~129 A.C~

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

WINTERFELL
The skies above the Wolfswood were quiet but alive with movement—wings slicing the air in rhythmic, disciplined strokes. Jocelyn Velaryon leaned forward in the saddle, her small form almost vanishing against the curve of the dragon's neck. Her hands were firm on the reins, her posture sharp with control and purpose.

Mirax, her dragon, was still young by the standards of the great beasts of old Valyria, but he was clever—fast, responsive, and growing stronger by the day. His scales shimmered like molten chocolate, catching flecks of silver and blue in the morning light. His eyes—icy, piercing blue—reflected the snow-capped mountains in the distance and the ferocity of Meleys, his late mother.

"Vēzot!" (Up!) Jocelyn commanded, her voice swallowed by wind and sky. Mirax soared higher, avoiding a cluster of bare-branched pines with deft, angled wings.

"Geptot!" (Left!) she called.

The dragon flipped—wings curling inward for a heartbeat before unfurling again. Jocelyn's body followed the motion with smooth instinct, and her fingers moved quickly to her belt. She unsheathed one of her signature daggers—slender, curved, made of blackened steel and etched with Valyrian runes—and threw it mid-roll, downward toward a tree stump target she had marked earlier with red cloth.

The dagger sank into the center of the red, dead center.

Jocelyn grinned.

Mirax let out a gruff chuff of approval, his deep voice rolling through the air like distant thunder.

"Bona's ziry, dōna valonqar," (That's it, sweet boy) she whispered, proud. "We'll dance through the sky like no other. We'll fly under Vhagar's belly and make her bleed from below if we must."

They circled again, this time lower to the tree line. The thick Winterfell woods were a good place to test agility and reflexes—dangerous for larger, older dragons, but ideal for Mirax's size. Jocelyn practiced making him dive and then climb sharply, weaving between white-barked trees and snow-covered rocks like shadows in motion.

This wasn't just play. This was war prep.

They had heard the winds of conflict even here in the frozen north—Aemond and Vhagar scorching the Riverlands, tensions rising in King's Landing. Jocelyn knew her place as a daughter of fire and salt: part Targaryen, part Velaryon, now bound to House Stark. But loyalty did not mean passivity. Cregan Stark, her husband of only two moons, had told her once: "The snow waits, but it never sleeps."

She would be ready.

Mirax let out a deep, crackling breath—one day, that breath would be fire. For now, it was steam and promise.

Jocelyn patted his neck, pulling him upward into a climb as the sun began its slow descent behind the wall of clouds.

"We'll keep training," she murmured. "We'll master every trick. One day, they'll look up and see not just a Stark wife on a dragon... but a force to fear."

And with a sharp whistle, they flipped again—dagger in hand, the wind roaring like a song of war around her.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The snow fell softly in the courtyard of Winterfell, dusting the stone with a quiet white glow as Mirax landed with slow, deliberate grace. His wings stirred the frost into eddies, and the northern guards at the gates watched in reverent silence as the dragon's claws scraped the stone. Atop his saddle, Jocelyn Velaryon untied her riding harness with a practiced ease. Her blue riding leathers hugged her figure—thick enough for the cold, but tailored to allow ease of movement. A pale silver sash looped her waist just above her softly rounding belly.

Cregan Stark stood by the gates, tall and firm as the godswood trees, his dark furs shifting in the breeze. At the sight of her, his stern features broke into something gentler. Jocelyn grinned wide, childlike in her delight, and leapt down just as Mirax folded his wings. Her boots hit the stone, and she rushed into her husband's waiting arms.

Cregan caught her mid-sprint, lifting her as easily as one might lift a feather. They spun once—twice—her laughter echoing across the yard before he steadied her and kissed her, long and warm, his gloved hand cupping her cheek.

Then his other hand moved instinctively, resting against the subtle swell of her belly beneath the blue leather. A flicker of something tender passed over his face. Awe, pride... and fear.

"Still flying like the wind," he murmured, voice low against her brow.

"I'm part dragon, you forget," she teased. "Your child's already learning to fly."

Cregan smirked, but his hand lingered protectively before dropping to lace their fingers together. "Come inside. You'll catch your death out here."

They walked toward the stone halls of Winterfell, snow melting slowly on their cloaks. "How go the preparations?" Jocelyn asked, eyes narrowing with focus again.

Cregan sighed through his nose, his tone turning heavy. "The Karstarks won't stand beside the Umbers. The Mormonts refuse to answer if the Glover men lead the march. Quarrels over past insults, land disputes, oaths made and broken before you or I were born. Children in old men's armor."

Jocelyn rolled her eyes. "Perhaps we should sit them at a table with soup and tell them no supper until they behave."

Cregan chuckled. "Tempting."

As they entered the great keep and passed through the fire-warmed corridors, Jocelyn paused before a small oaken door carved with runes of the Old Gods. She didn't knock—she never did. She pushed the door open gently.

Inside, Rickon Stark, small and wild-haired, sat on the floor, wobbling as he pushed a carved direwolf along the edge of a rug. The nurse turned at the sound of the door, but Rickon looked up first—and beamed.

"Jocy!" he cried, scrambling up.

Jocelyn knelt at once, her arms wide. Rickon tumbled into her with full force, small hands grabbing fistfuls of her skirts. She laughed, gathering him up and rising to her feet as the nurse discreetly excused herself. Rickon clung to her, wrapping his arms around her neck, cheek pressed to her shoulder.

Cregan stood in the doorway, quiet but visibly softened. Jocelyn looked over Rickon's shoulder and gave Cregan a little shrug, as if to say, what can I do? Cregan only smiled—one of those rare, real smiles—and stepped in behind her, placing a kiss to Rickon's head and wrapping his arms around both of them.

For a moment, they were a perfect knot of warmth, despite the snow waiting just outside.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Later, when Rickon had fallen asleep curled up with his toy in his bed, Jocelyn and Cregan returned to their chambers, dim candlelight flickering across stone and fur. She sat at the hearth, unwinding her braid, while Cregan stood by the window, arms crossed.

"I know I'll have to fly south eventually with part of the army and you later with the other," she said softly. "When the call comes."

Cregan didn't answer right away.

"If something happens to me..." she started again, but Cregan turned sharply, his expression flaring with a rare flash of anger.

"No."

"Cregan—"

"No, Jocelyn." He crossed the room and knelt before her, placing his hands on her belly again, then on hers. "I will not hear it. You are not dying. We are not losing our child. We are not dying. You are not leaving me. You will not make me raise Rickon alone in a castle of ghosts."

Her eyes shimmered, but she blinked fast. "You cannot promise that."

"No," he whispered. "But I can refuse it."

He kissed her hands, then her stomach, then her brow.

"You are my wife, my fire in the snow, the storm I never expected. You will return as will I. You on Mirax, me on Ironheart, both alive. Or I will march to the Stranger myself and drag you home."

Jocelyn finally let a tear fall, nodding as her fingers curled around his collar. "Then I won't die."

Jocelyn nodded, her breath hitching as the tears finally spilled free—hot against the cold that clung to the world outside. Cregan reached up and cupped her face with both hands, and before another word passed between them, he kissed her—hard, full of everything he couldn't say and everything he feared to lose.

She clung to him at once, her fingers tangling in his thick dark hair, pulling him closer. Her arms wrapped tight around his neck, and Cregan, in one swift motion, stood and lifted her into his arms as though she weighed nothing at all. Jocelyn's legs circled his waist instinctively, seeking closeness, seeking comfort.

He carried her across the chamber in a silence laced with urgency, with yearning, and laid her down carefully onto the soft furs of their bed. The firelight painted gold into her dark hair, catching the shimmer of her tears, and he paused above her, brushing one trembling thumb across her cheek.

"I love you," he said quietly, as if the words themselves carried sacred weight. "I never thought I'd say that again. I never thought it was meant for me, not after Arra. But then you came... fierce and loud and full of light—and everything changed."

Jocelyn reached up, her hands resting against his chest as though grounding herself. Her lips quivered, but she smiled through it, nodding. "You're my other half, Cregan Stark," she whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. "My shield and my fire. I was raised for politics, for war—but not for love. I didn't think it real until you."

He leaned down again, pressing his forehead to hers. "It was never political for me. Not once. Not when I saw you dismount that dragon. I knew the realm had given me a wife, but the gods gave me you."

Their lips met again, slower now, deeper. The storm outside howled quietly, but inside that chamber, there was only warmth, and safety, and something that made death and dragons and war seem very far away.

Here, in this quiet, in this bed of wolf-fur and firelight, they were just two people who had found something they never expected.

Love.

Real and burning.

And worth fighting for.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
The corridors were quiet, save for the distant clang of dragon‑keepers prepping mounts for the day. Vellena Velaryon walked their length with purpose, silver braid swaying over the dark riding leathers she still favored. Despite her resolve, her violet eyes repeatedly flickered towards Jacaerys—but he was never where she expected.

One morning, she passed him at the library door. He sat at a distant table, immersed in austere tactics scrolls. His back was to her, posture rigid. Her heart twinged—then she forced her gaze forward.

A few hours later, she was atop the cliffs, drawing her bow. Training ground. Gravity. Focus. Still, her arrow's flight faltered when she saw his dark figure pacing by the sea wall, alone.

She lowered her bow. He wouldn't meet her here, either.

That afternoon, Jace was in private discussion with Nettles, planning training flights for Sheepstealer. Their conversation was brisk—businesslike—with scant flickers of the easy banter they once shared. Nettles let the silence stretch like a shield between them, then finally left.

Vellena lingered at the edge of the courtyard, watching. She saw her brother glance in her direction, pause, and then move away without a word.

Her chest tightened—anger, hurt, shame, longing, all wrapped together.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The early morning air in Dragonstone carried the scent of salt and smoke, as dragons stirred along the scorched ridges of the mountain. In the Queen's solar, Rhaenyra Targaryen stood tall by the open window, the wind toying with strands of her silver-gold hair. Her violet eyes rested on her daughter, who sat poised and quiet before her.

"Addam and Nettles are to begin formal instruction," the Queen said crisply. "They ride dragons now, and they must carry themselves as such."

Vellena tilted her head slightly. "And you want me to teach them?"

Rhaenyra turned, smoothing the folds of her crimson gown. "You speak High Valyrian better than most living. You're my daughter—and a rider of Silverwing. Who better?"

Vellena nodded. "Yes, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra stepped closer, her tone softer. "Maester Gerardys will handle Ulf and Hugh. They barely know the difference between a dragon and a chamber pot."

Vellena cracked a dry smile. "Then he has the harder task."

Rhaenyra didn't smile, but her eyes warmed slightly. "Use this to show them what it means to bear a dragon's name. Especially the girl—Nettles needs to understand this isn't a game."

"I understand," Vellena said with a bow of her head. "I'll see to them this afternoon."

Vellena sat behind a carved stone table near the tall window, a small brazier crackling softly beside her. Scrolls lay unfurled, heavy with runes and formal High Valyrian. She wore a simple crimson gown belted in gold, her long silver hair pinned high, not a strand out of place.

Addam of Hull arrived first—punctual, hair still wet from the baths, tunic plain but neat. He gave a polite bow. "Princess."

"Addam," she said evenly, gesturing for him to take a seat.

Then came Nettles—boots echoing against the stone, dragon-hide jacket dusted with soot. She sauntered in, smirking. "Hope you don't mind if I stink of dragon."

Vellena didn't rise. "Only if the dragon is better behaved than you."

Nettles cackled. "I like her," she said to Addam, who gave her a warning glance.

Vellena ignored the jab with effortless grace. "Sit," she commanded. "We begin with pronouns, then basic commands."

Nettles dropped into a chair. "Commands like 'Don't die screaming'?"

"Like 'Skorion issa bē naejot jēda ao.'" Vellena's voice was cold. (What is there to teach you.)

Addam blinked. "What?"

Vellena repeated slowly, elegantly. "Skorion issa bē naejot jēda ao? What is there to teach you?"

Nettles tilted her head. "Sounds prettier when you say it."

"It's not meant to be pretty," Vellena replied without looking at her. "It's meant to be understood—by dragons and those who command them."

For the next hour, she taught. Addam followed diligently, repeating phrases, writing them with precision. His pronunciation needed refinement, but his intent was clear.

Nettles... less so.

She sprawled. Yawned. Tried to hide her scribbles behind her arm. And every now and then, she shot Vellena a sideways grin, murmuring things like, "Say that one again, Princess—makes my spine tickle."

Vellena didn't take the bait. Her tone remained cold, composed. Her gaze never lingered.

Addam caught on. "Do you want to learn, Nettles?"

"Sure," Nettles replied, tilting her chair back. "But it's more fun making a silver-haired noble squirm."

"She's not squirming," Addam muttered.

"Not yet," Nettles smirked.

Vellena closed the scroll with a loud snap. "You will address me with respect. Or not at all."

The air cooled.

Even Nettles straightened. "...Yes, Princess."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Alone in her chamber, Vellena stood before the mirror, hair loose, face unreadable. She'd handled it well—regal, controlled, above the baiting games and sidelong flirtations. But part of her ached.

Not because of Nettles, nor Addam. But because she expected a pair of familiar footsteps. A voice at her door. A knock, even if only to argue again.

Nothing came.

Not even from Jace.

And so she sat down at her desk, pulled out a clean parchment, and began writing translations for the next lesson.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The yard below the Dragon Pit crackled with tension under the early sun. Seasmoke paced near the stables, large and silver-blue, tail swishing in anticipation. Nearby, Sheepstealer, kept by staff, sniffed the air, restless but contained.

Vellena stood at the far end, bow drawn, quiver at her side. She was focused on group training, but she watched with narrowed eyes as Jacaerys gave instructions to Addam and Nettles by the dragons' ledges.

Jace—steady, serious, a different man than she remembered from the first week. He paced around Addam, crouching to demonstrate how to brace the left boot on flying stone, how to grip the scalloped leather strap that served as a stirrup.

Addam, cautious and eager, followed each motion carefully. Behind them, Nettles leaned against the stone wall—steely eyes shifting from the dragons to Jace. She raised an eyebrow but kept silent, holding a spare harnessbelt in her hands.

From afar, Vellena's breath caught: this was the image of Jace she'd known—leader, teacher, the one she had loved in firelight and fury. But he offered no glance her way, no concession to the past week's distance.

She sighed, releasing another arrow. It thumped into the center of the split target, quivering the blackened wood.

She nocked a new arrow, pulling it—feeling the bowstring bite her finger. Another breath, release: the arrow pierced the first one. Bull's eye again.

She allowed herself a small smile.

But her thoughts raced back to Jace. She couldn't ignore him, no matter how hard she tried. If he kept putting space between them, she'd choke on it.

A low snort signaled the dragons were restless. Jace called them to heel.

"Addam," he said quietly, but firmly, "step up—brave leg on the ledge, weight forward, eyes ahead. Wait for the dragon's breath, then swing up."

Addam steadied his breathing. He climbed. Jace's hand found his elbow, steadying him. The dragon dove its head. Addam froze, then Jace murmured: "Go."

He swung up, fingers shaking. He landed softly on the dragon's back, torso pressed to scale. Jace remained close behind, shoulder brushing Addam's side.

Nettles watched him, reading the movement of his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw.

"Alright, Nettles," Jace said next. "Same way."

She stepped forward, the same stance—but when she touched the dragon's ledge, she froze.

"Walk me through," Jace said, now fully professional. "What is your grip?"

Nettles answered with sharp precision, surprising Addam with her technical knowledge of harness and grip. She flexed her foot, poised.

Jace nodded approvingly. "Go."

She swung up with ease—a clean motion, the way she'd done a dozen times in her mind.

"And... hold once you're up."

Sheepstealer witched, but she stayed motionless. Jace gave a small nod of approval.

Vellena stepped aside from the target as Jace, Addam, Nettles dismounted and regrouped.

She hauled another arrow and took a deep breath. Firelight flared behind her eyelids as she focused. She knew what precision felt like now. She let go—with calm, inner certainty.

That arrow thudded into the center, splitting the prior one neatly.

A gust of pride released in her chest.

Vellena lowered her bow. She looked across the training ground. Jace and the pair were walking away from the dragons, satisfied, hands in pockets, masks of professionalism.

Jace still hadn't looked her way.

She felt it—something in her chest, brittle and raw. But she squared her shoulders. She would keep going. She would show him she didn't need his gaze.

Still... for a moment, she allowed herself to hope that someday, he might return it.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Vellena walked through the cool stone halls of Dragonstone, her steps measured but her mind restless. The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the floor as she approached the library. Addam and Nettles were waiting there every day now, her appointed students in High Valyrian.

She pushed open the heavy oak door, expecting the quiet hush of parchment and soft whispers. Instead, her eyes caught a sudden movement—Nettles straddling Addam atop the long wooden table, their lips locked fiercely. Vellena froze in the doorway, clutching the book she carried like a shield.

Addam was the first to notice her. He pulled back, cheeks flushed, breath uneven. Nettles glanced over her shoulder, eyes wide, and immediately scrambled down from the table, her face paling.

"Princess Vellena—" Addam stammered, pushing himself upright, awkward and fumbling for words.

Vellena raised her book just enough to hide her face for a moment, then lowered it slowly. Her purple eyes, wide and shimmering, fixed on them. Relief, bitter and sweet, washed over her like cold rain.

She laughed softly, a sound that cracked and faltered until it broke into quiet sobs. Tears slipped down her cheeks unbidden. Her mind drifted, dark thoughts pulling her to Jace—how he had ruined whatever delicate thread might have woven between them if he hadn't been so... so reckless.

Nettles hesitated before speaking gently, "Are you... okay?"

Vellena blinked rapidly, took a deep, steadying breath, then wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. "I'm alright," she said firmly.

She stepped forward to the other side of the table, opening the book with practiced ease. Her voice was soft but steady as she addressed them. "You two look good together... and you're good for each other."

She glanced up, meeting their uncertain eyes.

"If it's true—then don't ruin it. Because you both deserve to be happy."

A small, tender smile curved her lips. Addam squeezed Nettles's hand, and Nettles returned a half smile.

Vellena turned the page. "Now, let's get started with today's lesson."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

OLDTOWN
In the warm light of the late afternoon, the gardens of Oldtown were in full bloom, bathed in hues of pink, lilac, and soft gold. Bees hummed lazily through the air, and the distant trickle of a fountain mingled with birdsong. Alayne sat quietly on a stone bench beneath a flowering arbor, her sketchbook balanced delicately on her lap, charcoal staining the side of her hand.

Her eyes wandered—not over the delicate roses before her, nor the intricate shadows cast by the hedges, but into memory. Into longing.

Daeron.

She hadn't stopped thinking of him, not really—not since that night on the balcony. The kiss still burned at the edge of her mind. The way he had agreed with her when she called it foolish, when she had hoped, prayed even, that he would say otherwise. That he would have stopped her, told her no, that he felt it too.

Her charcoal hovered above the parchment, unmoving.

Then, a voice broke her thoughts.

"May I sit?"

Alayne flinched slightly, heart jolting. She turned her head—and there he was. Daeron, Prince of the realm, but right now just... a boy with a heart full of something heavy and a gaze fixed solely on her.

He nodded at the space beside her on the bench. His expression was unreadable, a careful mask softened only by the gentleness in his blue eyes.

Alayne swallowed. "Of course," she said quietly, shifting her skirt so he had room.

He sat beside her. Not too close, not too far. The silence between them was quiet, but not cold—it was hesitant. Full of all the words they hadn't spoken.

After a time, Daeron leaned forward slightly, gesturing toward the sketchbook in her lap.

"What have you been drawing lately?" he asked.

Alayne blinked. "Nothing much," she said with a small, self-deprecating laugh, "just flowers. Same ones that bloom every spring."

He looked at her—truly looked. Not at the sketchbook, not at her hands, but her face. "They don't look the same when you draw them," he said softly.

Alayne's breath caught. She turned her face slightly, not hiding her blush well. "You flatter me, my prince."

Daeron gave a crooked smile, more wounded than charming. "I didn't come here to flatter you."

She turned to him slowly. Their eyes met, and for a moment the world around them went utterly still.

He leaned in a breath—just a breath—closer.

She tilted her head ever so slightly, lips parting, the shadow of hope flickering in her gaze.

But he paused.

Reality, reason, duty—all the things that plagued their every interaction—clawed their way back into his mind, and he stopped just short.

Alayne pulled away slightly, gently. Her voice was soft as she said, "I should go. I've left my needlework in my chamber half-done."

She stood with practiced grace, closing her sketchbook.

Daeron didn't move, only watched her. His jaw clenched.

She was already a few feet from the bench, walking away with her usual quiet composure, when—

"Alayne!"

She turned, a bit startled. "What is it—?"

But he was already moving. His steps fast, certain, angry with himself.

She blinked as he stopped in front of her, her heart thudding. "What's wrong?"

He didn't answer.

Instead, Daeron leaned in and kissed her.

Alayne made a sound of surprise, a gasp swallowed by his mouth, and then—she kissed him back. Her fingers clutched the front of his tunic, and she rose slightly on her toes. All the confusion and longing from the past days melted into that moment.

He pulled away only enough to murmur against her lips, "I'm sorry. I should've said it that night. I didn't mean it—what I agreed with. The kiss wasn't a mistake."

Alayne's brows furrowed as tears pricked at her lashes, though she was smiling now. "I didn't mean it either. I was... afraid."

"I was a coward," he whispered.

"You're here now," she said.

He kissed her again, more slowly this time, reverently.

When they parted again, breathless and laughing softly against each other, Daeron glanced around the garden and whispered, "We're lucky no one was here."

Alayne raised a brow, smiling impishly. "Except the roses. And I hear they keep secrets well."

Daeron chuckled under his breath, and together they stood in the glow of the garden, the silence between them no longer heavy—but filled with new, trembling hope.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

WELL ALL THE POOKIES ARE HAPPY EXCEPT FOR JACELLENA
(they gonna get together soon and it will be ✨magical✨)🌝