~129 A.C~

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(No silent readers. Thx)

OLDTOWN
The morning sun poured gently into the dining hall of the Hightower, casting golden streaks across the long oaken table where the family gathered for breakfast. The aroma of baked bread, honeyed apples, and crisp bacon filled the air. Lyonel and Garmund, clad in fitted green tunics embroidered with the Hightower's sigil, were already halfway through their meal, laughing uproariously at something Lyonel had said — something about a lady with dimples he swore smiled only at him during sept service.

"—She practically threw the lavender at me!" Lyonel bragged, smirking into his goblet of watered wine.

"She was aiming for the altar, fool," Garmund countered, still laughing.

Prince Daeron, seated beside them, remained mostly quiet, chewing thoughtfully on his bread and watching the early light play on his silver ring. His mind was still drifting to the letter, to the image of her face. To Vellena.

Just then, the door opened, and Alayne entered.

She wore a soft yellow gown the color of pale sunshine, cinched delicately at the waist with a sash of ivory silk. The long skirts whispered as she walked, and the sleeves draped elegantly at her wrists. Her fiery red curls had been braided to the crown of her head and pinned with small golden clips, the rest falling in gentle waves down her back. She looked like springtime incarnate, timid yet radiant.

"Good morning," she said sweetly, first kissing her mother Samantha's cheek, then her father Ormund's. She took the empty seat next to her mother, directly across from Daeron, and offered him a polite nod, her cheeks already tinged pink.

Lord Ormund cleared his throat, placing down his cup. "Lord Desmond should be here by midday. I shall hope you two get along. You will take a walk in the gardens, and the next day in the evening we shall dine together."

Alayne, blinking, gave a small nod, cutting a piece of fruit. "Yes, Father."

Daeron paused mid-bite, frowning. "Wait... who is Desmond?"

Lyonel leaned in with a mischievous grin, "Our little sister's betrothed."

Alayne's hand froze on her fork.

Lyonel continued, voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "Betrothed for five moons now. She's never met him."

Alayne let out a sharp scoff and lobbed a piece of her bread square at her brother's chest.

"Oi!" Lyonel cried.

Garmund snorted, grinning. "That's not very lady-like, sister."

She grabbed another piece, aiming, but before she could release it, Ormund's sharp voice cut through:

"Enough!"

Silence fell over the table like a curtain.

Ormund turned to Alayne. "Eat faster, then go get ready. You will receive your betrothed with grace."

Alayne swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded stiffly.

He turned to his sons. "And you — both of you are done taunting your sister for today."

The boys sighed in mock defeat.

When Alayne finally finished her meal, she stood and walked toward the door, only to pause halfway through. Her voice was hopeful. "By the way... can you escort me, Father?"

Ormund shook his head without looking up. "I'm afraid not, sweetling."

She glanced to her mother, who was rubbing her pregnant belly. "No, my love," Lady Samantha said gently. "Not now."

Alayne's eyes darted to her brothers.

"Neither can we," Lyonel said casually, popping a grape into his mouth.

"War prep. Priorities," Garmund added with a wink.

Alayne sighed, biting her lower lip. "Wonderful... I am going alone—"

"I can come with you," Daeron said suddenly, leaning back in his chair and sipping from his goblet with the faintest grin.

Across from him, Alayne froze. Her green eyes widened, surprise and something else —a flicker of warmth—dancing across her face. That the Prince, her quiet, distant cousin, had offered...

Her mother's voice startled her. "Alayne? Alayne??"

She blinked, flustered. "Yes! I— I mean... I should go dress up," she said, nearly tripping over her own gown as she hurried from the room, cheeks aflame.

As the door closed behind her, Ormund sighed and dabbed his mouth. "She's daydreaming again. Her mind's in the clouds."

He looked to his nephew. "Thank you, Daeron. For offering to walk with her."

Daeron gave a small smile, setting down his cup. "I've nothing else to do today, so..." He shrugged.

Lyonel chuckled. "Be sure to tell us everything afterward, cousin."

"Yes," Garmund added with a grin. "Especially if he's ugly."

Daeron stood, shaking his head with a smirk. "You two are incorrigible."

As he left the dining hall and headed down the corridors, he couldn't help the strange thought stirring in his mind — how could someone like Alayne belong to someone she never knew?

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In her chamber, Alayne Hightower stood before her looking glass, fingers trembling as she adjusted the bodice of her gown. The room smelled of fresh lavender and myrrh, the fire in the hearth flickering low, casting a golden hue across the tapestries on the walls.

She was wearing a deep forest green gown, fitted at the waist with delicate silver embroidery along the sleeves and neckline. The skirt flowed gracefully to the floor in soft layers of velvet and silk, swishing gently when she moved. The color, chosen by her mother, brought out the brilliance in her green eyes and contrasted beautifully with her red curls, which had been brushed and styled again — now tied back into a loose half-braid with silver pins shaped like tiny leaves adorning it.

Her maid, a girl named Rina, gently secured the last pin in her braid. "You look lovely, my lady."

Alayne offered a nervous smile, adjusting the sleeves at her wrists. "Lovely... and terrified."

She walked to the window and peeked through the sheer curtains. Below, the city of Oldtown was slowly waking, but her heart beat faster knowing who was waiting just outside her door — her cousin, Prince Daeron Targaryen.

For years he barely spoke to her. They had grown up in the same halls, under the same roof, but Daeron had always kept his distance. And yet today... he offered to escort her.

Alayne pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to steady herself. "Why today, of all days?" she whispered.

Outside her chamber, Daeron stood quietly, arms folded, leaning slightly against the stone wall beside the heavy oak door. He wore a dark blue tunic with silver trimming and a long black cloak clasped at the shoulder with the Targaryen three-headed dragon. His silver hair was loosely tied at the back, and though his expression was calm, there was something restless in his stance — like a dragon barely keeping its wings folded.

He could hear the rustling of fabric, faint voices behind the door, the gentle clatter of a hairpin dropped to the floor. And as he waited, he thought about the odd twist of fate that had brought him here — walking Alayne to meet her betrothed.

He sighed quietly, glancing toward the tower stairwell.

He'd been trained to fight, to lead, to serve his house. But nothing in the Red Keep or Oldtown had prepared him for this tangle of emotions.
And he hadn't even seen her yet.

When the door finally opened, Alayne stepped out quickly—too quickly—and bumped right into Daeron's chest with a small gasp.

"I—I... apologies... I did not see..." she stammered, looking up at him, wide-eyed and flushed.

Daeron looked down at her, biting back the amused smile tugging at his lips. Her cheeks were red, and her green eyes sparkled against the richness of her gown. She looked adorable and utterly breathtaking.

"You look pretty," he said softly, sincerely, as if the words had tumbled out before he could catch them.

Alayne blinked, taken aback. Her lips parted slightly, and she swallowed, heart hammering.

"T-thank you..."

Daeron extended his arm toward her. "Shall we?"

With hesitant fingers, she slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, her touch light but warm.

And together, they began to walk down the corridor, silent at first, both too aware of the closeness — and what awaited at the end of the day.

Their footsteps echoed softly in the corridor, Alayne's hand still resting in the crook of Daeron's arm, though her other hand nervously brushed at the base of her neck. Her breath was slightly uneven, her thoughts churning louder than the sound of their footsteps.

Suddenly, she spoke—quick and low, as if afraid to regret it halfway through.

"If this is one of my brothers' jests, it is not funny. And please don't try to embarrass me, because this betrothal is really important—"

Daeron blinked, turning his head to look at her. "Wait... you think I offered to come with you as a joke?"

Alayne froze in her step for a moment, then looked up at him with a mix of wariness and honesty. "...Sort of..."

Daeron gave a soft laugh, shaking his head in disbelief as they resumed walking. "Why?"

She lowered her gaze, her voice quieter now. "Well... I didn't think someone like you would make time for something so... unimportant."

He scoffed gently, his tone calm but sure. "It is very true, cousin. Hm?"

Alayne blinked up at him again, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. She gave a small, slow nod.

As they reached the stone stairs and began their descent into the yard, sunlight spilled across the courtyard stones. Just as they stepped into the open air, the heavy wooden gates groaned open, and three men on horseback rode in—one at the center, clearly Lord Desmond, and two guards flanking him.

Alayne's fingers tightened around Daeron's arm, her breath catching in her throat. Daeron could feel the subtle tremble in her touch and leaned slightly toward her, murmuring low near her ear, his voice like warm smoke.

"Breathe. Everything will be fine."

She swallowed hard, nodded faintly, and slowly released his arm as the men dismounted.

Lord Desmond was young—perhaps nineteen—but the moment he stepped down from his horse, the smell of wine hit the air like a warning. His eyes were slightly glazed, and he stumbled a bit as he moved forward, a sheepish smile on his lips that wavered as he tried to steady himself.

Alayne hesitated, heart sinking. Still, she curtsied with all the grace she could muster and offered her hand.

"Lord Desmond."

"Lady... Alayne," he slurred a little, bowing and taking her hand, pressing a clumsy kiss to her knuckles.

Daeron, still standing nearby, clenched his jaw and folded his arms, his violet eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

The guards behind Desmond exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Alayne straightened, but her smile faltered. Her green eyes darted briefly to Daeron, and for the first time, she realized how much she wanted him to stay.

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Alayne walked beside Lord Desmond through the manicured gardens of Oldtown, the gentle sound of the river not far off giving the illusion of peace. But inside her chest, her heart beat uncomfortably fast, and her fingers twisted together in front of her. The late morning sun shimmered on the stone path, casting dappled shadows over the garden hedges, but it did little to ease the tension knotting her shoulders.

Desmond swaggered slightly as he walked, still affected by the wine, his eyes lazily drifting down her figure as she moved. His gaze lingered too long on her back... and even longer at the subtle curve beneath her gown.

He gave a crooked smirk. "You wear green beautifully, my lady... suits your eyes."

Alayne gave a strained smile, replying politely, "Thank you, my lord."

Behind them, Daeron followed at a steady pace, hands folded behind his back, his violet eyes trained ahead, jaw locked so tight it looked carved in stone. He said nothing, but his presence was a silent storm waiting to crack open the sky.

Desmond chuckled, either oblivious to—or willfully ignoring—the tension. "I've been thinking a great deal about what I expect from my marriage. My lady wife should be obedient, quiet when spoken to, and bear me a good number of children. Four sons would be ideal. A few daughters for show." He glanced sideways at her, eyes raking once more from head to toe, "You have the right... shape for it, I think."

Alayne's cheeks burned, but not from flattery. Her breath caught as she forced a small, awkward laugh, her green eyes flicking back toward Daeron like a cry for help. The prince's expression was unreadable—but his posture had stiffened, shoulders tight with fury.

Still silent, Daeron kept walking. But his every step echoed like a warning.

Desmond carried on, either unaware or uncaring. "And of course, my wife mustn't question my decisions. A husband knows best. That's the way of things. You agree, don't you?"

Alayne gulped, the pressure of the moment heavy in her chest. "Of course, my lord..." she said softly, then added with a touch of quiet bravery, "Though... I believe a marriage should also be about mutual respect."

Desmond laughed, a dismissive, drunk chuckle. "Respect comes after obedience, my dear."

Daeron exhaled sharply behind them. Just once. But it was enough that Desmond turned his head, noticing the prince for the first time since they entered the garden.

"Something the matter, my prince?" Desmond asked, half-grinning.

Daeron tilted his head, eyes calm but voice cool. "I simply enjoy a walk in the garden."

But inside, he was calculating—every word, every move, every reason why this man did not deserve her.

He hated everything about this — Desmond's breath, his hands always too close to Alayne's, the way he eyed her like she was stock at a market. But most of all, Daeron hated that Alayne wasn't saying anything. That she was swallowing her discomfort and smiling politely.

Desmond barely noticed her unease. "You know, I think a lady should only speak when spoken to. And you seem nice and quiet. That's good." He grinned, leaning in slightly, and Alayne had to fight the urge to step away.

She offered another soft "Mhm" and looked back once more at Daeron — this time, longer. Her green eyes found his, and something wordless passed between them.

Help me.

Daeron exhaled slowly through his nose, then stepped forward at last, interrupting smoothly. "My lord," he said, his voice cold and steady, "I fear your tunic is stained."

Desmond blinked down at himself, swearing as he saw the wine splatter on his sleeve. "Ah, bloody hell. I must've spilled earlier this morning..."

Daeron turned to Alayne, extending his hand. "Cousin. Might I steal you for a moment?"

Alayne didn't hesitate. She took Daeron's hand and allowed herself to be guided away, her fingers trembling in his.

Desmond called after them, laughing awkwardly. "Don't take her for too long, your grace. I'll be waiting!"

Daeron didn't answer.

He just walked with her in silence toward the far edge of the garden, where the river shimmered like glass under the setting sun. When they stopped beneath an old oak, Alayne finally let herself breathe. And Daeron looked at her with quiet fury simmering behind his calm eyes.

"Are you alright?" he asked, low and firm.

Alayne hesitated, then slowly nodded. But her voice cracked when she whispered, "He smells like wine... and he stared at me like I was already his wife..."

Daeron didn't speak right away. He just gently let go of her hand — but not before giving it a soft squeeze. "You're not. Not yet."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
The midday sun cast long, golden rays down through the open ceiling of the Dragonmont's pit, its light bouncing off the sleek silver scales of Silverwing as she lay nestled comfortably in the warm stone. The ancient she-dragon let out a low rumble of contentment as Vellena approached, her soft slippers brushing against the gravel-strewn floor of the pit.

Vellena's fingers were gentle, reverent, as she stroked Silverwing's snout, trailing her hand along the smooth curve of scale and bone just beneath her dragon's eye.

"Konīr iksā, dōna riña" (There you are, sweet girl) she murmured in High Valyrian.

Silverwing answered with a low croon, the sound vibrating through her massive body. She tilted her head, leaning into Vellena's touch, her wings rustling as she shifted. A moment later, she nudged her snout into Vellena's side like a demanding hound, nearly knocking the princess off balance. Vellena chuckled softly, her fingers dancing over the space between Silverwing's eyes, tracing the old, pale scars from battles long past.

"Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie. Iksā se mērī mēre qilōni jiōragon nyke" (I love you so much. You are the only one who understands me) she said with affection, resting her forehead briefly against Silverwing's snout.

Suddenly, she heard the soft click of boots and the hurried whispers of dragonkeepers speaking in High Valyrian, a language she understood fluently. She frowned, turning her head just slightly—just enough to peek past Silverwing's large shoulder.

And then she saw him.

Jacaerys.

He entered the pit with an easy confidence, his stride smooth and sure. He wore a leather riding jerkin and thick black gloves, his brown curls slightly tousled from the wind. He nodded to the keepers, who bowed with respect as two more dragonkeepers came from inside the cave with Vermax, his green scaled dragon, towards the opposite side of the pit, few feet away from Silverwing and Vellena.

Vellena didn't move. Not right away. Her breath caught in her throat as Jace's eyes found her, standing beside Silverwing with the sunlight catching her silver hair, loose around her shoulders.

Their gazes locked—and for a full, burning minute, neither of them looked away.

The air between them crackled with tension, thick and heavy with everything unsaid: the fight, the pain, the slap, the tears... and that fleeting, desperate moment of closeness before it all shattered.

Jacaerys looked tired, but something soft lingered in his gaze, despite the pain beneath it. His jaw was tight. But his eyes... they told another story.

Vellena's heart hammered in her chest.

Then—she looked away.

Without a word, she turned back to Silverwing, gently brushing the ridge of scales along her neck before stepping back. Her fingers curled briefly around her riding skirts, steadying herself, and with head high, she began to walk toward the pit's archway.

She didn't spare Jacaerys another glance.

Not even when he turned to watch her leave.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

WINTERFELL
The wind was brisk, Winterfell's chill biting through the air, but Cregan Stark barely felt it as he carried Jocelyn in his arms down the stone steps toward the stables. She squirmed a little, but he held her firm, cradled close to his chest.

"I don't wish to ride," Jocelyn groaned, her voice muffled slightly by the furs draped around her. "I love you, but I can punch as hard as I love you."

Cregan chuckled, nudging the stable doors open with his booted foot. "I don't doubt that, my love."

The stables were warm with the heat of hay and animals, the scent of fresh straw and old saddle leather greeting them. Ironheart, Cregan's great northern stallion, pawed at the ground, and beside him stood Ember, Jocelyn's sleek, coal-colored mare, already saddled and waiting.

Cregan set Jocelyn down gently on her feet. "Stay there," he said, striding toward Ironheart to stroke the horse's powerful neck, his gloved fingers tracing the braided mane.

Jocelyn crossed her arms, an eyebrow raised, the remnants of grief still etched in her features. "What are we doing here?"

Cregan turned slightly, smiling softly. "I have a surprise."

Skepticism flickered in her violet eyes, but her curiosity tugged her forward. He reached for her hand, warm and small in his calloused one, and guided it to Ember's side.

Her fingers landed on what should have been a familiar, flat belly. But it wasn't flat anymore.

Her breath caught.

The curve was gentle, but undeniable. Ember made a low, content noise, leaning into Jocelyn's touch and nudging her affectionately.

Jocelyn blinked, stunned—then chuckled, the sound escaping her lips like a breeze through thawing snow. It was the first time Cregan had heard her laugh in more than a month.

Cregan's voice was low, fond. "The men say it's nearly three moons. She's strong. She'll have a foal by summer."

Jocelyn swallowed, her hands trembling as she stepped around to press her cheek to Ember's warm neck. "She needs me..." she murmured.

Cregan nodded slowly, stepping toward her. "As does Mirax. And Rickon. And me. Please, my love."

Jocelyn turned, her violet eyes brighter, some color returned to her cheeks. She looked at him, truly looked at him for the first time in days, and then... she kissed him. Full and soft and real.

Pulling away, she smiled against his lips. "Race me to the river."

And before he could respond, she turned, grasped the saddle horn, and in one graceful motion swung onto Ember's back. With a sharp nudge of her heel, the mare bolted from the stable, her hooves kicking up snow as she galloped into the yard.

Cregan stared for a moment—then laughed aloud, shaking his head as he vaulted onto Ironheart.

"You're going to pay for this, my love!"

Jocelyn's only answer was a peal of laughter that echoed behind her, her dark curls flying in the wind like a banner, and for the first time in many long days, Winterfell felt alive again.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The hooves of Ember clattered to a halt on the snowy bank of the river, her breath misting into the cold air. Jocelyn pulled the reins gently, dismounting just as Cregan arrived at her side with Ironheart, his wolfskin cloak billowing behind him.

They stood in silence for a moment, letting the frigid wind whip past their cheeks as they looked across the icy river. Snow-laden trees loomed tall around them, their branches creaking in the breeze. Jocelyn was smiling faintly—something small and fragile—but it was real.

Then she heard it.

A soft, low growl curled through the air between the trees.

Jocelyn stilled, her eyes narrowing. Cregan noticed her sudden tension and immediately stepped closer, placing a protective arm across her as his other hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. The growl came again, closer this time, accompanied by the thud of heavy footsteps against the snow.

Cregan drew Jocelyn behind him, lips tightening. "Stay back—"

Then the creature emerged into the pale light.

Mirax.

The chocolate brown sheen of his scales shimmered in the weak sun as his wings rustled, eyes the color of ice cubs fixed on Jocelyn. His long, powerful body had grown since their time in Winterfell—he stood taller, moved smoother, like the dragonling he once was had now awakened into something stronger.

"Mirax!" Jocelyn gasped, a cry of relief escaping her.

She ran toward him, heedless of the snow or her long gown, and Mirax gave a low, affectionate rumble. He lowered his massive head and nudged her chest softly with his snout. Jocelyn pressed her forehead to his scales, tears forming in her eyes again.

"Iksan vaoreznuni syt daor rhaenagon lēda ao va se blēnon hae vestan kesan.  Iksi isse ōdres, ñuha valītsos." (I am sorry for not meeting with you on the hill as I said I would. We are in pain, my boy)

Mirax's throat vibrated in a low, sad purr as Jocelyn moved to the saddle on his back, nimble despite the flowing fur-lined gown that swirled around her boots. Her fingers, though red from cold, moved with certainty on the straps.

"Jocelyn!" Cregan called from the riverbank, startled. "Jocelyn! What are you doing?!"

But she was already aloft.

With a great thunder of wings and a gust of wind that sent snow flying from the trees, Mirax soared skyward, carrying Jocelyn into the blue-gray sky.

At first, it was freedom—the wind in her curls, the rush of cold air stinging her cheeks, the roar of flight like a second heartbeat in her chest. And then... it hit her.

Rhaenys.

Her mother had flown just like this—perhaps on her final flight, toward Rook's Rest. And now Jocelyn rode the skies without her.

Grief, sharp and hot, tore through her chest.

The wind could not sweep away these tears. They burned.

Not from sorrow—but from rage.

"Why did you have to die?" she screamed into the wind, her voice tearing from her throat. "Why did you leave me alone?!"

She sobbed into the furs wrapped around her shoulders, but the tears weren't soft this time—they scalded.

And then, in the depths of the wind, she heard it. Faint, like memory or dream:

"Jocelyn. You are my daughter, mine, more Targaryen than Velaryon sometimes, but you are more than me."

Her mother's voice. She gasped—turning her head, looking for a ghost in the clouds.

But there was no one. Just sky, and the endless flapping of Mirax's wings.

They floated there, above the hills for a while, suspended like a breath caught in the chest of the world. Her fingers gripped the saddle tighter.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Take me to Rook's Rest," she whispered.

Mirax turned with a graceful bank, his wings slicing through the sky as he adjusted course. Jocelyn did not know what she would find—perhaps nothing, only ash and bones.

But she needed to see it.

She needed to stand where Rhaenys had fallen, to understand her last breath, to lay her fury at the foot of it and scream at the gods if she must.

Because though she had been broken, she was still Rhaenys's daughter. And she would face the ruin.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
The warmth of the chamber, the soft rustle of silk sheets, the distant sound of waves crashing below Dragonstone's cliffs—all of it faded into the edges of Vellena's mind as she slipped into sleep. The moment she closed her eyes, the dream took her.

She stood barefoot in the courtyard of the old godswood, the dark red leaves of the ancient heart tree fluttering like whispers in the wind. But it was not cold. The air was thick with summer heat, fragrant with roses and smoke. The skies above were streaked in orange and violet, casting an ethereal glow over the stone walls.

And he was there.

Jacaerys.

He stepped toward her slowly, dressed not in his usual riding leathers or armor, but in simple black, his tunic loose, his dark brown curls damp like he had just come from the sea. His chocolate eyes burned with something soft and dangerous all at once—something she knew too well. The way he looked at her was like he needed her, yearned her, craved her and wished to devour her whole.

"Vellena," he said, voice low like the crackle of a dying fire.

She didn't respond with words—she didn't need to. She reached for him, and he caught her hands, his calloused fingers sliding over her wrists, drawing her close until she was flush against him. His mouth found hers, urgent, then soft, then urgent again. She moaned his name, fingers curling into his hair, her body arching into his touch.

Their clothes melted away like smoke. She couldn't remember when or how, but she felt him—skin to skin, chest to chest. His lips moved down her throat, across her collarbone, lower. The heat between them was unbearable, perfect, like dragonfire stoked to the core. He whispered something in High Valyrian against her breast, and she gasped, clutching him closer as he pressed her back against the old tree.

She called his name over and over, a prayer, a curse, a plea. His mouth finally reached her most precious part, he was so close, his breath tickled her folds, so fucking close...

And then—

She woke with a sharp gasp.

Her chest heaved as she sat upright in bed, the sheets tangled around her legs, her silver hair a curtain over her flushed cheeks. Her body was trembling, her thighs damp with the aftershock of what had only been a dream—but had felt like more.

Vellena swallowed hard, trying to catch her breath, her fingers gripping the edge of the bed.

Across the room, Mera and Berion, her kittens, were curled up near the window, sleeping peacefully and unaware. The room was filled with golden afternoon light. It was still day.

But Vellena's skin burned.

And Jacaerys's name still lingered on her lips.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

HELLO MY LOVES! EASTER KEPT ME BUSY BUT IM BACK NOW❤️ HOPE U LIKE THE NEW CHAPTER:) IF THERE ARE MISTAKES PLEASE DONT HESITATE TO TELL ME🙏🏻