~129 A.C~

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

BLACKWATER BAY
The narrow fishing boat rocked softly as it cut through the dark waters between Dragonstone and the mainland. Only the moonlight lit their way, casting a silver sheen on the restless sea. Bennar Lonmouth sat at the helm, guiding the boat with strong hands, his brow furrowed with quiet determination. Lyra sat beside him, wrapped in a worn gray cloak, her green eyes flickering nervously from wave to wave.

Neither of them had spoken for a while, the only sounds the creak of wood and the steady splash of oars. Finally, it was Lyra who broke the silence, her voice low and unsure.

"Do you think this war will truly happen?" she asked, not looking at Bennar. "I mean... a real war? With dragons?"

Bennar's dark brown eyes shifted toward her. "It's already begun," he said, voice calm but firm. "Rhaenys is dead. Rook's Rest burns. And Queen Rhaenyra... she will not stop now. Nor will the Greens."

Lyra hugged her knees closer. "But dragons... they burn everything. Cities. Fields. People." She paused, then added even softer, "I don't want to die in fire."

Bennar sighed, adjusting the sail slightly. "No one does. But we're not meant to fight dragons. Just find the ones who might." He glanced at her then, offering a small, crooked smile. "You're brave, Lyra. Braver than most."

"I'm not," she said quickly, shaking her head. "You are. You always were. I just... I'm here because Princess Vellena asked me to be."

"You came because you believe in her," Bennar said. "That's brave enough."

Lyra glanced toward the black outline of the coast. "We should use different names... in King's Landing. If anyone recognizes us—"

"They won't," Bennar assured her.

"But just in case," she insisted. "You'll be... Tom. And I'll be Ellyn." She smiled faintly, proud of her quick thinking. "Peasants' names. Easy to forget."

Bennar nodded, clearly amused. "Tom and Ellyn. A knight and a maid, off to rouse the forgotten blood of dragons." He looked ahead again. "It sounds like something out of a tale."

Lyra's smile faltered slightly. "Let's just hope it ends better than most of them."

As the distant lights of King's Landing shimmered on the horizon like fireflies, the boat sailed on—quiet, purposeful. Behind them, Dragonstone faded into the mist. Ahead, secrets waited in the gutters and shadows of the capital—secrets that might decide the fate of a kingdom.

And in that boat, two loyal hearts braved the tides of history.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

KING'S LANDING
The waves lapped against the rocky shore just outside King's Landing as Bennar helped Lyra out of the boat, his boots squelching in the wet sand. The great walls of the city loomed ahead, the main gate barred shut for the night. The guards wouldn't open it without a bribe—or suspicion. But Lyra didn't hesitate. She grabbed his sleeve and whispered, "This way."

Bennar followed without question as she led him along a winding path that clung to the edge of the cliffs, through overgrown brush and between two collapsed stone sheds. At last, they came upon a small, moss-covered postern door nearly hidden behind ivy. Lyra pressed her fingers to the stone near the hinge and pushed. The old wood groaned but gave way.

"How do you—?"

"I grew up here," she said quickly, stepping into the dark tunnel beyond. "You learn the quiet ways when you work in the Red Keep."

Soon, they emerged into an alley behind the Cobbler's Square. The night air smelled of fish, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Dogs barked somewhere nearby. Lyra pulled her hood up, and Bennar followed her lead. Their cloaks were plain, their clothes simple—nothing to hint at their true stations. Just two more faces in the dark.

Lyra walked with purpose, weaving through narrow streets and pushing open the door to a run-down tavern off Fishmonger's Row. Inside, the air was thick with the stink of ale, sweat, and rot. The patrons barely looked up—drunken sailors, sellswords, and a few brothel girls laughing with their patrons.

Lyra headed for the bar while Bennar stayed back, eyes scanning the room. Her voice was soft as she spoke to the barkeep, "Looking for Targaryen blood," she said under her breath, "the silver hair kind. Know where to find it?"

Before the barkeep could respond, a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. Lyra stiffened as a thick-bellied, red-faced man leaned in, leering.

"How much for a round?" he slurred, eyeing her up and down.

"I—I'm not a whore," Lyra stammered, stepping back in panic.

The man reached for her again, and before anyone could blink, Bennar was there. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted, forcing him back with one strong push.

"She's not here for any kind of service," Bennar said coldly.

The man glared at him, eyes bloodshot. "Then why's she here, prancing about like a tavern dove?"

"Not your godsdamn concern," Bennar growled, then struck the man square in the nose. Blood spurted as the drunkard yelped and stumbled back into a table, upending it and drawing a few jeers.

Bennar grabbed Lyra's hand without thinking and pulled her through the swinging door into the cool night air. They didn't stop until they reached the end of the alley.

Lyra was still catching her breath when she looked up at him. "Found nothing?"

Bennar shook his head, not realizing until she looked down that they were still holding hands.

She let go gently, murmuring, "Alright. Let's try the next one."

And so they did—hoods up, hearts pounding, moving deeper into the sleeping city in search of dragons in the dark.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The next tavern was smaller, quieter, tucked away in a crooked side alley near the Street of Silk. Its wooden sign swung slightly in the wind, the paint chipped, barely legible — The Roost. Lyra led the way inside without hesitation.

The scent of pipe smoke and old wine greeted them, and the innkeep barely glanced up. This place was different — less drunken brawls, more whispers in corners. Lyra moved toward the back of the room, brushing past a curtain that separated the main hall from the private rooms beyond.

Bennar followed close, hand instinctively resting near the dagger beneath his cloak.

A young girl sat at a rickety table in the backroom, counting coins. Her hair was the same dirty blonde as Lyra's but cut short above her shoulders, and her green eyes lit up the moment she looked up.

"Lyra?" the girl gasped, standing up so quickly the coins scattered.

"Dyanna," Lyra whispered, a rare smile breaking over her face as she rushed forward. The sisters embraced tightly.

"I thought you were still on Dragonstone!" Dyanna whispered excitedly.

"I am," Lyra said quickly. "But I'm here now. I need your help."

Bennar stepped in, but as Lyra opened her mouth to explain, he leaned in and muttered low in her ear, "Can we trust her?"

Lyra stiffened. She turned her head and shot Bennar a sharp glare. "She is my sister."

Bennar raised both eyebrows, backing off with a scoff. "Alright. That's clear."

With a small huff, Lyra turned back to Dyanna, who had watched the exchange silently.

"We've come with a message," Lyra began. "From Dragonstone. From Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and Princess Vellena Targaryen. We are looking for the Targaryen bastards — anyone with dragon's blood. Those willing to swear to Queen Rhaenyra. There will be dragons to claim. Rewards to earn."

Dyanna blinked, stunned, then slowly lowered herself back into the seat. "You're serious."

"We wouldn't be here if we weren't," Bennar added, arms crossed.

A beat passed. Then Dyanna's lips parted into a sly smile. "I know a few. Girls who've had silver-haired sons and daughters. Boys who don't look like their supposed fathers. Girls with purple or blue eyes. A whore near Hook Alley keeps a list, if you know what I mean."

Lyra's brows rose. "You'll help us?"

"Of course," Dyanna said simply, reaching for her cloak. "Blood's blood. And if we don't do something now, there won't be much left to save."

As she stood, her green eyes sparked with a quiet fire Lyra hadn't seen before. And for the first time that night, Bennar gave a nod of approval.

The sowing of the seeds had truly begun.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The Street of Silk pulsed with the strange life of King's Landing after dark — the warm haze of torchlight through the fog, low laughter curling around perfume and wine, and the occasional scream that could be either pleasure or pain. Lyra kept her cloak tight around her, hood drawn low as she and Bennar moved carefully through the crowds, following Dyanna's whispered instructions.

"She said a silver-haired boy works at the Dove's Nest," Lyra murmured under her breath, eyes scanning each brothel sign as they passed.

Bennar nodded. "We'll start there after this block."

They kept moving, keeping close. Dyanna had gone ahead, scattering the message like seeds: whispered to madams, murmured to old lovers, slipped in conversation with brothel keepers and old wet nurses who knew the faces of silver-haired children all too well.

But just as Lyra turned a corner, a rider thundered up the alley at full speed — a member of the City Watch, his black cloak flapping behind him. The horse snorted, wild-eyed, hooves crashing against stone.

"Lyra!" Bennar barked — and then he was moving.

The horse passed within a whisper of trampling her, but Bennar grabbed Lyra by the waist and spun them around. They slammed into the stone wall, her back hitting it, his body pinning hers as the wind of the rider's passing blew their cloaks back.

Silence. Then the sounds of the street slowly returned.

Lyra blinked up at him, her green eyes wide, her chest rising and falling quickly under his. "You saved me," she whispered, a small smile twitching her lips. "Thank you."

Bennar tried to speak, but no sound came. He was too aware — of how close they were, of the warmth radiating off her, of the way her smile trembled slightly, still shaken from the near miss.

And most of all — her lips.

He shouldn't have noticed them. But he did.

He'd known Lyra for two moons now. From the moment he'd been assigned to Princess Vellena, Lyra had been his anchor. Quiet, watchful Lyra who always knew where the Princess was, what she needed, what her moods meant. It was Lyra who first warned him how Vellena's silences carried more weight than her words. Lyra who smiled kindly when he stumbled over the court customs. Lyra who—

His thoughts snapped as her smile faded slightly. "Bennar?"

He blinked, straightened quickly and stepped back, clearing his throat. "You alright?"

Lyra nodded softly. "I am. Thanks to you."

He gave a half-smile, brushing dust off his cloak, trying to recover some composure. "We should keep moving. Before the next one comes riding through like a bloody fool."

Lyra chuckled faintly, lowering her hood a little as they started forward again. "You know... today's your nameday."

Bennar gave her a sidelong glance, surprised. "Didn't think you'd remember that."

"I did," she said gently. "Vellena mentioned it once. Said she wanted to gift you her silence for a whole day and would even let you follow her around as it's in your duty."

He laughed at that — a deep, genuine sound that made Lyra smile wider.

And as they disappeared deeper into the alleyways of the Street of Silk, under the hush of whispered names and candlelight, neither of them said aloud what they were both beginning to feel. There would be time. Or maybe not.

But tonight, they walked together.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

WINTERFELL
In the pale Northern sunlight, the clang of steel and low voices filled Winterfell's training yard. Jocelyn Velaryon moved with swift precision, her dark braids trailing behind her as she hurled knife after knife into the round wooden targets set up before her. Each blade struck home with satisfying thuds, but the fire in her limbs was dulled today—her balance off, her breath shallow.

She drew another blade, but her hand trembled slightly.

The world tilted.

Jocelyn staggered, the sound of the yard fading into a high ringing in her ears. A wave of nausea gripped her and she rushed to a quiet corner, dropping to her knees behind a low stone wall and retching violently.

When it passed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve, heart hammering. She rose slowly, steadying herself with a breath. Something wasn't right.

She made her way through the winding corridors of Winterfell until she reached the rookery tower, where the Maester resided. She knocked once and stepped inside.

Maester Walder, a mild man with gray-streaked hair and thoughtful blue eyes, looked up from a scroll.

"Lady Jocelyn," he said, standing politely. "You're pale. Sit, please."

Jocelyn sat down, her fingers curling against the chair's wooden arms. "I was training in the yard and felt dizzy... then sick. I don't know what came over me."

Walder hummed thoughtfully, walking around her with gentle concern. "The strain of grief takes many forms, my lady. You have endured much with Princess Rhaenys's passing."

"I thought the same," Jocelyn murmured, her brow furrowing. "But..."

"But there may be more to it," Walder said, cutting in gently. He peered at her eyes, checked her pulse, touched her forehead. "You've lost no color, your temperature is steady. But... tell me, when was the last time you bled?"

Jocelyn blinked. "I—" She paused, mind racing. "It should have been last week. I haven't bled this moon."

Walder nodded, a light frown of concentration on his face. "Forgive the indignity, but I'll need a urine sample. Just there," he gestured toward a small screen behind which a chamber pot had been placed, along with a small glazed bowl.

Still confused but too uneasy to argue, Jocelyn obeyed. She returned with the filled bowl, placing it on the Maester's work table.

Walder nodded again, retrieving a clean needle and kneeling beside the table. He gently lowered the needle into the center of the bowl and held it there in silence.

Minutes passed.

Then the metal began to turn — slowly, unmistakably — red.

Walder straightened, placing the needle aside with steady hands. "I suspected as much," he said, softly, almost kindly.

Jocelyn stood, watching him. "What does it mean?"

"When the needle turns red, it often signals the presence of a growing life," Walder said, looking her in the eye. "You are with child, my lady."

Jocelyn stared at him, the words landing like stones in her chest. "That's not... I—" Her voice broke off as her hands fell to her stomach. The realization echoed in her bones.

"I must... I need air," she said.

Walder bowed his head, stepping back. "Of course."

She stepped out of the tower, her boots barely feeling the ground as she walked, the stone corridors spinning around her. She said nothing as she passed servants and guards, her mind in chaos.

A child.

Cregan's child.

By the time she reached their shared chamber, the light was beginning to soften in the windows. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, her violet eyes staring ahead, wide and full of storm.

Tonight. Tonight she would tell him.

But for now, she placed her hand gently over her stomach and whispered into the quiet:

"...How will I even begin?"

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Evening settled softly over Winterfell, casting a warm amber hue across the stone chamber as a cold wind whispered at the windows. Jocelyn stood in silence, her violet eyes gazing out into the dusk, her arms folded across her chest. Her nightgown clung to her in the candlelight, her dark wavy hair resting over her shoulders like quiet sentries.

The door creaked open behind her.

Cregan entered, exhausted from the day's endless counsel and the duties that weighed heavy on the Lord of Winterfell. He had checked on Rickon, tucked his son in with a soft kiss to the brow and a whispered promise that the realm would not crumble overnight. He was still in his shirt and dark trousers, his heavy fur cloak tossed aside as he closed the door with a sigh and loosened the ties at his collar.

He spoke, his voice tired but steady. "Lord Dustin wants more men for the eastern ridge. And Glover insists on training the new recruits himself, though I've told him twice—"

"Mhm," Jocelyn hummed faintly, her voice distant.

Cregan paused. He studied her still form, the way her shoulders seemed wound too tightly, her tone too quiet. He approached, slowly, and slid his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "You're quiet tonight."

She gave a soft, reluctant smile, leaning into his warmth. He pressed a kiss to her temple, breathing her in. "What's troubling you, sweetling?"

Jocelyn didn't answer right away. She pulled away gently from his arms and stepped into the center of the room, her back still to him. Cregan's brow furrowed.

"Jocelyn?"

"Don't get angry," she said quickly, turning halfway toward him. Her voice was too light, too tense.

"I would never," he said, stepping toward her. "Tell me what's happened."

She bit down on her bottom lip, eyes glimmering, her hands tightening by her sides. Cregan stopped just in front of her now, lowering his voice. "Jocelyn..."

She lifted her gaze, and there were tears unshed behind her lashes. "This isn't the right time," she whispered. "For... what's happening to me."

His heart began to pound.

He lifted a hand to her cheek, gently brushing away the tears that had finally fallen. "You're safe," he said, soothing. "Whatever it is. Just tell me."

She let out a shaky breath. "I'm with child."

The room went very still.

Cregan's hand remained cupped on her cheek, but his eyes froze—his breath caught as if it had been knocked from his lungs. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came.

"I know Rickon is your son," she rushed on, afraid of the silence. "And I love him as if he were mine. I never planned this—not so soon—and I know we are at war and—"

He swept her into his arms.

Jocelyn gasped as he lifted her from the floor and spun her in a wide, joyful circle. She clutched at him with a breathless laugh, her tears turning to stunned joy.

Cregan set her down gently but didn't let go. He kissed her deeply, his hand tangling in the back of her curly waves. When they broke apart, his forehead rested against hers.

"This is the best news I've had in a moon," he whispered, his voice raw. "In many moons."

"You're not angry?"

"Angry?" he scoffed, grinning through a rough breath. "You've given me the greatest gift a man can ask for."

"I love you," she murmured, her hands pressed against his chest. "And I love this baby already. And Rickon."

"I love you, " Cregan said, voice thick with emotion, "Rickon, and this child more than I thought myself capable of." His hands found her waist and slid to rest gently on her lower belly. "I will protect you all, with all that I am."

Jocelyn leaned into him, closing her eyes as his hands held the beginning of their future between them, beating quietly under her skin.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

OLDTOWN
The grand library of the Hightower Household was hushed beneath the velvet sky. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting silver pools across the stone floors and towering shelves. A single candle flickered atop a reading desk near the far wall, its golden glow illuminating books and scattered parchment.

Alayne sat hunched over her work, a soft fur-lined cloak draped around her shoulders. Her pale hands moved with quick precision as charcoal scratched over parchment, shaping lines with care. Her dark lashes were low over her cheeks, violet eyes focused. She didn't hear the door open.

"Still awake?" a voice broke the silence.

Alayne jumped, her hand smearing a stroke across the parchment. She whirled to see Prince Daeron Targaryen, leaning casually against the doorway, a wry smile tugging at his lips. The soft light caught his silver hair and made it shimmer like moonlight.

"You scared me," Alayne breathed, her cheeks flushing.

Daeron stepped forward slowly, peering over her shoulder. "What's that you're hiding?"

"It's nothing," she said quickly, pulling the parchment toward her chest. She attempted to fold it, but Daeron had already seen enough—a dragon's wing in sweeping motion, a shadowed castle beneath.

"Hm," Daeron hummed, slipping into the chair beside her, his gaze amused. "Nothing seems to have rather elegant lines for a nothing."

Alayne looked away, her fingers still on the edge of her sketch. "It's just something I do to pass the time."

Daeron leaned back, watching her with interest. "You used to draw birds when we were children. You gave me one. A hawk with silver feathers."

Alayne smiled despite herself. "You remember that?"

"I kept it," he said, then added with a grin, "Though I think it might've been eaten by one of the ravens when I left it too close to their cage."

She laughed, a quiet, genuine sound. "Well, I suppose I'll never top that masterpiece."

"You've grown better," Daeron said softly, looking at her rather than the drawing.

There was a silence between them, warm and stretched with memory. Outside, the wind curled around the high windows like a lullaby.

"You were always the quiet one," Daeron said, shifting slightly toward her. "But not with me."

Alayne looked down at her hands. "You listened. When we were little... I always thought you'd disappear again."

"I never did," he said. "Even when I was sent here, I remembered you. A girl with ink on her fingers and eyes like twilight."

She met his gaze, surprised.

"I'm glad you're still that girl," he said, quieter now. "Only... more."

The moment lingered between them. In the silence, Alayne dared to hold his gaze, her heart fluttering.

"I kept something, too," she whispered, almost shyly. "A stone you gave me. From the Whispering Sound."

Daeron tilted his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "I gave you that?"

"You said it would bring me dreams of dragons."

"And did it?"

"Yes," she said, her smile soft. "Every single night."

Daeron's eyes didn't leave hers. The candle flickered between them.

"Then maybe it worked," he murmured.

They didn't say anything more for a long while—just sat side by side, two threads quietly knotting back together under starlight and shadow.

The candle between them burned low, its wax trickling slowly down the stem. Silence had stretched on, but it was not awkward—it was the kind of hush that felt suspended, like the hush between the notes of a song. Daeron tilted his head, lips twitching into a playful grin.

"Let's play something," he said suddenly, folding his arms across his chest.

Alayne blinked, amused. "Play something?"

"A game. One we used to play when we were children."

Her expression turned thoughtful. "The alphabet one?"

He nodded. "Exactly. You say stop—I name the letter. Then you give me four things with that letter: an animal, a color, a noble house, and a body of water. Then it's my turn."

Alayne bit back a smile. "That's still a silly game."

"Silly, but clever," he said, leaning forward. "And it kept us both awake during Septa Norra's endless history lessons."

Alayne chuckled. "Alright, go on then. Start the alphabet."

Daeron cleared his throat dramatically. "A... B... C... D..."

"Stop!" Alayne said, eyes bright.

"D," Daeron grinned. "Now impress me."

Alayne narrowed her eyes in mock focus. "Alright... Direwolf, Dusk rose—that's a shade of violet red—House Darklyn, and... Dorne's Fingers."

Daeron's brows lifted. "Very impressive."

"My turn," she said, already smiling. "A... B... C..."

"Stop," Daeron interrupted, resting his chin in his hand.

"C," Alayne replied, raising a brow.

Daeron didn't miss a beat. "Crab, cerulean, House Celtigar, and the Current, which is a tributary of the Mander."

Alayne laughed. "That's cheating. You just made that up."

"It's real!" he said, holding a hand to his chest in mock offense. "Maester Orwel taught me about it himself."

They played on like that—back and forth, laughter muffled behind their hands, teasing and challenging each other. Their shoulders brushed, their knees bumped. The candle dimmed further, but neither noticed.

Then—

The sound of soft footsteps echoed outside the library doors. A faint voice, the jingle of keys.

"Handmaid," Daeron whispered, rising swiftly.

Before Alayne could react, he grabbed her hand and pulled her with him between the towering shelves. They slipped into the narrow space between two bookcases just as the door creaked open. Darkness cloaked them, the scent of parchment and old leather enclosing the small space.

Daeron pressed a finger to his lips, eyes sparkling in the gloom.

Alayne held her breath, tucked close against his chest, one hand resting over his heartbeat. Her green eyes searched his face, just inches away, and Daeron... couldn't help but look down at her lips.

His breath caught.

The handmaid's steps moved past, then faded.

Still, Daeron didn't move.

Alayne didn't either.

And then, in one quiet heartbeat, she leaned forward and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek.

Before he could say anything, she pulled back, eyes flicking upward just once, then slipped out from between the shelves with grace and quiet steps.

Daeron remained frozen, watching her disappear beyond the shelves. Slowly, he reached up and touched the spot on his cheek where her lips had been.

He smiled—small, crooked, and entirely dazed.

"Dusk rose," he muttered to himself, still grinning. "Definitely her color."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
The wind outside howled like a distant dragon, its breath brushing against the windows of Dragonstone. Inside the dimly lit library, firelight flickered across the stone walls, dancing shadows between the shelves of ancient tomes and histories long forgotten.

Vellena's breath was still unsteady as she leaned back into the window sill cushions, her cheeks flushed, her silver hair tousled. Jace raised his head from under her skirts, he was beside her now, his head resting lightly against her clothed chest, listening to the rapid thrum of her heartbeat. He kissed her once—soft, slow—then shifted, settling her onto his lap, his arms wrapped securely around her waist as if he meant to shield her from all things.

Their lips met again—eager, familiar—but this time it was Vellena who paused, fingers gently pressing against his mouth, her violet eyes searching his.

"Tell me something," she murmured, still catching her breath. "How do you know... how to do these things?"

Jace's gaze flickered, the question clearly catching him off guard. His expression shuttered a little.

"It doesn't matter," he said, voice low. "It was before. Long before." His eyes didn't leave hers.

Vellena studied him for a moment, her fingers gently brushing the dark curls at the nape of his neck. She didn't press further. Whatever the answer, it hadn't changed the way he held her now—carefully, fiercely.

Changing the subject, she whispered, "Do you think Lyra and Bennar will succeed?"

Jace leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes for a breath. "They will," he said with quiet conviction. "They have to. We need dragons... and riders willing to fight. It's our best chance."

Vellena nodded slowly, resting her head on his shoulder. "I don't even have a sworn protector anymore... or a handmaid."

Jace let out a soft chuckle, but the seriousness in his voice remained. "You have me."

She pulled back slightly, giving him a look. "You're being funny again."

"I'm not." He touched her chin gently, tilting her face toward his. "You're my sister... and more. I'd kill for you, Vellena. Or die. Even if you are insufferable."

Vellena's breath hitched. She believed him. Gods help her, she believed every word.

Outside, the sea crashed against the black cliffs of Dragonstone. But inside the library, for just a moment, the world felt still. Suspended in firelight, loyalty, and something deeper neither of them dared name. Not yet.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

IKIK, JACE IS KINDA A SWEETIE AGAIN. Wait till Addam shows up and jealousy hits once more.
Also JOCELYN AND CREGAN GONNA BE PARENTS 😭💕
Alayne and Daeron are such flirty sweethearts 🫦
Lyra and Bennar??? I always liked to explore common people in stories, not just the highborns idc 🌝
GOT A MATH TEST PAPER TOMORROW 😭
WISH ME LUCK<333