~129 A.C~

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DRAGONSTONE
As the council meeting unfolded, the air in the chamber felt thick with tension. The Painted Table, once a symbol of strategy and ambition, now bore the weight of grief and accusation. The torches along the stone walls flickered, casting uneasy shadows over the gathered lords and ladies.

Vellena stood behind her mother's seat, the silver pitcher in her hands cool against her trembling fingers. She was the cupbearer today—a silent witness to the grim discussions of war and death.

Maester Gerardys spoke first, his voice solemn as he delivered the horrifying news.

"It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached. The boy's head was severed from his body. Thousands witnessed the procession."

A murmur passed through the room, hushed but tense. Vellena swallowed hard, pouring wine into her mother's goblet with careful hands. She dared not look up, not yet.

Rhaenyra's breath hitched as she processed the maester's words. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table, knuckles turning white.

"And they are accusing me of having a hand in this?" she asked, her voice carrying equal parts disbelief and fury.

Gerardys gave a slow nod.

"It appears so. There have been messages sent to that effect throughout the realm."

Vellena forced herself to breathe as she held the pitcher. The weight of this accusation was staggering. Of all people, her mother would never harm an innocent child—especially not Helaena's.

Rhaenyra's jaw tightened as she reached for her cup.

"We must send our own messages, denying this vile allegation," she stated firmly before taking a sip.

Gerardys inclined his head.

"I will do so at once, but I'm not sure they will be received in good faith."

One of the gathered lords—Lord Staunton, perhaps—leaned forward with a grim expression.

"And we must double our guard, here and in Driftmark. There will be swift retribution in one form or another—"

"I have seen to it, Your Grace," Gerardys interjected, nodding toward Rhaenyra.

Before another word could be spoken, the heavy doors opened, and in strode Jacaerys Velaryon. He carried himself with determination, his jaw set, his eyes dark with purpose. Vellena's gaze lifted instinctively, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met.

Jace's expression didn't change, but Vellena felt something shift inside her. She looked away quickly, gripping the handle of the pitcher tighter as he stepped to the opposite end of the table, facing their mother.

"Let me fly out on Vermax," Jace declared. "Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet, and I can watch for movements from King's Landing."

Vellena's breath caught. Her fingers loosened slightly from the pitcher's handle. No. The idea of Jace leaving again, flying into danger—it sent an unfamiliar panic curling in her stomach.

Rhaenyra, thankfully, shook her head without hesitation.

"No," she said, her voice firm.

A brief wave of relief washed over Vellena, though she hardly realized it.

Lord Bartimos Celtigar cleared his throat, his tone grave.

"It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable, at a time when we most need loyalty to our cause."

Rhaenyra's voice cracked slightly as she responded, bitterness lacing her words.

"B-But it's a lie. Having lost my own son, that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people... an innocent."

Vellena squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, then looked down at the polished wood of the table. Her fingers curled tightly around the pitcher's handle once more.
Her fault... her fault... Luke died...

Ser Alfred Broome cleared his throat.

"The death of Prince Lucerys was a shock and an insult. A mother so aggrieved might, naturally, seek relief in retribution."

A dangerous silence fell over the room.

Rhaenyra shot up from her chair, her voice sharp as a blade.

"Are you suggesting, Ser Alfred, that my grief drove me to order the decapitation of a child?"

Ser Alfred hesitated, suddenly realizing his precarious position.

"I merely thought, perhaps, an action taken in haste—"

Princess Rhaenys, who had remained composed thus far, spoke with quiet but commanding authority.

"Mind yourself," she warned, her sharp gaze still locking onto Daemon.

Rhaenyra took a shaky breath before sitting back down. She turned her head slightly toward Daemon, seeking his counsel, his reassurance. At first, she found a soft smile on his lips, as if he sought to comfort her.

But then, as she looked closer, her blood ran cold.

Daemon's smirk was one of pride. Of satisfaction.

Rhaenyra's heart sank. Her stomach twisted violently. She knew that expression—knew it all too well.

The room began to empty as the meeting was dismissed, but Rhaenyra barely noticed.

She turned to Daemon, her voice low and strained.

"Come with me."

Daemon merely arched a brow before rising, following her out of the chamber.

Vellena remained still, barely breathing, watching as her mother led him away. The council had spoken, and yet, the worst truth of all had yet to be addressed.

The Greens had accused Rhaenyra.

But Rhaenyra wasn't the one who had done this.

Vellena's grip on the pitcher loosened as realization dawned.

It was Daemon.

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The nursery was quiet, save for the soft sounds of little Viserys and little Aegon babbling as they played with their wooden dragons. Sunlight filtered in through the arched windows, casting a warm golden hue across the stone floor. Vellena sat near the hearth, her embroidery resting on her lap, though she had barely touched it. Lemoncake, her orange-gold cat, was curled at her feet, her dark eyes half-lidded as she basked in the warmth of the fire.

The stillness of the moment was comforting—until the door creaked open.

Vellena's head lifted sharply as Jace stepped inside. He looked different then this morning at the council, his jaw tense, his grip tight on the hilt of his sword as though he expected trouble. The moment their eyes met, the world around them seemed to shrink.

Neither of them spoke.

Vellena felt her breath catch, her fingers tightening slightly around her needlework. The memory of last night at the funeral pyre still lingered—his hands on her, his mouth claiming hers, the way he had looked at her afterward, like she was something precious.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

"Where is Joffrey?" His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something else—something unreadable.

Vellena swallowed, shifting in her chair, trying to appear calm. But when she spoke, her voice betrayed her, trembling just slightly.

"He's in the pit with Baela... he's tending to his dragon, Tyraxes." She forced herself to meet his gaze. "What do you need of him?"

Jace exhaled softly, his grip on his sword loosening.

"I... uhm..." He glanced down at his hand, as if only now remembering what he was holding. "I told the Maester to fix his toy... and it's finished."

He stepped forward, revealing a small wooden seahorse in his palm. The delicate carving had been carefully mended, the cracks no longer visible.

Vellena's lips parted slightly as she looked at it. It was Joffrey's favorite—Luke had given it to him when Joffrey turned 3 years old.

She nodded. "I will give it to him."

Jace hesitated for a moment, his fingers curling around the toy before he finally extended it toward her.

Vellena reached out to take it, and in that moment, their fingers brushed.

A shiver ran down her spine, a sharp contrast to the warmth of Jace's skin. She ignored it.

Jace stiffened almost imperceptibly, heat rising in his chest at the simple contact, but he forced himself to do the same.

He gave her a final nod before turning on his heel and striding toward the door.

As it shut behind him, Vellena let out a shaky breath. She squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the toy to her chest.

"Fool," she muttered under her breath.

Lemoncake let out a soft purr at her feet, utterly indifferent to the storm raging inside her mistress.

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WINTERFELL
The nursery in Winterfell was warm, a stark contrast to the icy winds that howled outside. The fire burned steadily in the hearth, casting a golden glow over the stone walls. Jocelyn followed Lady Glover into the room, her gaze immediately drawn to the small child sitting on a thick fur rug near the cradle.

"Lady Velaryon," Lady Glover said with a kind smile, "this is my grandson, Rickon Stark."

The babe, barely two years of age, looked up at her with wide grey eyes, his dark curls a mess atop his head. He was chewing on his tiny fist, but at the sight of a new face, he pulled it away and let out a soft giggle.

Jocelyn's heart melted.

She lowered herself onto the rug, meeting Rickon at his level. "Hello, little one," she murmured gently.

Rickon stared at her for a moment before offering another toothy grin, his chubby fingers reaching out toward her skirts. Lady Glover chuckled softly.

"It seems he likes you."

Jocelyn smiled, warmth spreading through her chest as Rickon crawled toward her, his small hands grasping at the fabric of her dress. She hesitated for only a moment before scooping him up into her arms, settling him on her hip as naturally as if she had done it a hundred times before.

Rickon beamed, patting Jocelyn's cheek with his tiny hand. She let out a soft laugh and kissed his forehead.

A presence filled the doorway.

Jocelyn didn't notice at first, but Lady Glover did. Her gaze flickered toward the entrance, and her lips twitched in amusement.

Cregan Stark stood frozen in the threshold.

His grey eyes, usually cold and unreadable, softened as he took in the sight before him—Jocelyn Velaryon, the proud and poised daughter of House Velaryon, cradling his son in her arms, looking down at him with such tenderness.

He watched, unmoving, as Rickon nuzzled against her shoulder. Something in his chest tightened—something dangerous.

Lady Glover smirked under her breath before clearing her throat.

Cregan blinked, as if shaking himself free of some spell. He exhaled sharply and stepped forward, schooling his features back into his usual composure.

"I will be gone hunting in the Wolfswood for the next three days," he informed his mother, his tone firm.

Lady Glover scoffed, crossing her arms. "Always off in the woods, that one," she muttered to Jocelyn before looking back at her son. "Is it necessary?"

"The men need game," Cregan replied simply.

Jocelyn remained silent, watching the exchange carefully. She did not know Cregan Stark well, but she had observed enough to see how much his mother worried for him.

Rickon stirred in her arms, gripping her sleeve as if sensing the shift in the room.

Cregan's gaze flickered to them once more. He took a slow step forward, stopping just in front of Jocelyn.

Without a word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to his son's dark curls.

Jocelyn held her breath.

Then, just as swiftly, Cregan straightened and turned his attention to her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something lingering in his gaze.

"Lady Jocelyn," he said respectfully.

Jocelyn swallowed, feeling her heartbeat quicken. "Lord Stark."

He gave her a final nod, then stepped back.

"Good fortune on your hunt," she murmured, her voice steady despite the way her pulse pounded.

Cregan hesitated. Just for a second. Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Jocelyn let out a slow breath.

Lady Glover grinned knowingly.

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Winterfell's great hall was quieter than usual, with most of the household tending to their duties. The fire burned steadily in the hearth, casting flickering light over the stone walls. Lady Glover sat comfortably in a high-backed chair, watching Jocelyn with amused eyes as the young woman carefully rocked Rickon in her arms, swaying gently from side to side.

"You are quite the natural," Lady Glover mused, a small smile playing on her lips.

Jocelyn looked up, blinking as if startled by the observation. "Oh—I... I suppose I've always been fond of children." She glanced down at Rickon, who had begun to doze off, his dark lashes fluttering against his chubby cheeks. "He is a sweet boy."

Lady Glover nodded. "He takes after his father in many ways."

Jocelyn hesitated before glancing at the older woman. "Lord Stark... he does not speak much of himself."

"No, he does not," Lady Glover agreed, leaning back with a knowing look. "But perhaps I can tell you a few things, if you wish to know them."

Jocelyn hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "I would."

Lady Glover's expression softened. "Cregan was not always the man you see now. Once, he was a boy—much like any other, though he always had the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders."

She sighed, folding her hands in her lap.

"He had a younger brother, you know. His name was Aric. They were as close as any two boys could be. Cregan adored him, always watching over him, always protecting him. But when Cregan was only thirteen, Aric fell ill. The Maester did all he could, but in the end, it was not enough."

Jocelyn's grip on Rickon tightened slightly. "That must have been devastating."

Lady Glover nodded solemnly. "It changed him. He was already being trained to be the next Lord of Winterfell, but after Aric's death, he became even more determined. He saw it as his duty to be strong, to ensure that no one he loved ever suffered again."

She exhaled before continuing. "But then came the trouble with his uncle."

Jocelyn frowned. "I have heard whispers of it, but never the full story."

"After Lord Rickon Stark—Cregan's father—died, Cregan was still too young to take full command of Winterfell. His uncle, Bennard, was named regent. But instead of preparing Cregan to rule, he grew greedy, clinging to power as if it were his own birthright."

Her lips thinned. "He refused to relinquish Winterfell, even when Cregan came of age. The North suffered for it—Bennard was a hard man, and he ruled with a heavy hand. But Cregan... he bided his time. He gathered loyal men, those who had not forgotten who their true lord was. And when the time came, he took back his seat with steel and fire."

Jocelyn swallowed. "Did he... kill his uncle?"

Lady Glover shook her head. "No. He imprisoned Bennard and his three sons in the dungeons of Winterfell"

Jocelyn exhaled, nodding. "And so he became Lord of Winterfell at last."

"Yes," Lady Glover said, a note of pride in her voice. "And he ruled well. But even a strong lord needs companionship."

She smiled wistfully. "That is when he met Arra Norrey."

Jocelyn tilted her head slightly, listening intently.

"She was from the Rills, a daughter of House Norrey. She was a fierce girl, with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. The first time she met Cregan, she called him a 'brooding wolf who needed to learn how to smile.'"

Jocelyn couldn't help but smile faintly. "I imagine he was not pleased by that."

Lady Glover chuckled. "Oh, he was furious. But Arra... she had a way of pulling the fire out of him. She did not cower before him, nor did she treat him as a legend, but as a man. And Cregan... he needed that."

She sighed. "They fell in love. A rare thing, for a lord and lady. Their marriage was not merely one of duty—it was a true union. They understood each other in ways no one else did. And when Rickon was born, Cregan was happier than I had ever seen him."

Her expression darkened slightly. "But happiness is fleeting, as it so often is. Arra was strong, but childbirth is cruel. She... she did not survive it."

Jocelyn felt her chest tighten.

Lady Glover sighed. "Cregan buried her beneath the weirwood tree in the godswood. He has never spoken of her death, not once. But I see the way he looks at Rickon—the way he clings to him. He loves that boy more than anything in this world."

Jocelyn looked down at Rickon, who was still sleeping peacefully in her arms.

"And that is why he does not allow himself to love again," Lady Glover continued softly. "He believes that love only brings loss."

Jocelyn swallowed, her gaze flickering toward the fire. "That is a heavy burden to bear."

"It is," Lady Glover agreed. "But even the strongest men cannot carry their burdens alone forever."

She looked at Jocelyn carefully, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Perhaps one day, he will learn that."

Jocelyn did not answer, but her heart was pounding in her chest.

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DRAGONSTONE
The afternoon sun hung low over Dragonstone, casting golden light through the courtyard gardens. A soft breeze stirred the pages of Vellena's book as she sat on a stone bench, her silver locks catching the light like woven moonlight. Beside her, Lemoncake lay curled up, her orange-gold fur rising and falling with each slow breath.

She was immersed in her reading, The Gods of Old Valyria, a text detailing the forgotten deities of her ancestors—mighty beings of fire and sky, worshipped long before the Doom. But her eyes moved over the words absently. Her mind was elsewhere, trapped in grief and guilt.

A soft rustling of skirts pulled her from her thoughts. She looked up just as her mother, Queen Rhaenyra, approached, moving with slow, deliberate steps. There was something heavy in her gait, in the way she held herself. She was tired.

Vellena shut her book, placing it beside Lemoncake, who stretched lazily but did not stir.

Rhaenyra eased herself onto the bench with a sigh, massaging her forehead as if trying to chase away an ache. Vellena studied her carefully. She could feel the weight pressing upon her mother's shoulders—the burden of grief, of war, of Daemon.

Rhaenyra lifted her head after a moment, her swollen, red-rimmed violet eyes meeting Vellena's. A weak smile tugged at her lips, but it did not reach her eyes.

"What are you reading?" she asked softly.

Vellena swallowed, her throat tight. "The Gods of Old Valyria," she murmured.

Rhaenyra hummed, but said nothing more. A silence stretched between them, filled only by the rustling of the leaves and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.

Finally, Vellena spoke the question that had been on her mind since she saw her mother approach. "Where is Daemon?"

Her mother exhaled deeply, her fingers gripping the folds of her gown. "He left... to Harrenhal."

A pause. A silence thick with meaning. Then, softly, almost bitterly:

"It's better this way."

Vellena said nothing. She knew. She could feel the storm within her mother's heart, the ache, the fury, the betrayal.

Slowly, she placed her hands over Rhaenyra's, feeling the warmth of her mother's skin beneath her palms.

Rhaenyra looked at her, eyes softening, then squeezed her hands tightly, as if grounding herself in her daughter's touch.

Vellena leaned her head against her mother's shoulder, breathing her in—the familiar scent of lavender, sea salt, and the faintest trace of dragon smoke.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Rhaenyra frowned slightly, tilting her head. "For what, my darling?"

Vellena swallowed. The lump in her throat ached.

"For Luke."

Her mother tensed.

Vellena forced herself to continue, though her voice wavered. "I... I couldn't save him. I should have—" Her breath caught. "I should have been the one to die."

Rhaenyra pulled away suddenly, turning to face her daughter fully, her violet eyes blazing.

"No." She shook her head violently. "It's not your fault. None of it."

Vellena's breath came in shallow bursts. She tried to form words, but the guilt pressed heavy on her chest.

"But..." she finally managed, her voice fragile, "I took Aemond's eye. I should—"

Rhaenyra grasped her face gently but firmly, forcing Vellena to meet her gaze.

"You were a child," she said fiercely. "A little girl trying to protect her brothers."

Her voice softened, though the fire remained. "I am not saying what you did to him was right, but that does not justify him wishing to kill you."

Vellena inhaled sharply, her mother's words sinking deep into the raw wounds of her heart.

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against Rhaenyra's, as she had done as a child when she sought comfort in her mother's embrace.

Rhaenyra pressed a gentle kiss to her silver hair, murmuring against it:

"My darling girl."

Lemoncake stirred, stretching languidly before crawling onto Vellena's lap, her warm weight grounding her.

Rhaenyra pulled back with a small smile, her fingers brushing over the cat's fur. "Now," she said, her voice lighter than before, "what do you say if we go and eat some lemon cake? Like when you were little?"

At the word "lemon cake," the cat mewled in protest, flicking her tail with clear disappointment.

Rhaenyra and Vellena both burst into laughter, a much-needed break in the storm of sorrow.

Rhaenyra stroked Lemoncake's fur soothingly, eyes still glistening but now filled with warmth. "Don't worry," she teased, "we're not eating you."

Lemoncake purred softly, nestling against Vellena's lap before mother and daughter stood, hand in hand, heading toward the kitchens—toward something sweet amidst all the bitterness.

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VEL AND NYRA<333😭💗