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unabashednightmarepizza · 5 months

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This is so sudden brainrot but imagine... That You, the Creator, are married with one of the Archons.

But the people never really saw You.

Warnings: Too much cheesiness in Venti's and Zhongli's part, only sadness in Ei's part, flangst in Furina's part, "Being human" problems in Furina's and Ei's part, Ei and Scara's "toxic" bond, slight mentions of abondenment, the reader being referred as "wife"

In Mondstadt, much like other nations, people had never seen their Creator. There were many monuments and statues all around their city, and they knew for a fact that there were even more in other ones, and people worshipped your name alongside their Lord Barbatos with pride, gratefulness and love.

The tale of your adventures together, the many battles you both fought side by side and brought their ancestors to victory, the way you both saved Mondstadt from the vengeful God Decarabian and later the corrupt society... But above all, the strong and unbreakable love you held for each other for centuries were told all around the city's lively streets.

Many stories, paintings, books were written in both of your names; told as both a warning and a heartwarming message.

Once, and even occasionally now, they were heard through their murmurs of praise and the Wind you and your beloved controlled.

Alongside that bard's tunes and melodic lyre where he declared his "unyielding and ever-strong love" for the Creator.

Blasphemous, really.

But the people just left him be. After all, if he trully angered You and Lord Barbatos, the bard wouldn't even be standing alive and rather striken down by bolts of thunder rather than being drunk all the time and sing songs about his devoted love for You as he was ready to give his all.

Diluc was trully going to strike him with his own claymore even if his beloved Creator didn't, and he would have the support of the whole city for doing so as the bard only giggled and played with the ring on his finger, one that was adorned with many jewels unknown to humans...

Which made people question Venti whether he robbed someone rich or he had someone rich buying all that stuff.

Basically a sugarmommy or something. One that needs to be either a God or, as absurt as it was, the Creator Themselves since he was living somehow a luxurious life with all those exclamations and all his debt to Master Diluc was suddenly payed.

Because come on,who would... Exclaim such vulgar and intimate things about Their Majesty, when They already have a husband?

The husband who very much so adores and worships the ground his spouse walks on, who is also very horny for Them and regularly makes love with Them which ends with two slightly exhausted but very pleased Gods wearing giddy smiles as giggles leave them, their hands still touching and proding against the other's body... There was a reason A Thousand Winds were important for the nation of freedom-

But, two things were enough for them to reconsider their decisions one day and send them into a heart attack that surely would put them in their grave early.

One: The fact that the Creator, not that they knew at that time, was drinking coffee happily while eating Mondstadt Hash Brown and Nothern Smoked Chicken in the Good Hunter while conversing with people normally as if they enjoyed hearing Diona complain about their alcohol and how bad it was for the health, all the while bouncing a very happy and excited Klee on Their knees as she rambled about her Dodoco.

And Two: Venti running up to that person, you, with a wide grin and kissing you while exclaiming a happy "Windblume, you are here! I missed you so much!"

Now, it wouldn't have been a big problem and shock. You see, it was two lovers happily hugging and greeting each other, exchanging loving kisses and stares as even the hearts of people around them were shook by how intense and strong it was. The elders were cooing at the cute scene, the shorter and petite looking bard hugging a tall and strong-looking person, a show of their contrast yet harmony as the person lovingly patted his head and kissed his soft cheeks like usual...

Had they not known Venti was their Archon Lord Barbatos who was married with... The Creator, like he exclaimed so in many of his drunkard monologues, and suddenly his pretty ring and life made sense as Jean fainted from witnessing the Holy love of her Gods and the truth behind Venti's real marriage to You, Lisa's eyes widened as a blush overtook her face and...

Well, chaos ensured.

"Windblume! You are here!" Venti exclaimed happily with reddened cheeks, both from his excitement and drunk self. You could only sigh softly at the fact that he once again drunk himself away, a tad bit disappointed at hım failing his promise once again even though he made great progress, yet you still caressed his face with lithe fingers as softly as possible with a frown.

And did Venti hate that sight with a burning passion.

All that mattered was you, for him. The You who still loved him despite his mistakes in the past and the hollow feeling that followed hım everywhere. The You who always reassured him that he deserves the happiness he now lives...

And He couldn't be more grateful to have it with you, for you to accept his love all those years ago, way before even humans were created.

And to his happiness, you finally came back after he spent painful years alone since another world needed your assistanfe. Sure he was "sleeping" while he was actually taking care of your daughter, playing with her all day to make up for the lost time and teaching her about the wind but you didn't have to know that!

You sure as hell did, and was getting ready to scold the shit out of him later for allowing and teaching your precious child foul words to insult people Barbatos didn't like.

"Yes, my beloved husband... Unforfunately, one of the universes needed my assistence immediately and another once-water-dragon needed some teaching. Poor boy, judged because he is the reincarnation of the previous Imbibitor Lunae..."

Venti only hummed thoughtfuly as he sat down next to you, twirling a Cecilia between his fingers with a soft smile since the once depressing sight of the flower was now of a happy and joyful sight that reminded him of hope, love and... Babypowder.

But there was also the fact that you had way too many adopted children. He liked your soft heart for children, he really did and he was also the same as you as he too "adopted" kids...

But was it not getting out of hand?

"Another one we're adopting? Don't you think-" he sweated nervously with a tilt of his head, pouting in thought at yet another sad child in his home though he didn't really hate the idea, not at all.

But the havoc caused by all the ruckus caused by them and his precious flower who loved those big brothers and sisters she had was giving him white hairs since he couldn't do something that would erase her cute smile, like getting angry at her and them for having fun and being free. What kind of father and God would he be then?

You saw the reluctance in his eyes as clear as the day, and you understood why he felt that way. At first, you also were reluctant to do what you have been doing for years now but one look at their sad and lifeless eyes that held no childlike wonder...

And you were suddenly hugging them all to your chest, swooping them up and giving them the best life possible.

Besides, you also learnt how to get under Barbatos' skin too!

You pouted at him cutely, getting closer to him and nuzzling your face to his neck teasingly as you landed a soft kiss to the juncture of his neck, softly nimbling on the tender skin as he groaned out and lightly threw his head back.

"You are making me crazy, Windblume..."

"Hmm, but you like it~ Besides, I know you like me happy and this kid also commands Wind-"

"Consider it done,Windblume! I wonder how Cecilia would react though."

Gotcha.

Just as quickly, he fell apart and his fake reluctance was replaced with fatherly affection at having yet another wind user at home to teach new skills as his hand thightened over yours and he stared at you after you lifted yourself from your place on his neck.

You smugly smirked with a hint of affection for his soft side as you kissed his lips softly, leaving him in a daze as he looked at you with a lopsided and lovesick smile.

That was why you loved him so much...

You laughed to yourself happily at how easy it was for him to accept anything and nothing that came from you, especially when it included mistreated children's care who was blessed by the wind.

Besides, he had a really hard time saying no to both you and those he considered as his children who had his vision... His own child wasn't an option because he never said no to her much to your dismay.

"Hmm? She is a lovely and friendly girl, she even befriended Neuvillette and adores when Zhongli tells her stories of the ancient times! I'm sure everything would be fine!"

Venti groaned at what you said, because though Zhongli and him were not on so good terms... It seemed his own daughter stabbed him from the back by liking her uncle Li's stories as much as her dad's and his own wife took great satisfication from making fun of him for it while drinking Osmanthus Wine as if the situation wasn't bad already.

Barbatos was just being dramatic in your opinion since your daughter generally loved reading and listening to other people's stories. Besides, Cecilia had a very big Dvalin plushie alongside the friends that shaped Mondstadt to its recent version, and refused to sleep without having them close to her and if that didn't say enough, her wearing the same clothes as his and even sometimes imitating her father did.

Which often ended up with a bawling Barbatos as he nuzzled to her, her doing the same to hım as they resembled a mama cat and her kitten.

"MAMA, PAPA! MAMA CAME BACK!" A shrill, excited cry came from the Gates as everyone's attention was turned for a second to the little toddler girl who suddenly zoomed to where you and Venti was, clinging onto you and nuzzling her face to yours as you laughed fondly and stared at her with eyes identical to hers that she inherited from you...

The stars that would always follow the Princess and the sign of Teyvat, on her inherited eyes shone the brightest as the people of Mondstadt met their Creator in the most affectionate way possible: Showcasing of the motherly love You held for the baby in your arms as Barbatos walked around the city you two built with the help of your now deceased friends proudly.

Proud for he was able to give Cecilia a future to hope for, a place for her to grow up without knowing the harshness of this world and how much blood was spilled for her and the future generation to grow and flourish, for them to never know tyranny and pain.

And that was also the day, the people of Mondstadt met the Priincess Cecilia of their Creator and Archon.

A lovely toddler who was loved and adored by Teyvat and all the universes.

A toddler that had the same love between her parents reflected in her eyes and smile.

And apparently, a toddler who loved apples as much as her dad, if not more, as the gremlin they were together.

"Cecilia, how many apples have you eaten today?" You raised your brows at her suspiciously innocent face, questioning her enormous pocket which you were sure held many apples for her to eat with her dad.

"Only 3, mama!" She smiled widely at you, unaware of the pocket dimension which seemed huge to the eye of a God, the one you added behind her dress because she loved picking things up and storing them as keepsakes.

"Besides the other 100 ones you have in your pocket dimension??"

A poignant silence settled between the three of you, as cricket sound was the only thing that could be heard. You stared at your daughter whose eyes widened at your question, shocked at how you knew of her secret stash, fondly and amused.

Poor baby, she still couldn't understand that you were the Creator of All and knew pretty much everything.

"...... I can explain, mama!"/ "Windblume, you can't punish her! Look at her cute face, and how adorable she is while holding the apples!"

And yes, indeed, you couldn't punish them because of how much you loved them both as Cecilia offered you two apples rather than one like she did to her dad, who only smiled and nodded as she said she loved you so so much, while you two walked out of the city to go and visit uncle Dvalin and you only shook your head in fake disappointment at he silliness of both your husband and daughter.

He agreed on that fact of Cecilia without complaints as he stared at your etheral smile. After all, Mondstadt was the epitome of his love for You.

Even if you didn't allow him to eat more apples-Besides, the artival of a New Princess would surely be rnough for hım.

With Liyue, it was way different.

Morax, or Zhongli as he now called himself, had begged you to take some days off with himself away in your lovely and cozy home on the outskirts of Liyue, away from the bustling crowd so that both him and your daughter could freely let go of their human appearance and waffle around with their dragon features.

A big contrast to the home he once had as Rex Lapis.

Now, there were two reasons for him wanting you have some rest. One, because he missed you. He missed those good old times when he would always sit with you in your balcony and watch the sun as his black and scaled hands clasped around your middle with your back resting on his chest, inhaling and exhaling softly to which he did the same.

He missed the days he got to spend with you as himself, not the human one but the true him. The dragon him, with amber horns that shone with each light hitting them. Tail so large and big yet also soft that it was a great blanket for you and Zhi.

His little girl, the one who showed the world of the love shared between the Creator and Rex Lapis, the fruit of thousands of years of love and marriage which was fated to continue to grow and get stronger.

You insisted that, at the time when you were pregnant upon your stubborness because you wished to experience it rather than just creating your child out of wisp, whatever gender the baby would be... They would be named after him.

He disagreed on that at first, to his and your shock since he never did such thing before even when his ideas and yours were completely opposite of each other.

To him, he was a monster that shed way too much blood. A God of War that killed many Gods, a God that was too harsh and even rude sometimes... Once a sinner that dared to challenge the Allmighty Creator of All.

And for all these reasons and more complicated ones, he always felt unworthy of the happiness and serenity he now has. He felt the guilt of his past actions often pricking at his mind at the deep of the night, all the screams and tears he made others let out plagued his already fragile mind as the others surrendered to the sweet embrace of sleep and he laid awake beside you, who only wished to take his pain and self-loathing away so that he could finally start living.

But for the longest time, you were unable to make him see the beauty of life and above all, himself.

However his little Zhi changed it all for him, with her fat cheeks and chubby arms and all smiles at him even when she hadn't opened her eyes to the worlds that waited with batted breaths yet.

Both Teyvat and that time's Liyue were so excited at the news of their Archon and Creator having their own child, true embodiment of love and power. Teyvat was sunny and shiny for days, and even if it rained, it was always a soft drizzle and never a hurricane.

And your people? They were so ecstatic as the city bubbled with life and happiness, with everyone preparing offerings, clothes, jewelries and toys for the uncoming heir. Rex Lapis toys, story books about you and your husband's adventure, teething toys (you didn't understand at first but now blessed the makers eternal happiness in the after life for it because boy, was it bad), you name it and the list went off.

As if all the gifts stopped there... All the Adeptus and even the level-headed Guizhong literally raced to be the baby's favourite auntie/uncle with the gifts or clothes or their plans of playing with them while you sat there next to your husband with an awkward smile, him stroking your bloated belly with a fatherly love as the baby kicked his hand happily, knowing it was the sweet hold of its dad...

All the while Alatus and Bosacius butted heads for what food and game were the best for the baby, Guizhong and Streetward Rambler sketched new toys while Menogias and Cloud Retainer already started their clothing plans to sew for later.

And the baby wasn't even born.

He still remembers the days he spent silently crying while holding one of the toys which was gifted from his people for his baby after it was declared that their nation would be blessed with a child of their Archon and Creator, holding onto the doll and imagined a daughter who played with it with a huge smile.

He knew any child of a loving marriage such as yours would be a blessing, especially since they would have your lovely features that he fell for a long time ago and still did, too. But his heart couldn't help but swell whenever he thought about having daughters who looked at him as if he hung the stars and tried to imitate you.

And no, his dragon instincts weren't playing a crucial role in his sudden need of many children and the thightness he felt in his pants whenever he saw you, his wife, walking around with a child between your arms in his and your land, with his wedding band that he crafted on your finger-

Yes, he wanted a girl to cuddle with and dote on so badly- even when most "men" only wished to have sons at an age when it was the expected behaviour and Zhongli never fit in, being "ridiculed" for his wish for an healthy child only, even if ridiculing him wasn't possible since he had a very sharp tongue when he wanted and he didn't care about fitting when he was the one who made the land, being the dad of his little girl was the greatest honorary title he ever .

And when little Zhi was born, with eyes wide with curiousity and wonder for the world around her, a smile wide enough to lighten up the whole universe as she gazed between you and her dad who was just sobbing at the innocence on her face and the cute baby fat all around her body as he held his whole life between his arms...

Morax made the biggest and most important contract of forever, after his promise to forever love and cherish you.

To always be there for his girl and protect her from any harm, so that the smile she wore the first day she was welcomed in Teyvat as it rejoiced at the arrival of the little princess, would forever remain on her face.

And the second reason was... Well...

"Let me get this straight: You wanted to retire for good and therefore faked your own death, are now a funeral consultant who happens to have met with one of my vessels from another world and all of this mess happened right before Zhi started showing her dragon side and saw her dad 'dying'?"

You deadpanned at Zhongli as he winced awkwardly from the loud cries of his precious baby daughter who clinged onto your legs, drawing slight Holy Golden Blood that belongt to you. He felt like the filthiest lower form on the surface of Teyvat as tears fell down her cheeks in huge globs, her whimpers filling the empty room as the sky roared angrily outside with its harsh wisps of storm and rain hitting the windows as if they wanted to get inside and punish him for making "the Princess of Teyvat" cry as the people outside tried to find a shelter.

And was the ground shaking or was it his imagination?

Even though her claws hurted your human skin and caused you to hiss in pain, you couldn't care less since your daughter was the most uncomfortable she had ever been, with her cheeks wet from the tears for her "father's death"...

Even with the cute little horns and claws, alongside the huge slitted amber eyes she definetly inherited from her father that you loved more than anything made her impossible to resist, you were still angry at Zhongli and neither her nor his puppy eyes would work on you.

"I understand your need for rest but we need more than a vacation now, Morax! We need therapy! She thinks you're gone and-" you frailed your arms around angrily while pointing between her and him, when you were interrupted by your daughter's soft voice and hiccups.

"Māma? Bàba is gone? He won't c-come?" Zhi whimpered as she clutched the plushie of the dragon form of her dad thightly to her chest, the item being her only comfort at the moment as your heart broke for the tears falling down her amber eyes as stars dimmed inside of them.

Heh, at least she has that feature from me even though she is a replica of her dad...

"No, love... Bàba isn't gone, he is just being silly." You gritted your teeth slightly to Zhongli as you led Zhi away while looking over your shoulder at him threateningly.

A glare that sent chills down his spine, as Zhongli knew the hidden meaning behind it even after thousands of years being together

You better find a way to fix this or else...

And you know what they say: Happy wife, happy life.

And in Zhongli's case: Happy wife, happy child and happy universes...

With Fontaine, it was after Focalors' plans were revealed to the people and Fontaine was saved with Your and Focalors' combined powers and help. The people lived, the children and friends you had made were safe and all of them were alive as they hugged the closest person to them happily, praising your and Focalors name as they prayed and thanked you both...

At the cost of your lover's life.

You humorlessly chuckle as rain falls down your face and mixes with your tears, head hung low on the last stage you two could ever have as the heaviness of the situation slowly dawned on you.

It seems loosing who I love the most is a frequent occurance.

Now, one might question why the All-Creator wasn't just simply bringing her lover back to life or just not will her death to stop. As the Creator, you were supposed to be that powerful and nothing should disobey you... Well, they were all true facts about your being but you couldn't just do it because you promised her.

After everything was over, and the time you dreaded which was the end of this masqurade had finally come... She said she was just too exhausted to continue as an Archon beside you and asked if it was allright to rest.

Maybe as any other person would do, but not as an Archon... She couldn't keep going anymore.

Besides, Fontaine no longer needed an Archon. They were strong on their own as well, and she knew that if Celestia dared to go against your command once more... You would protect them and the rest of the Teyvat fiercely.

"I wish to rest, my dear... If you will be allright without me and there wouldn't be a problem?" She asked softly with her much smaller hands gently caressing your saddened face, wiping the few stray tears that fell down on your cheeks. Your heart hurt way too much, at how easy it was for her to recognize your tears from the heavy rain that poured down, at how soon enough... You would loose the person that knew you the best, always stood next to you at harsh times and put a smile on your face with her antics.

Teyvat cried alongside you for the pain their Creator felt as the guillotine that would take her away from you floated above you.

It was ready to destroy itself if you commanded, that magicial execution weapon didn't like the idea of killing its Archon and the beloved of the Creator, even though you weren't at your full power...Any being, alive or not, bent the knee to you after all but, if there was something stronger than the Will of the Creator...

It was the wish of Her lover, whom She was ready to do anything for and who wished to depart with an excellent last show.

After all, how could you resist her when she asks you so sweetly with her loving and different-colored eyes?

"Then, as your lover... I shall make your wish come true. You may rest, my love, until your soul is ready to come back to the world I created with so much love." You tearfully exclaimed, hands coming up to take a hold of hers as your lips locked with her own and then landed on her forehead tenderly for the last time. As the fact that this was the last time you would stare at her eyes, witness her dramatic plays, see your reflection in her eyes filled with love for you finally dawned on...

You silently broke.

You had this much of previlege, right? Who said the Creator couldn't grieve? Maybe you couldn't outwardly show weakness to your people, but at least you had Teyvat reflecting your true emotions...

But just as you were suffering, there was another one who had been suffering for 500 years in silence. From having to pretend as someone she wasn't, putting on the mask of the strong Archon who did her best to entertain her people so that they weren't worried about the prophecy...

But above all, from pretending not to be in love with the one person she wasn't supposed to fall for.

"I have loved you for this cruel 500 years, Your Grace. Even when I knew your heart belongt to another, one that I pretended to be for many years in hopes to have you..." she hung her head down in shame and sadness as she whispered to the wind, unaware of you listening to her with a thight heart as she stood on the balcony that looked at the horizon of Fontaine.

Though a part of you still loved Egeria and Focalors, grieved their death and often refused any exclamations of your obvious love for the "puppet" version of her...

Now, you couldn't help but agree with everyone and even Focalors, as you stared at Furina's back with a saddened yet soft smile.

"No, I don't have feelings for her, Focalors!" You denied her obvious teasing, although she raised a brow at your flushed face with a smirk.

"It's okay to have feelings for two people at the same time, love! Even more so when It's you, the All-Creator!"

"Focalors!" You bursted out with a hand clutching your chest in embarrasment, dress flowing behind you with each movement as you ran away from her teasing remarks as she laughed at your misery which put a smile on your face even when your body said otherwise.

What a good melody it was as her light laugh resonated in your Chambers...

"What? I'm sure there are others who wish to be your consort so badly!" She rolled over on your bed, laying on her stomach as her feet kicked back and forth happily, her fingers twirling her hair as she gazed at your back, biting her lips but mind actually busy with... This new revelation.

Focalors had always been a different kind. When all the other Archons were either greedy or keen on fighting, she loved scheming her plans and watching in silence from the shadows. That way, most thought of her to be powerless and not strong enough to be an Archon... Unaware of the fact that sometimes brains was much stronger than brawn and they were being imbeciles by not noticing this.

And that fact was what attracted you to her in the first place, eventually resulting with a happy and Holy unity of two person in love much to Focalors enjoyment as she rubbed it on her fellow Archons' face.

But in this new case, although she was surprised by the turn of events, she was fine with sharing You... With her humane prototype Furina.

Someone she was very fond of, even though she was created to act like the Hydro Archon herself... Someone Focalors was proud to create who was slowly becoming what she always aspired Furina to be.

Human.

"Alright, fine! I get it! So what if I have feelings for her? It's not like-"

"You should confess to her."

You still remembered how Focalors smiled softly at that time, no hatred or dislike or even jeaolusy evident on her face as she encouraged you to follow your heart, knowing the truth behind your protective stance concerning your feelings for Furina.

She knew how this plan would end, deceiving the rogue Heavenly Principles never came without a price... And she didn't want you to be alone when it happened, didn't want your kind heart to harden with grief and loneliness.

Furina would be much better of a wife for you, than Focalors could ever be. After all, what kind of wife would give up on her own spouse just when they would have their happily ever after?

At that time, such absurdity repulsed you.

You, having feelings for another? Yet alone someone who was created to deceive your traitor of a first creation Celestia?

Ridiculous.

Not that you thought of her to be ridiculous because she was obviously adorable whenever a new human invention or music excited her and she came to you, begging you to accompany her so that she could understand humans better since you were the one who created such complex yet intriguing beings.

And definetly not that you decided that blue suited her well, when you introduced her to new clothings that complemented her in the best way possible.

"Now, I see that I could never be that... If only true love was enough..."

But poor Furina, now completely human and free, didn't know about any of this. She still was a prisoner in her own cruel mind which yelled self-deprecating and harsh words to her, mocking her for falling for her God.

It wasn't even her intention to be created that way. She didn't mean to fall for your kindness and unconditional love, not when she knew she received them because she was created to replace your lover as the Archon of Fontaine. She knew you only spent time with her because Focalors probably asked you to, because you and her had to get along well for the next 500 years as Focalors remained in shadows for the plan you two made to work.

She knew she would be thrown aside as soon as her part of the play was over...

Yet, her heart still beated hard whenever your eyes found hers and she held onto your hand at times she was afraid.

She still fell for you hopelessly whenever you patiently watched and listened to her plays and antics, and even cracked a smile whenever she forgot what she was supposed to say.

And whenever she saw that smile and hear that laugh, it was like she had become more human as more time she spent in your presence.

But defeated she was, she knew it was impossible to have you for real. At least now that she lost all of the godly power she held and Fontaine was safe from the evil clutches of Celestia as you prepared to go and face Them.

Your Shades.

But, as the once-God-of-Justice... She was wrong about one thing, one thing you felt guilty about: The fact that she thought of herself to be unworthy of You, when it was possibly the other way around.

Indeed, if only she knew the truth... That You held her at the highest position in your heart, which had been the case for 500 years unknown to both you and her.

"I doubt she is strong enough for all these, Focalors... However, such fragile thing yet even if she faces many hardships, she is perfectly human." You idly traced patterns on her arm as she laid next to you in your realm, humming quietly while she relaxed back onto you. You couldn't help but let out a chuckle at her kitten-like behaviour, nuzzling to you while you inhaled her flowery scent...

Though your thoughts were cut short when another set of heterochromatic eyes came to your mind, the same color as the one between your arms... But more humane, more expressive... One that made you fall in love and gaze at for a long time as the sun framed her face in the most ethereal way...

You froze when you realized an affectionate smile lifted your lips up, shaking your head as your heart started to pick up. Suddenly, her excited smile whenever you brought another set of sweets from another world for her to try, or the rare curious and not teasing stare while she munched on food as she listened to what you said with passionate eyes, as if she wished to hear more of you, be in your presence more...

Or that one time when she was just so close for you to lean down and capture her lips-

And the woman next to you heard the exact moment you realized your feelings in your heart.

As if she knew your inner thoughts, she slowly rose up and stared down at your thoughtful eyes with loving ones as her hand caressed your cheeks, making you close your eyes in peace with the calming sound of water almost lulling you to sleep. "Is she weak in your eyes for it?"

Focalors was an Archon, blessed with just a tiny part of your power, but she was able to see right through you. She knew you had been harbouring some kind of... Attraction towards a certain eccentric one that was also too bad at hiding her own feelings as she quite literally hung off of you every chance she got, much to her amusement.

What was even funnier was the fact that you too, though the Creator, were quite bad at hiding your feelings as well and if she needed to be the one to step up and make you realize them soon, Focalors was going to make it come true in one way or another.

"She simply... Amazes me with the strength of her will." you stopped to ponder for an answer for the best words to describe your thoughts, without showing much of your raging emotions. It wasn't a lie after all, the way she sacrificed herself for her people simply amazed you and made your affections grow for the girl. Knowing this, Focalors only giggled knowingly as you rolled your eyes at her when a question whose answer was very obvious and tenderly uttered by you, left her lips.

"And what would you do if all of this ends one day?"

"I'd still be there for her until the end of time..."

"I know you're listening, Your Grace..."

You chuckled under your breath at how she still held some powers of her, though you weren't surprised since she was the secret beloved of the Creator and therefore, the world still blessed her with powers; as you stepped away from your place in the shadows, heels slowly clicking against the marble floor. You soon came to a stop next to her, looking at the rejoicing people of Fontaine who were praying to and thanking both her and You, staring at the horizon together.

Dreading what needed to be said, even if the harsh truth would break her heart, as you looked at her from the side.

"I loved and still love Focalors, Furina."

She sniffled, nodding her head in understanding. She already knew that and prepared herself for the rejection she would have to face. She was happy that her people was safe and happy, that the prophecy didn't happen and destroy her nation...

But, did she not deserve happiness too? Didn't she shed enough tears silently by herself? She didn't even know what she was supposed to do with her new life given to her, a free life for her to enjoy and do as she liked...

With the person she loved the most.

Your heart twisted painfully at her crystal eyes glossing over, which made you question yourself for a second if that was the right way to confess. You were so sure Focalors was laughing her ass off at one point up there, watching this comedic scene quite amused but right now, you needed to take a step to both of your's happiness and make things right as you took a hold of her hand that stood next to her side idly and sighed.

Here we go...

"But I also love you." She whipped her head as soon as she processed your words, eyes immediately focusing on your form that was just a few feet away from her. Her eyes noticed you wearing the Hydro Sigil Necklace she specifically gifted you with, different colored blue hues mixing together in harmony as the stars of Teyvat complemented your face alongside that necklace that shone with the light of a new day in the most perfect way.

The necklace which was the proof of her first doing as Furina and not the Hydro Archon, without any saying from Focalors.

"Y-Your Grace? W-What does it-"

"Did you really think I didn't know the truth about your and Focalors plan? I was the one who suggested it and she was the one who progressed it!.. It seems I truly have a weakness when it comes to Hydro girls!" You joyfully exclaim with a giggle, watching as her face turned pale before a deep crimson took over. Her mind turned to literal mush, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events.

Was this one of her wild dreams where she was just... happy with you? No consequences?

But no, this was very much so real as she looked down at your joined hands together and stared into your eyes.

" You have always wanted to have someone listen to your struggles, your pain and burdens, right?" Furina couldn't help the squeak that left her, hurriedly nodding her head as she allowed her tears to fall freely after your next words, hugging you thightly as her tears soaked your gown.

"After years of watching you grow in yourself as the woman who loves all kind of sweets and a knack for being dramatic... The innocent human who endured everything we have planned, unfortunately... I can't help but confess that I had fallen deeply for you."

"Therefore, I shall be that person. Forever, if you wish?" You gracefully took a hold of her slender and smaller hands, finger tips caressing her smooth and soft skin as if it was a fine china. Her heart, now human heart that was free of its shackles, swelled with love with each stroke your hands did.

And her heart caved in, her tears falling down on her cheeks and down to your palm gracefully as she gave a sincere smile amidst her own pain and relief, a smile of the happiness she was starting to have.

"I... That would be a great happiness, Your Grace." You chuckled affectionately, stroking her cheek with the tip of your finger as you landed a kiss on her forehead.

"None of that now... Y/N would do just fine." She beamed visibly at you and nodded, looking at the people below with a new kind of hope blooming inside her chest.

Maybe things would be better from now on?

"By the way, short hair really suits you well, love." You cheekily exclaimed with arms around her waist, hugging her from behind as you stared at the redness coating her cheeks.

Oh, yes... Everything would definetly be better for good.

With Inazuma, things weren't so good unforfunately because of the tense and rocky relationship You and Ei had.

When you had to go on a long work trip where you were to see from close how other universes were doing, not seeing your innocent and loving son with your wife wasn't on your "Top Ten Things to See When I Return" list.

Neither seeing the hunted Visions on your Statue was, as your children were in pain, crying and begging for you to come back and kneeling in front of...

"What's the meaning of this, Ei?"

When the citizens of Inazuma heard their Creator's voice as warmth and comfort engulfed them and freed them from the shackles that kept them bound to the ground, they failed to notice the edge in your tone or rather chose to ignore it.

The angry, scared yet disappointed edge as Teyvat rumbled beneath the feet of people and sky roared above them... All the while Ei stood in front of your shrine with an unreadable and cold face.

This, wasn't Ei... This couldn't be the woman you loved and had a child with...

Child... Baby... Son... Kunikuzushi...

Your eyes widened in fear for your little son, as there was no sight of him and you couldn't feel his presence in the city anymore. Panic overtook your face, heart dropping to your stomach at the possibility of Ei doing something she would regret later and guilt filling your every part at not being more mindful of how she was before you left.

It couldn't have been that bad, enough for her to do something stupid to him... Right?

Damn, you never imagined her hurting Kunikuzushi... She always seemed so loving and affectionate with him, perhaps she was a good actor.

"Ei, where is my Kuni? Where is my son?"

Ei continued to stare at your face as you begged her for answers desperately. Though it was another puppet of her, you could always sense and feel Ei in her and right now, you knew that behind the cold and irritating stare...

She, too, was breaking apart.

But surprisingly enough... You didn't care much about it, your only concern right now was your son. You didn't care that you referred to him as only your son and not hers.

She lost that previlege a long time ago, it seemed.

"He was too human..."

And that was enough to tell you what Ei had done.

You staggered back with a sob, eyes filling with scorching tears as your heart suddenly stopped from the spikes threatening to tear you apart. Even as a God, you weren't pain-proof and at that moment, you wished nothing more than not being able to feel that crashing pain.

Your hand instinctively went up to the necklace your baby son gifted you after a merchant saw him looking at it with huge amazement. Now, the old lady wasn't a fool as to not know who the boy that held stars in his wide and innocent purple eyes was.

Many even wondered where that kindness,sweetness and innocence came from when their Archon was usually... Aloof.

But they agreed that it must have come from you, his other parent and the one he loved and clinged on the most... The Creator that created the worlds with utmost love, selflessnes and kindness unmatched.

And they were right, as Kunikuzushi pointed to the purple and dark blue pendant with a loud coo and wide smile as his cheeks-still filled with baby fat- was reddened by the weather made him look even more cute and made the passerby's eyes fill with tears at the cute display, he kindly asked how much he needed to have the necklace for his mama. Some clenched their hands in cuteness agression, wanting to hug the baby thightly and pinch his cheeks...

But they knew they would be striken down by the Shogun if they did it... Though some still dared to pat his purple tufts of hair, knowing that their Creator never minded and rather loved the affection Their people gave to Their son, the Prince of Teyvat.

"I bough' fo' you, mama! How does it looks?" Kunikuzushi innocently asked as Ei and you looked at the toddling baby fondly who showed his newest treasure proudly with a shy smile, yet a bit insecure since he took a look at the many jewelries you had at home and thought you wouldn't like his gift.

You tenderly smiled from your position on the bed with hugging Ei and let him plop down on your lap, nuzzling to your chest like a kitten as he stared up at you with fullblown eyes, especting an answer from you with his little heart pounding in his chest excitedly.

He only got a tearful smile and a heart filled with unconditional love for him.

"Perfect, my lovely Kuni... Mama loves you so much... So, so much..." You hugged your son thightly to yourself, your heart constricting painfully for some unknown reason as if something bad was bound to happen...

But you foolishly didn't listen to your heart that told you to take a good look at your wife, who looked at the smiling toddler on your lap with somewhat sudden, cold eyes...

Though both of you shared the same parental love for the boy, unforfunately for you and Kunikuzushi... Ei had more plans for him and therefore wanted him to be perfect for it but his humanity was making him unperfect, whereas he was already perfect in your eyes for his humanity...

For his love and wonder for the world around him, his love for you in the most simple act you did... Fear for the unknown but feeling still safe because he knew his mama would be there to protect him from any bad guys and danger! You did it many times with the treasure hoarders, or the Hilichurls and assassins!

So, where were you? Why did you not come when he needed you, called for you, cried for you to save him from this so-called Doctor? Did you too abandon him because he made you upset?

In the end, you failed Kunikuzushi... You failed in every possible thing about him when you couldn't protect him from his own mother, the one who should have loved him and did everything in her power to keep him happy and smiling wide.

You failed at noticing Ei not being in her right mind and at being there for your family.

And now, you all were paying the price.

"And that is why he was perfect... I guess, just not for you." you gritted out angrily as you too pulled your sword out at the same time as she did, not seeing the tears that shone on her porcelain skin and regret for what she had done all those years ago washing over her.

Your disappointed face right before she scumbed to your power and will was only the cherry on top, as she kneeled on both knees in front of you, her hand discarding the katana that slained many living beings as her whole life slowly was torn apart by none other than her destructive hands and doings.

"I trusted the mother of my son... Just for you to abandon him and make him also believe I abandoned him too in this already painful life... Because I thought no harm would ever come to him, least I thought it would be from my own wife."

It seemed that your Ei had become someone else, and she held no value to neither your son who was the happy outcome of your marriage with her, nor You anymore... And even if she cried tears of river, she would never be able to convince you otherwise.

"I will find him and beg for his forgiveness..." you muttered weakly before you turned your back to her for good, at least until things calmed down, as you descended down on the shrine that once witnessed both your union and also the creation of your son...

And now, your departure.

"My love..." Ei weakly mumbled from behind you, finally realizing the severity of what she had done and now, lost... as your emotionless eyes found hers from below the stairs, dress dancing through the wind as if to mock her for her mistakes and failures, she understood that maybe it was her fault.

First her sister, then her friends, then her son and now... You.

The one she always loved from the beginning and swore herself to for Eternity...

She ruined everything, every good thing that ever happened to her because she was either late or didn't see the true value of those in her life...

Like the family you two had created, what should have been a new purpose and a second chance for her was now only another regret in her list of numerous mistakes.

"I'm not going to let him walk down on this path alone... Goodbye for now, Ei." you willed yourself not to look at her shivering form, you knew you couldn't take the sight in. Though you acted cold right now, a part of you still loved her deeply. That part still yearned for her and her heart that she insisted she buried a long time ago, that part still wished to see the small smile as you gifted her with yet another treat and kissed all over her face, later showing how much you truly loved her...

They all seemed so far away now, all those happy days were long gone...

Neither you nor her turned back to take one look at the other as she too retreated back to her Plane of Euthymia, or thought back to the abandoned dreams you both had as all the good memories suddenly started to fade away and you disappeared in front of her eyes to find your son, as you made it clear, and she didn't hold any grudges for the way you angrily spitted out for she too, felt ashamed for what she had done.

And perhaps you both always walked on different paths from the beginning...

She, to a path of Eternity in which she lost herself.

And You, to a path of mending whatever was left of your family and hoping to find your son.

493 notes · View notes

cregan-starks · 11 months

Text

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.

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