~129 A.C~

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(No silent readers thx. Also a surprise;)

DRAGONSTONE
The wind from the Narrow Sea was sharp that morning, the air heavy with salt and the lingering memory of fire. It bit at Jacaerys's skin where he stood outside on the balcony of the eastern wing, his hands gripping the stone railing with such force his knuckles blanched to white. The waves below crashed relentlessly against Dragonstone's cliffs, echoing the storm in his chest.

He hadn't slept.

He couldn't forget her voice—Vellena's voice.
"This is all your fault."
"She is dead because you did not let me go."
"I hope you will rot in the Seven Hells."

Her words burned deeper than dragonflame, deeper even than his own guilt. A shuddering breath escaped him, and before he could stop it, a raw, broken sob tore from his lungs. His body curled inward slightly from the force of it, eyes squeezed shut as another followed. The tears came fast then, carving hot paths down his cheeks, falling silently into the sea air. He didn't notice the soft footsteps behind him until a gentle hand settled on his shoulder.

"Jace?" Baela's voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it reached him like a bell through fog.

He stiffened instantly, wiping at his cheeks hastily. His voice came out hoarse and tight. "I... I'm sorry you had to see that."

Baela said nothing at first. She stepped beside him and leaned against the railing, her profile turned toward the sea. Her silver hair was braided down the back in a traditional Targaryen style, the ends wrapped in black ribbon. She wore a high-necked black riding coat embroidered with waves and seahorses in silver thread—mourning, yet proud. The dark hue complimented her rich brown skin, which was kissed by the northern wind. Her violet eyes, though swollen and red-rimmed, still held their fire.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

Jace swallowed, forcing himself to speak, even when every muscle in him screamed to shut down. Of course she would ask. Baela knew him better than almost anyone else now. She, Jocelyn, and their mother. But Baela had known him in the silent hours of grief after Luke... in the quiet, shared pain of knowing what it meant to lose a part of your soul.

"I had an ugly fight with Vellena. Again."

Baela arched a brow. "About?"

Jace scoffed and ran a hand down his face. "Yesterday, she fucking took flight to Rook's Rest, didn't care if the Greens were still there. Just... took Silverwing and flew off like it was nothing. Like she didn't just throw herself into death's arms."

Baela's expression softened into something more knowing. Something that struck Jace's pride deeper than her words.

He exhaled hard. "I may have sort of... locked her in her chamber. When Rhaenys flew off." surely he would not tell Baela what truly happened.

"And yesterday Vellena snapped at me. She said she could've helped. I told her she could have helped like she had helped Luke, and she... slapped me."

Baela groaned and dropped her face into her palms. "You two are unbelievable, especially you."

Jace flinched, a little boy caught in mischief, but his anger flared again. "She told me to rot in the Seven Hells, Baela. Don't put this all on me."

"Jacaerys!" Baela snapped, rounding on him. "For fuck's sake, she's your sister. She's alive. Breathing. How can you be so cruel? You don't know what I'd give to see Rhaena right now, to know she's alright. I pray every godsdamned night for her to arrive safely in the Vale. You have Vellena right in front of you, and all you two do is destroy each other."

Jace turned away, biting the inside of his cheek so hard it nearly bled. Her words struck like knives.

He stared out at the sea, quiet for a long moment. Then, voice low and trembling, he said, "She was the gentlest of us. The one who smelled like parchment and roses. The last good thing in me." His eyes burned again. "And after Luke died... I twisted and destroyed her completely. I don't think she'll ever speak to me again."

Baela's expression softened. She stepped closer and placed a hand on his arm. "It is never too late, Jace. If you want her forgiveness... you have to earn it. Like a man."

He looked down at her—this fourteen-year-old cousin and stepsister who had lost just as much as he had, yet still carried herself with such strength. Luke had loved her. Luke had adored her.

A tired smile ghosted across Jace's lips. "My little brother loved you so much," he said gently. "After your betrothal was announced, he wouldn't stop talking about you. The whole day, while I was getting ready for Vellena's nameday tournament. He talked about your laugh, your swordplay, how you never let him win when you raced your dragons."

Baela's face crumpled then, her own tears flowing freely. "I loved him too," she whispered. "So much."

Without thinking, Jace pulled her into a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around her as she pressed her face into his chest. They stood together in silence, mourning a boy who should've grown into a man, and grieving a world that seemed to burn more and more every day.

Above them, the wind howled like a dragon's cry.

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The morning sunlight had crept timidly through the arched window, its golden beams crawling across the floor of Vellena's chamber, where chaos lingered like a ghost. The once immaculate room now looked like it had endured a storm. A shattered inkpot had bled across the rug, a broken vase shattered on the floor. Books were strewn open and torn, her perfumes had spilled onto the floor, their mixed scents hanging thick and heavy in the air—jasmine, sandalwood, rose, and fire.

When Lyra opened the door, her breath caught.

"Princess?" she whispered, stepping into the room with hesitant feet.

There, curled slightly on the cold stone floor, was Vellena. Still in her wrinkled black gown from the day before, her silver-blonde hair tangled and falling over her face in uneven wisps. Around her, glass shards glittered like starlight, pieces of her vase scattered across the floor near the wall where she had thrown it. The air was heavy with the remnants of last night's grief.

Lyra's voice came shakily. "Princess Vellena?"

Vellena stirred. Her fingers twitched before she groaned and slowly rolled onto her side, pushing herself up with aching arms.

"Lyra?" her voice was hoarse. "What... what time is it?"

Lyra swallowed, stepping closer. "It's almost midday, Princess. Her Grace the Queen asked why you weren't at breakfast..." She paused. "Are you alright?"

Vellena didn't answer immediately. Her body ached—her back stiff, her hips sore from the cold, unwelcoming floor. She looked down to see her kittens, Mera and Berion, curled into each other beside her like frightened children, their small tails tucked under them. She sighed, brushing a hand over their fur gently before forcing herself upright.

With slow steps, Vellena walked to her vanity. Her muscles protested, her body remembering every scream, every sob, every violent crack of something breaking under her hands the night before. She caught her reflection and winced. Her violet eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her skin pale and blotchy, lips dry, and her silver hair a chaotic, matted mess.

Behind her, Lyra's voice came again, cautious. "Princess?"

"I'm fine, Lyra," Vellena snapped sharply, her tone too harsh, too sudden. "I'll speak to my mother myself. You can go."

Lyra blinked, stepping back, her expression flickering with confusion and hurt. "But... don't you want help to get dressed?"

Vellena turned her head just enough to glare over her shoulder. "Go, Lyra. You are dismissed. And don't tell anyone what you saw"

The silence stretched taut between them.

Lyra lingered only a moment longer before bowing her head slightly and leaving without another word. The door clicked shut behind her.

And the second Vellena was alone again, her body slumped into the chair at her vanity, shoulders collapsing under the weight of it all. She buried her face in her hands, her palms cold against her burning eyes.

She couldn't remember the last time she had felt this hollow.

The tears didn't come this time. They had all been spent. She had cried herself dry the night before until her throat ached and her fists bled from striking the stone floor.

She slowly looked up at the mirror again, into the shattered soul that stared back at her.

She didn't recognize that girl. That girl looked broken, bitter, bruised by grief and fury and regret.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the vanity as she whispered, so softly it barely counted as speech, "You are a princess of the blood of Old Valyria. You are not allowed to shatter."

And yet, there she sat—shattered nonetheless.

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WINTERFELL
The fire in the hearth had burned low, the morning frost clinging to the windows of the Lord's chambers in Winterfell. The air was still, heavy, as though the entire keep was holding its breath for its young lady. Nearly five days had passed since the raven from Dragonstone arrived, and Jocelyn Velaryon—newly wed, newly titled Lady Stark—had not stepped beyond the threshold of her chamber since.

The servants had come and gone, the food left at her door returning untouched. No fresh firewood was allowed inside unless Cregan insisted. And now, this morning, he stood quietly in the doorway, watching her.

She lay there on her side of the bed, dressed in the same dark blue shift she had worn the day of the news. Jocelyn's long silver-blonde hair was undone, tangled over the pillow, and her violet eyes were blank as they stared up at the ceiling beams. She hadn't cried since yesterday, but her silence was somehow more painful than the sobs that had wracked her small frame just days before.

Cregan took a steady breath before moving closer. He crossed the cold stone floor in just a few quiet strides and knelt at the edge of the bed beside her. His shadow fell over her still body as he reached up and gently touched her cheek. Her skin was cold.

"Jocey?" he whispered, voice low and soft, brushing his thumb just beneath her eye where the faintest trace of salt still lingered. She didn't react—not at first. Only a slow blink.

Cregan's jaw tensed. "Please, love. You need to eat," he said gently. "I had them make roasted potatoes this morning. Your favorite."

Nothing. Not a flinch.

Cregan lowered his gaze, trying to blink away the sting in his own eyes. He hated feeling helpless. And yet that's exactly what he was—helpless, kneeling beside the woman he loved more than breath, watching her unravel from grief.

He tried again. "Rickon misses you." His voice cracked. "He crawls at the door and starts to coo then cry. He... he doesn't understand why you're not there."

That got her to speak.

Her lips parted, voice quiet, cracked from disuse. "I'm not his mother."

Cregan looked up.

She stared blankly at the canopy above her. "His mother is dead," she continued in a whisper. "Just like mine."

He exhaled sharply, the weight of those words sinking into his chest like stones. Jocelyn's hands were cold when he took one of them in his, lifting it to his lips and kissing her knuckles.

"You have me," Cregan said, a tremor in his tone. "And Rickon. And my mother. We all love you. We are your family now."

Her lip quivered faintly.

"I made a vow to your mother," he added quietly. "Take care of my daughter, she said before she left back to Dragonstone. And I will. Gods help me, I will. But Jocey—" he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against her hand, "—you cannot let this grief drown you. You cannot let it take you from me."

For a moment, he thought she would turn away. But then her violet eyes slowly moved, meeting his face.

Her expression broke then—not into sobs, not into a storm of tears—but into something raw and quiet. The look of someone finally surfacing from deep, icy waters.

"I can't breathe without her," she whispered.

Cregan cupped her cheek again, his fingers shaking. "Then breathe with me."

Jocelyn stared at him, her dark cheeks streaked with old tears, her gaze flickering with something almost lost.

But not yet gone.

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The dusk light filtered through the narrow arched windows of the solar, painting the stone walls in fading gold and deepening blue. A fire crackled in the hearth, offering a small warmth against the biting northern chill. Lord Cregan Stark sat slouched in the carved oak chair near the flames, his elbows resting on his knees, brows furrowed deep with worry.

Across from him, his mother—Lady Glover—watched him over the rim of her steaming cup. Her dark grey hair was coiled neatly atop her head, and though age showed in the fine lines around her eyes, there was nothing fragile about her. She'd been the Lady of Winterfell long before Cregan took up his father's mantle, and she had seen much in her years—grief included.

"She hasn't touched a bite all day," Cregan muttered, raking a hand through his thick dark hair. "Not a step outside that chamber since the raven came. I—" he exhaled hard, "I do not know what to do, mother. She looks at me like I'm made of smoke. Like I don't exist."

Lady Glover set her cup down and leaned forward, resting her hands in her lap. "She's broken, Cregan. For now."

"I just... I've seen sorrow, but not like this," he confessed, eyes trained on the fire. "When Arra passed, it cut me to the bone, aye, but Jocelyn—her grief has teeth. And it's chewing her apart from the inside."

Lady Glover didn't speak immediately. She watched her son, the fierce Lord of Winterfell, whose name carried through the North like thunder—and yet now, he looked like nothing more than a man desperate to save the one thing he loved.

"You remember how you pulled yourself out of it?" she asked gently. "After Arra died?"

Cregan blinked. "I buried myself in war drills," he murmured. "Ice in hand before dawn, arrows flying by dusk. I rode until my horse nearly collapsed beneath me. I couldn't sit still. I had to move or I'd lose my mind."

Lady Glover smiled faintly, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "And it kept your heart beating."

He looked at her, uncertain. "You think that will work for Jocelyn?"

"I think," she said slowly, "that sorrow must move. If it sits still for too long, it festers. You didn't climb out of your grief because someone told you to. You climbed out because you bled it out, one ride through the trees at a time."

Cregan's brow furrowed. "She's not... like me."

"No," Lady Glover agreed. "She's softer. Gentler. But not weaker, my son. The blood of the Dragon courses through her. You cannot force her to heal, but you can give her the means to begin."

Cregan fell silent, thoughtful.

"Take her riding," Lady Glover said. "Even if she screams at you. Even if she doesn't speak a word. Ride out into the woods with her. Let her feel the wind again. Let her body move, and her mind might follow. And if not that, then hand her a bow. Give her something to aim at, something to control. It isn't much, but it's a beginning."

He swallowed, his voice low. "What if she gets angry at me for not letting her with her own sorrow? To grieve alone?"

Lady Glover stood and walked to his side, placing a hand on his shoulder. "She doesn't need to be alone anymore. She just needs to remember how to live."

Cregan closed his eyes, the knot in his chest tightening and loosening all at once.

"All right," he said quietly. "I'll try."

Lady Glover squeezed his shoulder once before returning to her chair. "That's all she needs, my son. Just for you to try."

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OLDTOWN
The sky above Oldtown had begun to bleed from orange into the darker hues of violet, the last embers of day dying behind the towering Hightower. The courtyard below was nearly empty, save for the sound of steel clashing against steel — a rhythm that should have brought clarity, discipline. But for Prince Daeron Targaryen, it only carved deeper distractions.

He moved with precision, striking at the wooden dummy with his sword over and over, sweat dripping from his brow, chest heaving beneath his leather tunic. But each swing was slightly off, each step a little less measured than the last. He cursed softly under his breath, pausing to lower his blade, letting it dangle at his side as he turned away.

The training yard had once been his sanctuary. Discipline had always quieted the turmoil within his chest. But tonight... it was useless.

His thoughts betrayed him.

Her face haunted him — Vellena. Her voice, her laugh, the way she once looked at him with eyes that held both fire and snow. It had been weeks since her raven arrived, and he had read it so many times, he knew every line by heart. But only one sentence ever echoed in his mind when all else fell silent:

"Forget me."

Daeron clenched his jaw. Those two words had struck deeper than any sword.

Forget her? He had tried. Gods, he had tried. He buried himself in training, studied the war maps, advised Lord Ormund, hunted with his cousins, prayed with the septons. Nothing worked.

Because no matter how many times he whispered those words to himself, he couldn't. He didn't want to. He remembered the way she spoke with stubborn pride, the way her silver hair tumbled loose when she laughed, the quiet sadness in her when she thought no one was watching. She was still with him, even if only in memory.

Daeron raised his blade again and struck the dummy hard, over and over, until the wooden frame cracked and splintered. His knuckles were white around the hilt. His chest hurt.

"I will not forget you," he murmured, voice hoarse with something deeper than exhaustion. "I never will."

He let the blade fall to the ground, clattering loudly in the quiet night.

Far above, the Hightower's beacon glowed like a star, but Daeron Targaryen could find no light in it.

Only her absence.

The sound of soft footsteps on stone echoed gently through the empty courtyard. Daeron didn't turn — not at first. His thoughts were still a haze of silver hair, a broken wooden dummy, and the sting of the word "Forget."

"Daeron?"

The voice was soft. Familiar.

He turned slowly, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the courtyard's torches. There she was — Alayne Hightower, the youngest daughter of Lord Ormund and his cousin, standing at the edge of the yard wrapped in a pale green cloak lined with fur. The color brought out the brightness in her eyes, green like moss after rain. Her long red curls were braided loosely over one shoulder, and she clutched her hands in front of her, as though unsure whether to step forward or remain where she was.

She always had that air about her — gentle and uncertain. A whisper in a house full of louder voices.

Daeron ran a hand through his tousled pale hair, breath still unsteady from the training. "Alayne," he acknowledged with a nod.

Her gaze drifted to the shattered dummy and then to his discarded sword. "It's late to be training."

"It is," he said flatly, looking away toward the tower lights. "Couldn't sleep."

Alayne stepped forward now, the gravel crunching beneath her small feet. "I saw you from the solar window. You've been out here for hours."

Daeron offered no response. There were words trapped behind his lips, but none that felt right. What could he tell her? That his heart had been torn out by someone who had already let him go?

Still, Alayne remained. She stopped a few paces from him and looked up. He towered over her, tall and broad in his armor, yet somehow he looked smaller now. Lonely.

"Is it... about the war that's looming?" she asked carefully. "Or... her?"

That drew his eyes back to her. He hadn't spoken Vellena's name aloud in days. Not to anyone. He didn't know she even knew about her.

"She wrote to you, didn't she?" Alayne continued, her voice soft as falling snow. "I saw how you looked after the raven came."

Daeron swallowed. "She told me to forget her."

Alayne's expression faltered. "Oh."

"Just like that," Daeron said bitterly, voice cracking slightly. "Like everything we shared... like I meant nothing. Like it was so easy for her to shut the door."

There was a long pause. Alayne stood very still.

"She must have cared, Daeron," she finally said. "No one writes those words unless they're hurting too. Maybe she thought it was the only way to protect herself. Or you."

Daeron looked down at her. For all the years they had lived under the same roof, they had rarely exchanged more than a few polite words. He'd always spoken more with her brothers, laughed with them, trained with them. But now, in the quiet of night, it was Alayne who stood beside him when everything else had fallen away.

"I never noticed how much you listen," he murmured, surprised by her insight.

She blushed faintly, lowering her gaze. "Most people don't notice I'm there."

Daeron gave the smallest of smiles. "I do now."

Alayne glanced up again, her green eyes earnest. "You don't have to be alone with it, Daeron. Even if she's far... even if she's gone from your life — your heart still matters."

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind carried the faint smell of sea salt even here in Oldtown. Somewhere above, a raven cried into the dusk.

"Thank you," Daeron said quietly, and this time he meant it.

Alayne smiled faintly, offering a gentle nod, before she turned back toward the keep, leaving Daeron alone again — but somehow, not quite as alone as before.

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GO READ THE INTRODUCTION OF ACT II AGAIN🙃