. Her twin had summoned Targaryen bastards – “dragonseeds” – for the riderless dragons, promising wealth, lands, and knighthood for those triumphant. Addam’s feat of claiming Seasmoke had emboldened the Sea Snake to petition Queen Rhaenyra to legitimise the Hull boys. Conveniently, their mother Marilda had revealed that they had been sired by Ser Laenor Velaryon. And Mushroom is seven feet tall. My stepfather had no interest in women. Lord Corlys had proceeded to name Addam his heir.

          Alyn, however, had been less fortunate. Sheepstealer had bathed his cloak in flames. His brother had doused the fire, saving his life. At least Grey Ghost had vanished. Those had been wild dragons. Alyn is lucky to be alive. Grand Maester Gerardys had tended his burns, and Visenya had changed his bandages thrice a day – delighting in his insolence. The habit had blossomed into clumsy intimacy. She had seldom stayed the night – a decision that hadn’t troubled Alyn. He never judged me. Visenya misses him; his jests, his smile, his company.

          A furious Jace had reprimanded his twin for her recklessness and temerity, arguing that Cregan was a good man, a second chance – everything that she had ever dreamed of. Her involvement with Alyn could compromise their indispensable alliance with the North. Visenya had listened to his warning, remorse slithering around her throat.

          I have been remiss… but Alyn is only a matter of brevity. I have to tread prudently.

          ‘I do as I please,’ she asserts, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips, ‘Do not fret, cousin. Cregan treated me well and was most gentle with me… the first time.’

          Her admission slices him to the bone. Aemond’s expression sinks, desolation flooding his eye. A child looks at her, into her, agony engraved on his features. Have I been too austere? Spoken too harshly? He had betrayed her trust, had usurped the throne, and had murdered her brother. My sins pale in comparison.

          Aemond recoils, turning away from her, his head lowered. His fists clench at his sides. The table behind her shakes at Vhagar’s menacing growl. Visenya maintains her composure, sheathing herself in steel. I will not cow. I am the blood of the dragon.

          And I will not regret Cregan.

          While she hadn’t lacked for suitors, those men had sought to marry her out of pride and ambition. My Targaryen heritage brings their House closer to the Iron Throne, and my dragon is power.

          She had proposed to Cregan that she would willingly surrender her maidenhood to him, as a token of her intention to wed him. Fighting a war a maiden seems particularly dreadful. Should anything befall her, Cregan wouldn’t feel cheated or insulted – he would have claimed her gift of innocence.

          I lost my innocence long ago.

          Visenya hadn’t abused her station to compel him to lie with her. She wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t desired her.

          “I would be,” her wolf had responded, earning a chuckle from her.

          Two nights – and numerous fiery kisses – later, he had accepted her offer. A timorous ardor had washed over Visenya, her heart hammering against her rib cage. Cregan had led her out of the godswood, past the hot springs, the main iron gate with its walls, across the inner yards, into the castle, and up the winding stairs – retreating to his solar, where they had shared half a flagon of wine. He had kindly asked her if she had been nervous.

          No. I am a Targaryen princess, a dragonrider… and the wine soothed my nerves.

          Their intimate moments had been sweet, passionate, exhilarating. Visenya remembers them so vividly. His large hands cupping her face, disrobing her with deft precision, caressing and fondling every inch of her. His darkened eyes reveling in her figure. Cregan lifting her into his arms as though she weighed nothing, laying her down on the bed. His tongue licking her stiffened nipples, his mouth sucking on her plump breasts. Her fist stroking his leaking cock, guiding him into her heat slowly. Cregan swallowing her soft whine when entering her, the stretch burning deliciously. The overwhelming need to hold him nearer. Wrapping her limbs around him as he vigorously thrust into her, the featherbed engulfing her. The chambers brimming with their moans, gasps, and the lascivious sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin. Cregan intertwining their fingers, Cregan driving her to the heights of pleasure, Cregan spilling his seed inside her, blending with her maiden’s blood.

          Slick pools between her legs, and Visenya squeezes her thighs shut, salivating at the memory.

          He had collapsed on top of her, and – at her insistence – had lied there, panting, his face buried in her neck, his beard tickling her. An equally breathless Visenya had threaded her digits through his damp hair, pecking his cheek and his temple. Cregan had rolled off of her, grunting at the effort, and had pulled her into him, allowing her to rest her head on his chest, and to hook her leg over his. Her wolf had attentively inquired whether he had hurt her.

          “Not at all,” she had murmured, demure, draping her arm over him, their combined fluids trickling on her groin, “You have been so good to me.”

          Visenya had drifted off to sleep in his safe embrace, lulled by his heartbeat and his snores. His body had been a hearth underneath the pelts. I am the blood of the dragon, allured by warmth and fire.

          She and Cregan had spent most evenings together – to the dismay of his bed. Days had been dedicated to duties, negotiations, and furtive glances, nights for themselves and for each other; for raw lust, hushed laughter, and the solace that they had been starved of; for their satiation and contentment. Her loins had often ached by the next morning. A good ache.

          Cregan had even taken her in the godswood, under a starry sky, before the heart tree, following their sword sparring. Afterwards, he had suggested that they retire to his solar.

          ‘To sleep?’, questioned Visenya, coyly, tangling their feet together.

          ‘If that is what the princess wants,’ granted her wolf, amiably.

          ‘The princess wants you,’ she mumbled, nestling against him, their clothes and furs providing scant shelter from the cold.

          ‘She has me,’ vouched Cregan, carding his fingers through her locks, ‘All of me.’

          Oh, yes. He has had me in the sight of the old gods, and I have bled for him. Targaryens have always had a grievously deep connection to blood. It’s one of our House’s words. Our forebears used blood magic to bind the winged beasts to them. We cut ourselves and drink each other’s blood in the marriage ceremony. We practice incest to ensure the purity of our bloodline. The blood of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Blood unites, and blood divides.

          Their stealthy meetings might not have been shrouded in such secrecy. Jace had dared to tease Visenya about the marks that he had glimpsed on her throat. She had thrown a snowball at him, hitting him in the nose.

          ‘Locking myself in a castle is more appealing than waging war against my own kin,’ admitted Visenya, in an instance of fragility, atop one of Winterfell’s towers.

          ‘You’re not destined to hide in a castle,’ proponed Cregan, petting Splinter, basking in the sun – reminiscent of their early mornings abed. I would trace the lines of his back, the scars on his chest, admire his naked form as he opened the shutters… ‘Your hair is akin to the snow around us, your eyes the color of the sunset sky. Why would nature make you so lovely, if not to behold you and to reflect on you? The sun must see you to shine, the moon to glow.’

          Visenya tore her gaze away from him, misty-eyed.

          Her Valyrian appearance had protected her from japes about being a Strong bastard. Is that term so preposterous? My parents hadn’t been married at my birth. I had borne the name Velaryon for a decade. People had viewed her as a Myrish carpet – to be gaped at – and had treated her like a stud-mare, to be bought, owned, and mounted to produce sons – her beauty a mere instrument to that end. Devious motives behind hollow adulation.

          ‘You are gracious, my lord,’ rasped Visenya, flustered, the gossip of the commonfolk below muffling her answer slightly, ‘I am flattered.’

          ‘I have spoken the truth,’ affirmed Cregan, tipping her chin up, coaxing her to peer at him, ‘You are meant to be kissed.’

          ‘By you,’ she assented, his gloved digits wiping her tears, delicately.

          On the day of the dragon twins’ departure from Winterfell, Vermax and Blackwing had been impatient to leave the North and its freezing temperatures. Visenya hadn’t shared their zeal. I’m not a little girl anymore. The winds of winter are rising. There is a war to be fought and won.

          “Come back to me,” her wolf whispered to her, their joined hands concealed in their cloaks and pelts.

          I will.

          Aemond’s subtle movements wrest her to the present.

          We’re at war with the Greens. I’m a prisoner at Stoney Sept, in the Pretender’s camp. My Cregan is leagues away.

          I must not forget my mission.

          Aemond’s insidious posture betrays him, his shoulders on the brink of crumbling under the burden of his pride and envy.

          ‘A dragon rendered a broodmare by a wolf pup,’ he chastises, repulsed, his features drawn into solemn lines, ‘Have you spread your legs for his army, too? I wouldn’t be surprised, given your taste for depravity.’

          Visenya refrains from guffawing, albeit with great difficulty. Oh, may the Crone’s lantern light my path to wisdom, and may the Father judge me justly, and may the Mother show me mercy, for I am a filthy wanton, and Lord Stark does possess a generous… host.

          ‘I would rather be his broodmare than be your wife,’ she spits, defiant, baring her teeth, ‘The wolf pup is Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.’ And you are insufferably obtuse. ‘He and his bannermen will liberate me, should the Winter Wolves and the river lords fail to do so, and should you yourself refuse to release me. Are you so mad that you would oppose the might and wrath of the entire North?

          ‘I have heard enough about your wolf pup,’ announces Aemond, his nostrils flaring, ‘He has dishonored you. Perhaps I ought to march on his bleak castle, after I seize Harrenhal.’

          You ought to dress up in motley. Visenya shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her brow creased. The Hightowers must have abandoned their wits putting him in charge. Aemond is utterly inept. Their Lannister friends will find trouble at the Red Fork, and he will never take Harrenhal from my father.

          ‘Your men are unlikely to survive the muds of the riverlands, whose lords have unanimously declared for my mother,’ argues Visenya, twirling a lock of her hair around her forefinger, ‘I doubt that they will endure the dire conditions of the North… also pledged to Queen Rhaenyra.’

          ‘I have Vhagar,’ reminds Aemond, his arrogance oozing like pus.

          ‘And what of it?’, she hisses, squinting her eyes, ‘You would torch the North, from the Neck to the Wall, on hoary, old Vhagar? Tens of thousands would perish.’

          Despite rivaling the combined size of the other kingdoms, the North is scarcely populated. Their lives, lands, history, and culture matter all the same.

          ‘Your wolf pup amongst them, if the gods are good,’ drones Aemond, looping his digits through his belt.

          ‘Cregan will die of old age, in my arms,’ corrects Visenya, keeping her furled fists at her sides, lest she strike him again, ‘You cannot vanquish the North. It is too vast and too wild. The Neck is impenetrable, filled with swamps and bogs. Moat Cailin is a choke point, and it has shielded the North from southron invasions for millennia. This is folly, Aemond. It will be your doom.’

          Then why am I trying to dissuade him?

          ‘Or on the contrary, the glory will be mine,’ boasts Aemond, his permanent smirk bolstering his confidence, ‘Those savages might dare to resist me, but in the end, they will pose a minor obstacle. Aegon the Conqueror brought the North to its knees.’

          ‘Because King Torrhen Stark bent the knee after the Field of Fire, to avoid bloodshed,’ objects Visenya, scowling, ‘Do not attempt to revise history. Ours will not redeem you. The kinslayer is accursed in the eyes of gods and men. The lickspittles that buzz around you will never be sincere, so I will bestow the truth upon you. You are cruel, despicable, and you nurse a grievance like a suckling babe. You are not Aegon the Conqueror. You are a prideful fool playing at war.’ You’re not good at it, either. ‘And winter is coming. That is the truth.’

          ‘The truth?’, repeats Aemond, creeping up on her, his eye boring into hers – a predator scenting its prey, ‘What do you know of the truth, Visenya? You lie and deceive and plot with every breath that you draw. You are a traitor to the realm, daughter of traitors, sister of traitors. You chose the Iron Throne over me.’

          You chose for me.

          ‘My mother is the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,’ she pronounces, her smile ominous, ‘The only traitor here is you, nuncle. You cower from the truth, and you retain it from everyone.’ Visenya tiptoes, and their lips almost touch. ‘You are looking with the wrong eye. Perhaps you will have to close the other to finally see.’

          Aemond cups her face roughly, pressing her against the table.

          ‘Your mother will never sit the Iron Throne,’ he sneers, ‘And neither will you. She still spurns you as her heir, but I vow to pay you the homage that you so desperately crave, and to lavish you with precious gifts – the heads of your family, your betrothed, and your stepson. They shall decorate the spikes of the Red Keep–’

          Visenya swiftly yanks his dagger from his belt. Aemond seizes her wrist too late. The tip of the blade digs at the underside of his chin.

          ‘Enough, Aemond!’, bellows Visenya, and for a moment, she is her ferocious Blackwing incarnate, ‘Are you deaf, as well as blind? You have usurped the throne, murdered my brother, and butchered hundreds of innocents. Your actions have consequences. Heed my words, for the love that you claim to bear me.’ She drags the point of the dirk down to the base of his throat, nicking him. ‘You will not make me an orphan and a widow. You are surrounded by enemies in every direction, and more are gathering as we speak. We have the armies, the fleet, the dragons, and most importantly, the legitimacy. An advantage that you will never have. So, either kill me or let me go, and flee to Essos, because you cannot – you will not – survive what’s coming for you. The choice is yours.’

          Aemond’s malicious eye studies her, a forlorn wall of blue ice.

          The boy I grew up with is gone. Hasn’t Visenya sensed it all along? We are not children anymore. The time has come to accept it.

          When has it all gone so awry, become so twisted? She mourns the boy that she had once shared everything with – a childhood, hopes, dreams. Those died with Lucerys.

          Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did… and tears cannot quench dragonfire.

          It ends as it had begun, with fire and blood.

          Bloodlines will burn.

          Visenya licks the blood off of the tip of the dagger, spins the weapon, and presents it to Aemond, hilt first.

TAGLIST: @a-dash-of-random-magic @aaleksmorozova @aemondsversion @aereth @agirllovespancakes @another-life-addict​ @burningshewolf @buttercup--bee​ @cecespizza01​ @cleastrnge​ @crazylokonugget​ @five-seconds-of-socialising​ @flosaureum​ @haystack-boy​ @lavendertales​ @lordsrks @maharani-radha​ @mandaloresson​ @masset-fotia​ @missusnora @moonlight-prose​ @oloreaa​ @poppyreader​ @prettyboyeddiemunson​ @revolution-starter​ @sofietargaryen​ @stargaryenx​ @strawberrypeachesss​ @sullho​ @sweethoneyblossom1​ @s-we-e-t-t-ea​ @that--thing​ @valyriians​ 

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd fanfic #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond targayren fic #aemond targaryen #cregan stark #alyn velaryon #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen/oc #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen/reader #cregan stark fanfic #cregan stark fic #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark/oc #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark/reader #alyn velaryon fic #alyn velaryon x oc #alyn velaryon/oc #alyn velaryon x reader #alyn velaryon/reader #daemon targaryen #criston cole #rhaenyra targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #tori's flames of deceit

[jedi-valjean]

Writer 20 Questions

Tagged by @thechaoticfanartist!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

25!

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

178,856.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Star Wars!

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

A Warrior's Trappings (81 kudos)

Stars In Their Multitudes, Book I: Entrapment (41 kudos)

A Wish I Do Not Want (40 kudos)

Keeping Score (39 kudos)

And If He Shall Be Faithful (38 kudos)

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Yes! I love chatting with my readers.

6. What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Probably The Tale of Odo and Ethyme. I mean, it's Orpheus and Eurydice in space, so.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably Ki Murangen, the story of how General Grievous' great-grandparents' romance kicked off.

8. Do you get hate on your fic?

One time there was a post that said "combine your first fandom with your current fandom to create something awful." Somebody reblogged from me with "Star Wars and Les Mis. I've seen it done." To this day I don't know if they knew about my WIP because they blocked me immediately after for unrelated reasons.

9. Do you write smut?

No.

10. Do you write crossovers?

No, but I like to take concepts and media I like and turn them into Star Wars.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I'm aware!

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

No, but you're welcome to it! If you need to ask me about the intent behind certain word choices or what have you I will gladly lend my insight.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

I've collaborated on chapters before, but I haven't co-written anything.

14. What‘s your all-time favourite ship?

Tough one. I think it changes every so often. I guess I'd say Kanera at the moment?

15. What’s the WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Oh, I have several. They're not even published. I only post a WIP when I'm reasonably confident I'll finish it.

16. What’s your writing strengths?

In the beginning, I'm really good at setting the scene. Toward the middle I stop being good at that for some reason, probably because I focus more on the action and dialogue.

17. What’s your writing weaknesses?

As I said, descriptions are not my strong suit once the actual plot gets going. Also, plotting out battles and stuff.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I have to remind myself that the average Star Wars fan is not fluent in Huttese.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Star Wars.

20. Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

I've got some good ones. SITM is my baby, of course. I think my best oneshot so far might be The Disturbing Tale of Nobot.

Tagging @findswoman @hannagoldworthy @spell-cleaver @oloreaa and any fic writers who want to join in!

[grogusmum]

I just played a tag game that I played over a year ago, a get to know you one, when i was tumblr baby. I answered the questions and then it said tag 8 mutuals. I did my best...

Then in the tags I said:

#i don't have 8 mutuals lol

@oonajaeadira @winter-fox-queen @ohwaitimthewriter @oloreaa @pedro4ever-deactivated @jessie-writes-things @what-the--curtains

And the person that tagged me @firstofficerwiggles

Technically that is 8 but don't think we were all mutuals at the time and some are no longer moots having left the fandom.

My mutuals have grown, but I just wanted to send out my appreciation for these connections, fledgling friendships.

Cue: Thank You For Being A Friend

#friend appreciation #moot appreciation

[ifimayhaveaword]

I was tagged by @iamskyereads and @softanon AND @pettyprocrastination for this WIP game! Thank you bébés!! Y’all are lucky I actually have something to share this time around 😅

Rules: Write the latest line from your wip and tag as many people as there are words in the line. Make a new post, don't reblog.

You arch with a moan and feel your back pop and release a smidge of the tension, but not enough to keep you from groaning a second time when you flex-point your ankles and crack them, too.

Zero-presh tagging: @highsviolets @ohheyitsokay @corvueros @oloreaa @keeper0fthestars @qveenbvtch @miraclesabound and anyone who sees this and wants to!!

#ask meme #sort of? #listen usually I just have vague daydreams until I crank something out in like 2 hours— this is the first time I’ve had like. #something hangin around #normally if it sits for more than a day I delete it 😬

[oloreaa]

do you have kids rea? where did you get experience of taking care of kiddos? i said this once a long time ago, and i'll say it again! your writing of elana and her love for bean had me entertaining the idea of being a parent in my head, without the usual nausea & crossing-of-the-legs. i can't even remember a specific scene mentioning gross kid things hehe. this is supposed to be a compliment so i hope that this conveyed it LOL

anon here again, that was a response to this post (https://www.tumblr.com/oloreaa/643313667536011264/also-might-i-add-that-little-mischievous-children?source=share)! didn't realize how old it was

Hey there!! Thank you so much for your lovely ask :D

I do not have children, but I have a little brother who was born when I was a teenager, and due to familial circumstances I was very involved in taking care of him. Many people refer to me as his second mother because I was always more of a parent than a caretaker for him. It had its up- and downsides, certainly, but it helped me become more mature and shaped a lot of my personality. I hope that explains it!

And thank you very much, I'm so glad that you're liking the dynamics in the story, it's a lovely compliment!!❤❤

#💌 #vencuyanir #tysm!!

[writereaa]

Vencuyanir Masterlist

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: Gen, F/M

Fandom: The Mandalorian (TV)

Relationships: Din Djarin/Own Character, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Grogu | Baby Yoda & Original Character(s)

Tags: slow burn, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, canon rewrite/expansion, missing scenes, character study, relationship study, worldbuilding

Warnings: canon-typical violence, angst, specific warnings above each chapter

Chapter 36: The Storm

Summary: Of storms, fevers and lanterns...

Wordcount: 9.5k

#the mandalorian #the mandalorian fanfiction #din djarin x oc #din djarin #star wars #vencuyanir #oloreaa writes

[madhyanas]

songs of the hearth

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x gn!Reader

Rating: Explicit/18+

Word Count: 637

Warning(s): Explicit sexual content. Dom/sub elements, possibly. Irresponsible kitchen (galley?) behaviour - they fuck by the stove you guys, don’t try this at home. Implied teasing/orgasm denial. Not edited/beta-read and also not... good lmao - not very proud of this one at all.

A/N: this is a request from @oloreaa! rea babey i’m so sorry, i tried saving your ask to drafts and it got deleted :(( but here we go! take two, i guess. the general gist of the ask was ‘paz coming up behind the reader while they’re cooking something, leading to Spicy Times™️’

this one’s gender neutral! reader is AFAB, but there are no pronouns and all endearments are gn :) sorry if it’s not great though, the vizsla muse has been an Absent Hoe lately

also kindly shut UP i know what you’re all going to say so let me state here and now that this was in the works LONG before all the soup asks started coming in - they are UNRELATED this is a COINCIDENCE and now i will go hide away FOREVER

100 followers celebration

———

Cooking is… not your forte.

But soup is easy enough. It’s stew, but lighter. Just throw everything into a pot, toss in some hefty seasoning and leave it on the flame, more or less. A good, hearty meal that comes with half the effort. You like making soup.

You like it even more when it leads to this.

Two large black leather gloves lie just beyond your head, a familiar sight. The counter of the ship’s small galley is cold against your belly and forearms, its blunt edge digging into your hip with every bounce forward. You shudder. It’s a stark contrast to Paz’s warmth from behind, languidly grinding himself into you.

He’s been continuing like this for quite a while now, stoking a flame within your core that burns so hot, so bright, you don’t know how long you can cope. Never letting the blaze consume you, but never quite letting it go out either. Oh, the things you let your Mandalorian do to you.

His cock drags against your walls, and you clench down on him with a sharp inhale. “That’s it,” Paz says lowly, rolling his hips with a maddening amount of control. Despite yourself, you hum contentedly at the praise. How— How can he be so impassive? You’ve been panting and whimpering for what feels like hours, bent over at his whim and taking his cock at the pace he chooses. The durasteel fogs up slightly at the roaring heat in your cheeks, your frantic gasps for air.

“How does it feel, cyare?”

“Good— So good.” You have learnt, by now, that when Paz asks a question, he expects an answer. Maker, he must be able to hear your eyes rolling back in those words.

Both his hands rest on your hips firmly, kneading your flesh with large, large hands, using you as leverage to fuck himself into your pussy. The air is heady; something that has your mouth salivating and your eyelashes fluttering. The soup’s spiced aroma surrounds the two of you, mingling with the undeniable tang of sweat and sex. Paz’s armour bumps into your ass with every thrust. Yes, it’s good.

Two fingers snake round to your clit, wasting no time in dipping into your slick and pooling it around the swollen bud. Fuck, his fingers. So much larger and wider than yours, rubbing circles and pouring fuel onto the fire better than you could ever on those cold, lonely nights in your quarters. “There! There, please—”

Paz grunts, snapping his hips more harshly than you expected. You cry out and arch your back. “There, hm? Tell me what you need, dearest.”

The words are right there, sitting on the tip of your tongue, ready for him to finally acquiesce to your keening and bring you to release. But something distracts you — the sound.

By now, you’re wet enough that it’s beginning to dribble down your inner thigh; a filthy, indecent reminder of how quickly you’ll spread your legs for this man. Every thrust of Paz’s hips into yours is punctuated by a slick noise, a sound of depravity and desperation and desire. It rings in your ears, and for a fleeting moment, you feel proud.

“Need you,” you whine. There’s not much more to be said, no more words you can string together in your addled state of mind.

Paz sighs. It sounds longing, as if he’s not as close to you as any other being has been in your lifetime. He leans forward, pressing his chest to your back, and bucks his hips sharply. You have to choke down a yelp at how much fuller you feel with the new angle.

An arm’s length away, the soup begins to bubble over.

There’s a solid press of beskar to your temple, tender and devoted. “Then you shall have me, cyare.”

———

#paz vizsla #paz vizsla x reader #the mandalorian #the mandalorian fic #star wars #star wars fic #gender neutral #gender neutral reader #my writing #sw #listen this isn't great #i know that #i'm really sorry lmao #it is funny that the soup thing came up tho #sdkfjhsdkjfh i'd totally forgotten about this when the asks started coming in #follower celebration: 100 #100 follower celebration tag #ask #oloreaa #paz ask #this doesn't feel paz specific you could probably fit in anyone you like here #yikes #this is what we call going dOWN the drain kids #lmaoooooo

[mndalorians]

🌹🌹🌹🌹🌹

Have some very rough cowboy Din ❤

Your eyes travelled up slowly over the starched shirt and weathered vest, the bandana that hung loose around his neck, the lips set in a thin line, the strong nose, up to dark eyes. Eyes so dark no light reflected in them, dark pits that reminded you of a snake bite like the one that had punctured your ankle when you were eleven. You were old enough to have known better at that age than to play by the entrance of the abandoned mine, but still arrogant enough to believe yourself untouchable.

You felt like that child again when his eyes remained steadfast on you. On the precipice between immortality and the fall as you stood there, caught in his gaze like a rodent staring at a rattlesnake, aware of the danger so close by, but able to articulate exactly how said danger would present itself.

#ask #oloreaa #for every 🌹 received in my inbox i'll post one random sentence of a random WIP i'm currently writing

[cregan-starks]

15 Questions

tagged by: @agirllovespancakes​ 💛

1. Are you named after anyone? Technically, yes. I share my first name with my father’s paternal grandmother.

2. When is the last time you cried? Last week, I think.

3. Do you have kids? Fuck no.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Yes.

5. What is the first thing you notice about people? Their face.

6. What’s your eye color? Green.

7. Scary movies or happy endings? Happy endings, I guess. Vague terminology lmao.

8. Any special talents? Procrastination.

9. Where were you born? Romania.

10. What are your hobbies? Writing, reading, listening to music and podcasts, watching Hasanabi, shows and movies, spoiling my pets, getting tattoos.

11. Do you have any pets? 3 chinchillas and 2 hamsters.

12. What sports do you play/have played? All in the past: tennis, swimming, ballet, basketball. I occasionally play badminton.

13. How tall are you? 1.57 m

14. Favorite subject in school? Probably English.

15. Dream job? I don’t dream about labor, but I would love to be a published writer.

no pressure tags: @mulderfcx @revolution-starter @aemondtargaryen @targbarbie @mandaloresson @lavendertales @oloreaa

#tag games #queue o plomo

[jamesbuchananbarnesslut]

Pierce’s Maid - Ch. 1 - The Introduction

Paring: Winter Solider x Female Reader

Words: 2,517

Summary: You are Pierce’s maid but run into an unexpected visitor one day when going to clean.

Warnings: smut, slightly non-con, a/b/o dynamics, knotting, marking, mating

Tiny Tag List: @navybrat817 @whisperlullaby @sweetkingdomstarlight-blog @oloreaa

Notes: This is my first time writing smut or fanfiction please be nice. I also want to say a huge thank you to all the ladies who encouraged this! I love you all so much and hope you enjoy!! 

Master List

Series Master List

——————————————————————————

I awoke to the sun peeking through my curtains, knowing it shouldn't be much after eight o'clock. Meaning I had just enough time to eat and get ready for work, without being too far behind schedule. I manage to haphazardly make my way down the stairs and putting together something to eat. Which per usual just happens to be a bowl of cereal, something to help scarf down my pills.  After that I manage to make it back to my bedroom and throw on some work clothes. Which just happens to be some leggings and a t-shirt. The entire dread of today seeping into my skin, I know this is the last day I have to work before I have a week off for my heat, but I just feel terrible already and know it's not going to go well. Even though my drive is peaceful, I still can't help that itching irritation at the back of my mind. Leading to a spiral of thoughts, that end at I have no other option than to make it through today as quick as possible and everything will be okay.  

I had originally worked for a larger company that outsourced maids and would typically clean multiple houses a day or throughout the week. That was up until I met my current employer Mr. Pierce, I cleaned his house once and that was it. He told me he'd pay me more than the current maid service I was working for and that I'd only ever have to clean his house. Which was an offer I couldn't pass up; I was starting to wear myself thin trying to clean so many houses and just scraping by. Mr. Pierce gave me the opportunity to get my life back together and finally have time for myself. Something I really couldn't complain about. Although he was a cleanly man, he was rather suspicious, only communicated with me through texts and notes, and hated my smell so much I could only clean his house during his work hours. So, I typically came by Monday through Friday and touched up different parts of the house every day.  

As I pulled up to his house another bout of eerie shivers ran over me, I couldn't help but feel as if I was being watched. Reminding myself I had a week off after this shift, I shook off the feeling and began to trudge my way inside. With Pierce being an alpha, I had gotten comfortable being around his scent and tried to limit how much I scented while I cleaned. But as soon as I unlocked the door an entirely new smell hit me, it was nothing like Pierce's, his typically mistress's, or business partner's. A mix of sage and pine, coming off what had to be another alpha and one close to his rut. None of this felt right nor did I think it would be a smart idea to clean the house. Pierce would really be furious if I scented his house during my heat and the scent of whatever alpha was inside was going to cause it. Right as I were about to pull out my phone and call Pierce to explain the dilemma a hand snatched my wrist yanking me inside.  

Even though I tried screaming a hand was over my mouth before I could even get any noise out, as if they were anticipating it. And then a gruff voice was in my ear, "Pierce said he told his little maid take her vacation early and yet here you are."

I couldn't help the shiver that ran up my spine, was I supposed to have today off too? I couldn't even think straight his smell was so overwhelming and even mouthwatering. With his hand still covering my mouth I couldn't reply, but he pulled me further into the house leading me into the living room. He sat me down on the couch and himself in the opposing armchair. The light partially breaking through the blinds, making his eyes and face just barely visible. I couldn't help but be enamored by him he looked angelic and smelled even better. But I also knowing that if this was one of Pierce's work associates that this might not go over well for me.

Neither of us expecting to run into each other and both caught in a stupor we sat there staring at each other. Nobody making a move to do or say anything more. His smell becoming more powerful as if he was purposely scenting the room. Shit, could he smell my impending heat or was he trying to trigger it? That eerie feeling, I had all morning was right, I should have just called off and gone into my heat vacation a day early. The scratch slowly beginning under my skin again and my mouth actually beginning to water as his smell became more powerful. It smelled like he was close to his rut; if he, is I'm really fucked now. I couldn't help but rub my thighs together, and finally will myself to speak. The words coming up jumbled, but there none the less, "I.... do you think..... I should get going."

He's still staring at me, eyes boring into me, as if trying to read me, like I'm in the wrong in this situation. Yet, maybe Pierce did think I would want extra time off for my heat. I can't help but run my mind through a million different scenarios while debating with myself how to just get up and leave. Will he even let me leave, I mean fuck it at this point, as I start to squirm my way out of the seat he growls. Immediately making me still my entire body and my underwear wet, I hadn't been near an alpha this close to my heat in so long I don't think it could end well.  

Which at this point I fully realize the mistake I've made Pierce had asked me to begin my vacation a day early, he had mentioned someone would be staying with him and wasn't sure how my smell would react to him. I had been so scatter brained this past week trying to get ready for my heat that it completely slipped my mind. I really needed to get the hell out of here. I slowly built my courage and cleared my throat trying to will myself to speak yet again. "I...... I'm... I'm sorry I just remembered Pierce had said somebody would be staying with him and to begin my vacation early." Continuing, stammering, "I should really get going, I didn't mean to."

And before I could even make a move to head towards the door, he had a hold on me again, yanking me to my knees in front of him. That's when I can finally see his eyes, pitch black, the tent forming in his pants and the smell of his rut drenching the room. I truly, truly fucked up and don’t think I can even talk my way out of this one, but I still stammer on anyways. "Please just let me go, Pierce doesn't have to know I came in today. We can just forget anything happened." Tears slowly forming in the corners of my eyes at this point and to my dismay I realize I'm scenting. My heat is coming and the panic of it sends me into a further spiral.  

All this strife finally causing him to speak again, "you smell real good mega, no wonder why Pierce can't handle you cleaning while he's here."

I can't even begin to ponder what he means by that, I'm too distracted by how nice he smells at this point. The smell rolling in waves slowly dragging me closer and closer to my heat.

"You like my smell, don't you?" He continues.  

As if attached to a string my head nods on its own, I can't help but want to bury my face into every crevice of his body and live in his smell.  

"So, sweet for me, aren't you?"

Before I can let this go any further, I snap back to my senses and begin plotting a way out in my head. But he's a step ahead of me and is already pulling me into his lap and burying his face into my neck, biting, licking, scenting, and kissing anywhere he can get his mouth on. I can't help the moan that escapes my mouth, which causes him to release a rumble, pleased that I like this.  

"It's okay mega, I can smell that you want this, me." He speaks in between the marks he's making on my neck, continuing. "Pierce said he was saving you as a treat for me anyways and it looks like this mix-up was perfect timing. Sweet girl, can't you smell we were meant to be." He begins to slowly grind his hardness up into me, only causing a flood of wetness to break through my leggings. "Oh, sweet mega that's it, just let me have you."

Little whines and whimpers still escaping me, I can't help but enjoy what he's doing after not having been with an alpha in so long. Still fighting within myself though and distracted he takes the opportunity and shifts us onto the couch caging me in. While continuing his endeavor on my neck. I finally find my voice again and try to beg "ple.... pleas... please stop."

"But mega I can smell how wet you are for me, you want it so bad, and can't you feel how badly I want it," which he punctuates by grinding his hardness into my core. Causing more mewls to spill out of my mouth. "Oh, sweet girl that's it, I promise I'll take such sweet care of you."  

Before I can protest, he's stripping me of my clothes the cold air bringing my nipples to a peak and my smell further spilling into the air. I try to cover myself up the best I can, but he just "tsks" and gives me a look that tells me I should cut my fighting short if I want this to go over nicely. Or at least as nicely as he'll make it for me.

"That's it sweet girl let me see you," he states while working off my pants and underwear too. Him still fully clothed in a rough tactical suit. As much as I want to resist my heat brain is slowly taking over and I wouldn't mind taking a hard knot at this point. I can't help but grind myself against him.  He begins to kiss down my chest, making sure to spend extra time sucking and biting on my nipples. Causing more moans to spill from my mouth and me to grind myself against him with more vigor, searching for some type of friction.

"You really like that don't you sweet girl?" Another shiver wracks down my spine and he chuckles darkly. "I knew there was a reason Pierce prevented this from happening anytime soon, because as soon as I knot you mega your mine, I'm putting my mark on that pretty little neck too."

Again, I want to protest, tell him I don't want any of that, but his fingers are already swiping through my folds. His thumb immediately rubbing my clit in small circles while another finger slides right into me. "That's it sweet girl, gonna work you open so you can take all of me." Which he punctuates by sliding another finger right along in with the first one. More mewls and moans spilling from my mouth and a heat slowly building over my body. He starts to rub my clit harder and pump his fingers faster, "yeah that's it mega, you gotta cum once before I can get my knot into you." His talking only building the fire in my gut further.

Willing myself to speak I let him know I'm close.  

"Yeah, mega I know com'on give it to me, so I can give you my knot and mark."

That shouldn't send me over the edge, but it does, my moans echoing through the room. While my heat filled brain and orgasm wracked body is just ready for him to fill me up. I start to make grabby hands at him and try to grind myself back into him. Which just causes him to chuckle, "hold on I'm working on it," he follows with unzipping his pants and pulling out his hard member. My eyes must bug out because he's laughing again, he's huge and I can't help but stare. From his physique I knew he'd be bigger but what he pulls out is like nothing I've ever seen. Above average in length and extra girthy, already leaking precum at the tip.  

He pumps himself a few times, then settles himself over me, lining his member up with my entrance. I buck right into him, my heat filled brain ready for his knot. Slowly pushing in he causes more whimpers to spill from mouth, nobody has ever filled me this nicely, not even the larger toys I've bought before. I immediately cling to his body, wrapping my arms and legs around him, burying my face in his neck.

"It's okay mega, I'll take such good care of you." Fully seated inside me, he gives me a second to adjust, before slowly pulling out and pushing back in again. Beginning a smooth rhythm that just leaves me wanting more.  

"Please, more," I whimper into his neck.

"Yeah? My mega wants it harder?" He pulls my face out his neck so he can get a clear look at me.

"Please," I squeak staring right back at him. The lust in his eyes so enticing and pulling me in.  

He begins to snap his hips harder, breaking the trance and causing the heat to start slowly building in me again. "That's it mega, gonna take my knot so nicely. I know your close, tell me what you need?" He hikes my hips higher, pushing my legs onto his shoulders. Preventing me from even answering as this new angle has him drilling into that exact spot that has me seeing stars. All my thoughts are out the window but the need to cum.

"Please, please," I whimper.

"Fuck, I know your right there mega, just give it to me." Still pounding into me he drops his hand down and starts to swipe his thumb over my clit. Causing me immediately to tighten down on him, spreading the heat into all my limbs. "That's it sweet girl, I'm right behind you." I can feel his knot enlarging, catching every time he tries to pull in or out. The thought of his knot fulling being in me sends me over the edge. Which triggers his own orgasm, shoving his knot deep into me I'm wracked with shivers. Giving him the opportunity to bite into my neck just as he finishes pumping his cum into me. Sending me into another orgasm, like nothing I've ever felt before.

He rumbles, "mine."

#jamesbuchananbarnesslut #jamesbuchananbarnesslutwrites #a/b/o dynamics #a/b/o fanfic #fanfiction #bucky barnes #the winter soldier x you #the winter soldier #the winter solider x reader #the winter solider #alpha winter soldier #the winter soldier x reader #the winter solider x you #the winter solider imagine

[over300books]

Of Course (Din Djarin x gn!Reader)

Moodboart by the amazing, showstopping, wonderful, extremely kind @saradika 🥺❤️ thank u so much, love!

Word count: a little over 2.2k (i really don't know how it came to this)

Warnings: none! However, be aware of 1) a probable overdose of clichés, since this is extremely self-indulgent; 2) my lack of knowledge on the Crest's floor plan; 3) my most likely poor skill in characterizing Din 🤠; and 4) i don't understand dialogue punctuation in English therefore there's very little dialogue, and please let me know of any mistakes since it's not my first language!

A/N: I was tagged by @dincrypt and @the-scandalorian in their neat Mando Writing Game and I know this was supposed to be a drabble but my lil something quickly became a big something and now I'm finally happy enough with it to post! This is my first ever attempt at fanfiction and many thanks are in order for my amazing friends and perfect enablers: Lynx, @ew-erin and @mndalorians , your advice was not given with this in mind but it was still priceless 🥺💕; and @oloreaa , you are an angel in general but even more so for beta'ing for me and listening to my rambles 🥺❤️

I got episode 11, minute 22, which fell into the empire prompts. My choice was “That’s gonna leave a mark.”

Cross-posted on Ao3

-

You wonder if the Crest’s lights are always this bright as you stagger onto the lowered ramp. You had been adamantly against taking the night off from your partner and his son, but after some gentle convincing, the Mandalorian had managed to persuade you into going to the nearest cantina for some fun.

It’s very late already and you hope he put the kid to sleep before you came home. After a very long day on your feet paired up with a night dancing along freshly made friends, you’re feeling so tired your vision is hazy around the edges.

As soon as you stepped into the cantina, a visibly drunk bride-to-be smashed into your side and you didn’t even have time to accept her apology before she excitedly complimented your leather jacket. That compliment was the key in her launching into a very excited rant about her fiancée’s leather jacket. Apparently it was her favorite because it brought out their eyes and she eagerly continued on rambling to you about her partner. The girl elaborated on their story while you nodded and smiled, a bit confused but very softened at her antics.

There were four other young people surrounding her, presumably her friends, smiling fondly as she went on, and you felt your heart melt in the face of such bright and pure love. A cheerful song started playing and she squealed mid-sentence, pulling on your wrists to accompany her as she followed her friends to the dancing floor. You hung out with them for as long as your back and knees could handle, before you said your wistful goodbyes and dragged yourself back to the ship.

You absentmindedly fiddle with the buttons beside the ramp as you rub your eyes and sigh longingly, reliving the last few hours in your mind. When you finally manage to punch the right command to close the hatch, you huff with pride filling your chest at your competence, only to turn around and smack your hip straight into the sharp corner of an out of place metal crate. You let out a loud string of curses and regret not drinking at the cantina, which leaves you with no excuses for being clumsy other than being overly tired. Rubbing the sore spot, you frown at the inanimate object, making a list of pros and cons of kicking it to get revenge.

The cons include you probably hurting your foot, nicking your shoe and most likely disturbing a sleeping tiny green child with the noise. The only pro is how satisfying it will be to feel strong and petty, and in your poor sleep-drunk brain, the childish reaction seems definitely worth it. You wonder if there’s a snack in the food cabinet as you balance yourself to boot the box when his voice startles you.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Mando remarks, leaning against the shadowed ladder with his arms crossed over his broad chest as he studies your attempt to regain your footing.

Your current state of fuzzy-mindedness and sleep deprivation makes you forget all about being angry at the offending crate when your attention snaps to the dark figure who must have been watching for a while. You beam at him like he is the most beautiful cherry-topped slice of your favorite cake, practically launching yourself into his space. Even though he’s caught off guard by your attack of affection, his quick reflexes allow him to uncross his arms and brace himself before you crash onto him and circle his waist with your arms.

“Mando!” He kindly doesn’t comment on how surprised you sound, considering it’s his ship and that you’ve grown used to each other’s presence in the almost seven months since you took on the role of the child’s caretaker. He tentatively places his hands on your shoulders, giving the right one a few uncertain taps. You don’t realize that it takes him a moment to thaw out of his frozen state, also unaware of how he tenses in an effort to ignore the butterflies erupting in his stomach as you tuck your head over his cowl.

You proceed to tell him all about your night, tightly clinging to his frame, as if this sort of intimacy is common between you. The lip of his helmet is nearly touching the top of your head, and for a moment you think he will push you away, but instead he slowly slides one of his hands to your nape, cradling it, while his other arm stretches across your back. He gives you his undivided attention, humming from time to time in encouragement while lightly scraping your neck in a manner that almost makes you purr. You pretend to pay no mind as you chatter on about how full of light your heart felt when you heard the deep love in the bride’s words and how you wish you had some confetti with you right now.

A never-ending stream of words cascades from your lips with absolutely no filter, varying among apparently disjointed topics. You bounce on your feet as you mention how you love dancing and how he should totally come along the next time. Has he ever considered how adorable the kid will look trying to dance? Or, if he wants to be safer, he can put the baby in the sling you use when you take Grogu with you to go after supplies on stops. You tell Mando you won't mind if he doesn't want to dance, just rocking back and forth will be fine! It won't be different from when he's putting the kid to sleep. Oh, stars, how sweet will it look? It is definitely worth the risk.

Your words form a bubble of sunshine inside his chest, adding to the struggle Mando is going through to wrap his head around how right you feel in his arms. You pretend not to notice how he's failing to keep his amusement contained, especially when you start venting about how unfairly cute you find mouse droids and how it's not nice of him to be impolite to them. You actually bask in the knowledge you are able to make the Mandalorian snort, and your speech gradually loses its logic as you digress, slowly fading while your body relaxes against him.

You feel sneaky for relishing the moment of quiet closeness without him knowing, innocently thinking it’s one-sided, even if his hand has not stopped caressing your nape for a single breath. Your head moves with his chest when Mando takes a deep breath to speak, but before he’s able to, your focus quickly shifts again.

“Is the kid okay?”, you blurt, eyes widened almost comically. Your hands are quick to rise and cover your mouth for a second then curve around your lips, forming a tunnel for you to whisper as if you’re telling a secret, “I wanna see him!”

You eagerly push yourself away from Mando and nearly trip as you sidestep his boot, gracelessly making your way toward the hole in the wall where the baby usually sleeps. You fail to notice how his helmet follows you longingly before he flexes his hands and trails after you. You study the sleeping child for a few heartbeats and turn to the tall man, pressing a finger to your lips. Making an obnoxiously loud shushing sound and whispering just as loudly, “He’s a baby”. A puzzled look crosses your face as the Mandalorian nearly chokes trying to suppress a laugh, and you quickly correct yourself, “He’s asleep.”

You’re still looking a bit muddled when Mando reaches for your hand with a soft “Come on,” and steers you towards the ‘fresher. The tiredness you felt seems to have increased tenfold, so you gladly follow his lead. He hands you the sleep clothes he swiftly snatched off the top of your open bag and patiently waits outside while you brush your teeth in lazy strokes, relieve yourself, almost fall asleep, change, touch your forehead to the wall and groan, lastly splashing some water on your face. You emerge with your eyes barely open and your shirt put on backwards, adorable in a very disheveled way, and drag your feet towards your bed.

Turning over in your mind the now blurred lines between you and your employer in the few steps it takes to get there, you can’t help but fluster when you remember he’s right there watching you. You’re almost at your cot when you glance at the silent man and notice he shed his armor, only wearing dark and well worn clothes aside from his helmet and gloves. Even though your head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, your mind still takes a moment to think he looks really good like that.

Your lizard brain lacks focus and makes you take an uncoordinated step. Your arms flail as you stumble with a yelp, but Mando grabs your elbow before you faceplant on the cold durasteel floor, and you’re suddenly thankful his visor has been trained on you since you opened the door. His eyes have actually never strained very far from you since he first ever saw you, but you don't know that. You were making ridiculous faces at a stray dog while rubbing their upturned belly, and the Mandalorian felt his heart falter when he saw your grin as you waved at the animal and went back inside the shop where you worked. You also don't know that he adjusted his cape and armor before puffing his chest and straightening up his shoulders before approaching you later on to ask for information about a bounty.

You catch a whiff of his clean, distinctive smell as Mando holds you upright, which distracts you, so you don't notice he doesn’t let you go until you sit down on your bed. You're staring a bit dazedly up at his chest and he has to tug a few times at the bundle of discarded clothes you still hold in your hands before you realize you have to release them. He gives up on trying to hide his amusement as he carefully places the bundle over your bag, rasping a heartfelt chuckle through his modulator.

You fully lay down, sighing deeply as your bones settle comfortably over the soft surface. Mando helps you pull the warmest blankets he has on board up to your chin (the baby has the fluffiest, while the man himself only sleeps with his cape covering him), and you don't even try to mask the shameless heart eyes you're making at him. Openly regarding you for a moment and leaning into this newfound intimacy between the two of you, he asks with an audible smile, “What’s gotten into you?”

You hum contentedly, finding it really hard to keep your eyes open and reveling in the molten warmth he always manages to unknowingly make bloom between your lungs. You reply in the middle of a yawn, turning on your side, “Babysitting a tiny menace and his dad nonstop for months does this to a person.”

The brightness of your sleepy smile after the gentle tease breaks away any sort of annoyance he might have felt, and his heart feels close to bursting at the seams. He muffles a yawn of his own as he starts to step away to let you sleep, but your hand stops him by his wrist.

You nuzzle your pillow before softly murmuring, “Thank you for taking care of the kid tonight.” Your thumb slips under the sleeve of his black shirt and your surprise at the smoothness of his skin keeps you from listening the hitch in his breath. You stroke his delightfully warm skin a few times before you continue, so quietly it almost escapes his ears, “And for taking care of me.”

The Mandalorian doesn't move while his body feels like it will shatter at the force of the overwhelming wave of tenderness your words elicit. He watches your breath even out and feels your grip slowly go limp around his wrist, but his heart is still beating funny inside his chest. You barely even acknowledge his gentle grab on your hand to tuck it back beneath the covers, your mind already far away from there.

Mando stands a bit unsurely beside you, unable to step away just yet. Steady, deep breaths are leaving your parted lips when he delicately grazes the top of your cheekbone with his knuckles and says as silently as he can so as to not stir you, “Of course, love.”

He contemplates your peaceful face for as long as he dares to, up until you grumble and shift very slightly, shooting panic into him. Mando takes a long breath before slowly backing away, rubbing the back of his neck before he finally turns and goes get ready for bed.

Climbing into his bunk, he spares a moment to check on the sleeping baby, still feeling his pulse thunder through his veins. Rest evades him for a long time after he lays his head on the pillow, his mind repeating in circles your words and actions tonight, and his own too. The Mandalorian carefully stores the feeling of you in his arms deep into his heart, and his last thought before falling asleep is a quiet echo in his head, wondering if you were still clinging to consciousness when he replied.

#din djarin #gn!reader #im so nervous about this??? #how do you people do this????? #so often???? #my admiration for writers has doubled during this experience lol #lela tries writing #now off to bed i go 👀👀 #updated some mistakes and the ao3 link #thinking about changing it to an oc? but idk if i have that kind of creativity hdhdjs

[oo-hazel-oo]

this is a day late, but HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

now, prepare for some extreme sappiness...

i joined tumblr almost a year ago to the day and i can genuinely say that it was one of the best decisions of my life. when i first made this account, i was feeling super disconnected from the world and was desperate for a space where i could be myself and connect with those who shared similar interests. over the past year, this platform has acted as that space, allowing me to post my writing and explore my passions; however, what has impacted me the most is the friends i've made along the way.

you all inspire me every day. you pour your heart and soul into everything you do, whether that’s writing, drawing, gif-making, cosplaying, or simply posting, and you do it not to gain money or mass recognition, but because you simply love doing it. every interaction with y'all, whether that be a silly ask game or picrew chain, a sweet comment or reblog, brings a massive smile to my face. i never thought i’d be able to form such a strong connection to people i’ve only communicated with through a screen, but i’ve really found a home here, as cheesy as that sounds, and i can’t thank you enough (though i'm still gonna try).

so, without further ado, here are some 'thank yous' i need to give out:

@cosmicghostie, by now you are well aware of how sappy i am, so it should come as no surprise when i say that you bring so much light to my life. we’ve been friends for almost half a year now, and i’m grateful for every minute. you are constantly making me laugh, whether you’re sending me late-night tiktoks, doing one of your impressions, simping over fictional characters, or recounting one of your harrowing encounters with kangaroos. i hope you know how special you are. VT + SBC forever <3

@samanthaaerynbarlowe you were my first friend on tumblr and your support has meant the world to me this year. you are such a strong, resilient soul, constantly inspiring me when my own motivation is lacking. i am beyond proud of how hard you’ve been working and am so grateful to have met someone with such a huge heart. i love ya girl!!

and next, a huge thank you to the lucky batch:

@monako-jinn-stories @just-another-dreamerr @.cosmicghostie @foxlock @namesmox @letsunity @radbatch @maygalodon @stereotypicalpicnicmat @lusiawonder @longearedowlfromouterspace @lynnpaper @generaltano @mango-peachjuice

i was super nervous when lav first invited me to the group chat, but you all were so welcoming and encouraged me to join in, even when i was a little hesitant to. i have never been a part of such a supportive, love-filled community, and am so grateful and proud to consider you friends. i can’t express how much y’all have helped me gain confidence as both a writer and a human. someday we are all gonna meet up so i can give each and every one of you a massive hug. i love you guys with all my heart!!

and i'd also like to give a huge thank you to some of the fic writers that have inspired me this year:

@yatzstar @kaydear @novemberrain221 @.samanthaaerynbarlowe @.monako-jinn-stories @filmsnroses @mariesackler @ellielikesporgs @agentmarymargaretskitz @thicctails @clints-lucky-arrow @sagedgeek @alpineglowx @paisley-print @dindjarin-mandalorian @misvet @tuskens-mando @sweetgirldjarin @jessie-writes-things @justafanficwriter @dindjarindiaries @omgreally @oloreaa @sprout-fics

and to the talented artists that put my stick figures to shame:

@.cosmicghostie @.maygalodon @nibeul @chemens @cyareclones @puirell @firehart9

and finally, to friends, new and old, whose posts bring me so much joy:

@ingloriouslittlemousey @robyntheredhead @neppy-33 @insomniamamma @shrekscoochiehair @mandolydian @thegreenkid

tumblr only allows me to mention 50 people, but if it was up to me, i'd tag the hundreds of you that grace my dashboard every day. i notice and appreciate every single like, reblog, and comment that you leave on my posts, and can't wait to see what y'all create in the coming year.

i know that 2021 has been hard for many of you, and hearing about some of the stuff you’ve have had to deal with breaks my heart, but know that i’m so, so proud of everything you’ve accomplished, and continue to accomplish, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances.

and just like you have been here for me, i am here for you. please shoot me a message if you ever want/need to chat! i don’t care if we talk everyday or have never spoken to each other, my inbox is always open. you can also find me at my chaotic sideblog @hazel-hyperfixates!

in short, you all mean the world to me. thank you for creating such a beautiful and safe space for us all to be a part of. have the happiest of new years!!

xx hazel xx

#happy new year!!! #hazel rambles #more like hazel writes an over-emotional essay #in summary: i love you all to the moon and back <3

[writereaa]

Headcanons - Celebrating Lunar New Year with Grogu and Din (gn!Reader)

AYYYY my dear people, LNY has arrived and I am already SO excited for the event🥺 I hope that many have written or done something for it, and don't forget to either tag me in it or send your pieces to me via DM so I can reblog it!

This is not strictly Asian!Reader and is more ambiguous but it is still about Chinese/Taiwanese practises that I've grown up with. I've reworked the frames so LNY can fit into the Star Wars universe and I hope you enjoy this!❤

Wordcount: 800

🎆新年快乐, 恭喜发财! / 新年快樂, 恭喜發財!🎆

Masterlist ▪ LNY Event

The Moon Festivals are always a huge deal throughout the galaxy, even if not everyone celebrate it like they do for Life Day

Din didn't celebrate it before meeting you, but he knew some customs. When you express that you missed the celebrations from your home, he is a man on a mission

Finding a planet with a market was easy enough, he just didn't have a clue about what was actually necessary, and what was just holonet advertisements

He originally wanted to surprise you, but when he saw the huge variety of things that were sold for for the Moon Festival, he just asks you directly

It was for you, and he wanted to get it right, so Din approaches you and asks, listening intensely

Actually wearing red clothes was a bit complicated since you did not want to spend too much money on it and it would be impractical overall, so you settle on the little embellishments that were still red and brought good fortune

You buy little incarnate knots made out of red string at the market and hand a small one to Grogu, and he wraps his little claws around it, smiling at you with those little teeth

Unsure if Din would want to have one of the string knots, you give him one regardless, and he attaches it to his belt without a word, keeping it there for the rest of the day

Getting some of the specific food was a bit harder, but with some help of Grogu's apex predator instincts (aka reading the signs, but you're not about to tell the green baby that) you manage to find some dumplings

You explain the story behind the dumplings to Din, how they are shaped like the currency that ancient cultures that celebrated the Moon Festival. That they bring good fortune and express wishes for stable income

Coming across a stall where they sell red paper and little lanterns, you buy the cheapest ones, because even if they don't look as nice as the bigger ones, they will look perfect in the Crest

You also buy many tasty little treats for Grogu and judging by the excited coos and grabby hands, the small bundle could not wait to devour them

Back at the ship, you keep the little one out of the food's reach (since you still wanted some when you were finished) while Din and you decorate the hull

He hangs up the little lanterns while you place the red paper strips at the sides of each ramp, explaining how the red colour is rumoured to chase away evil spirits

Din wasn't about to discuss with you if those spirits were real, he had seen enough things and when he looked at what Grogu is capable of, he doesn't question that particular custom

The lanterns were small and glowed rather dim, but combined with the yellow lights inside the hull, the ship looks very warm and comfortable and Grogu can't stop cooing at the pretty colours (Din decides that he likes it very much and would probably keep these lanterns even after the Moon Festival)

That night, you share your food together, and you explain the meaning of each, adding the little backstories to each and every one of them

How you eat fish because it is a pun for surpluses in life, rice cakes for making you grow tall, noodles for longevity, apples stand for peace, oranges for luck, and so on

You hand Grogu a little red envelope, the credit inside weighing the paper package down, but upon seeing the money, he waddles over to Din and hands it to him with a sweet smile (Din was not choked up, not at all, what do you think?)

Because you did not want to risk any injury with fireworks, especially with the green toddler around, the only thing you had bought at the market were sparklers

Din wants to show off to his son and ignites the sticks with his flamethrower, Grogu giggling in delight. You, however, are not as amused

Letting the little guy hold onto the sparklers for the first few minutes, you would take them away if they burn down too low, not wanting to risk him getting injured

He was wary of the fire at first, but -- like the little menace that he is -- Grogu found an instant love towards the sparklers

All in all, even if it is not as traditional as you were used to, celebrating the Moon Festival on the Crest with your little Clan is a very sweet experience, and you would not want to have it any other way

……………

General Taglist: @pisss-offf-ghostt @chibi-liz05 @din-damn-djarin @ezrasarm @hdlynn @mndalorians @over300books @agirllovespancakes @crookedmoonsaultpunk @teaofpeach @shadylightbearherring @mitchi-c @adikaofmandalore @thirstworldproblemss @nerdypinupcrystal @this-cat-is-dea @maybege @corvueros @opheliaelysia @mrsparknuts @mertwintinyhouserealtor @javihoney @insomniamamma @phoenixhalliwell @gallowsjoker @mack4676

Din Djarin/Vencuyanir Taglist: @concussed-to-pieces @amvricanhoney @mar-y-tixrra@hellojusttheretolookatmeemees @mxndoscyarika @jaime1110 @kyjoraven @absurdthirst @chibi-yuki

#the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #star wars #ReaCelebratesLNY #oloreaa writes

[cannedsoupsucks]

Din Djarin Fics - Series

UPDATED JUNE 2021

Updated/new series are in bold

Check out my other Pedro character rec lists! Link

I didn’t write any of these. They are a collection of works that I enjoy and recommend. Assume all stories are 18+ and contain smut (no minors). Review all author’s warnings prior to reading.

PLEASE SUPPORT THE AUTHORS BY REBLOGGING

Borrowed Time by @mandoalorian - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Black Velvet by @moonlight-prose - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Blast From The Past by @pedro-pascal-love - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Children of the Watch by @omgreally - 1 (Ongoing)

Connections, Small and Profound by @mando-cyare - 1, 2, 3, 4 (Links to AO3)

Death and an Angel by @littlemisspascal - Series Masterlist Link

Dinner and Diatribes by @syndxlla - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (Ongoing)

The Doctor’s Wife by @blueeyesatnight - A series of short stories 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

Dust by @etchedbox - Series Masterlist Link

Faculae by @steeeeeeeviebb - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 (Ongoing)

Hidden Desires by @absurdthirst - Series Masterlist Link (Complete)

Hurricane by @fisforfulcrum - Series Masterlist Link

The Last Mandalorian by @littlemisspascal - 1 (Part 1), 1 (Part 2), 1 (Part 3)

Losing My Religion by @oonajaeadira - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 - (Ongoing)

Din / Dance - Drabble within the Losing My Religion World by @oonajaeadira - Link

Lunar by @himbodjarin - AO3 Link (Complete)

Magnetic by @something-tofightfor - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Mando’s Intergalactic Taxi Service by @omgreally - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11 (Ongoing)

The Mechanic by @cornerficus - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, E (Complete)

Miscommunication by @ezrasbirdie - Series Masterlist Link

More to Love by @syndxlla - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 , 9, 10, 11, 12 (Ongoing)

The Nomad by @clints-lucky-arrow - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Sparing Practice  - Side Chapter to Nomad by @clints-lucky-arrow - Link

Of Constellations and Creeds by @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Resol’nare by @the-blind-assassin-12 - Series Masterlist Link

Hokan’yc - Resol’nare Flashback One Shot by @the-blind-assassin-12 - Link

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker by @mandoinevarro - P, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Complete)

Sanctified/\Desecrated by @221bshrlocked - Series Masterlist Link (Ongoing)

Shakespeare in the Crest by @asta-lily - Series Masterlist Link (Complete)

Silk by @juletheghoul - 1

To Love is To Burn by @jura-moon 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 (Complete)

Touch Me by @cornerficus - 1, 2 (Complete)

Vencuyanir by @oloreaa - AO3 Link

When She Fell From The Sky by @mandosmistress - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Ongoing)

Unexpected by @maybege - AO3 Links Part 1, 2, 3

#pedro pascal fanfiction #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando fanfiction #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #din djarin smut #mando smut #the mandalorian smut #din djarin rec list #mando rec list #mandalorian rec list #pedro pascal rec list #pedro pascal characters #css masterlist

[tobealostwanderer]

Hello my lovely people! After being on Tumblr for a while and reading a lot of fanfiction, I decided to make a Fanfiction Recommendation List! You can find the list here. It's a big one.. And it took the entire day to make oops. I hope you enjoy all these stories. Support the writers with liking and reblogging their work!

I am tagging all the lovely writers below the cut. Thank you all for fueling my obsessions. You all have my heart and soul <3.

@dindjarindiaries; @arduadastra; @letterfromvienna; @bumblebeezer; @absurdthirst; @1800-fight-me; @14mcmd1122; @the-scandalorian; @slater-baby; @charnelhouse; @ghostwiththemostbitch; @neptunesglow; @omgreally; @wyn-dixie; @littlepadika; @fuck-goes-on; @sirowsky; @bunniesofsteel; @xwing-baby; @dameronology; @mouthymandalorian; @reluctant-mandalore; @honeymandos; @darthamidalas; @gaiuswrites; @captn-ander; @maervelouslytrekking; @lostandalonetogether; @bison-writes; @worlds-forgotten; @lunaserenade; @blueeyesatnight; @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa; @wille-zarr; @mbpokemonrulez; @galaxticangel; @frannyzooey; @dinner-djarin; @softpedropascal; @ohheyitsokay; @mikeisthricedeceased; @autumnleaves1991-blog; @sugarontherims; @mandosmistress; @pascalpanic; @yourfavouriterival; @scribbledghost; @disgruntledspacedad; @mypedrom; @penajavier; @seasonschange-butpeopledont; @say-al0e; @mxsamwilson; @witchsignals; @toomanystoriessolittletime; @pascalscenarios; @givemethatgold; @what-the--curtains; @asta-lily; @grogusmom; @honeybeezx; @juletheghoul; @the-blind-assassin-12; @haildoodles-writing; @writeforfandoms; @danniburgh; @lilkermit14; @pedropastelpascal; @tropes-and-tales; @tiffdawg; @mellowswriting; @queenofthefaceless; @jedi-jesi; @brandyllyn; @lucrezia-thoughts; @queridopascal; @radiowallet; @flightlessangelwings; @oloreaa; @dedicatedtodilfs; @girlwithanewplan; @multifandomfanfiction; @reverieness; @knivesareout; @pumpkin-stars; @roguepoetic; @thewayofthemandalorian; @artemiseamoon; @corvueros; @alwritey-aphrodite; @buttercup--bee; @qveenbvtch; @bonktime; @littlemisspascal; @michaelperry

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #fanfiction recommendation list #fanfiction recommendation #wanderer's fic rec #oscar isaac #oscar isaac fanfiction