~129 A.C~

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
Jace sat at the heavy oaken desk, the flickering candlelight casting restless shadows on the parchment before him. His hand trembled slightly as he dipped the quill in ink. The room was thick with the stale tension left behind by his last argument with Vellena—the sharp words still stinging in his mind.

How many times must I make a fool of myself? he thought bitterly.

His gaze flicked toward the window where the sea wind rattled the shutters. Addam, he seethed quietly. The new rider of Seasmoke. A stranger—yet she smiled at him like she was enchanted.

He pressed the quill to parchment and began:

Dear Jocelyn,
I write to you with a heart heavier than any stone beneath Dragonstone. Today I let my jealousy turn me into a man I barely recognize. Vellena—my sister, my... something—spoke with Addam, the new rider of Seasmoke. I saw it. I hated it. And in my foolishness, I let my temper rule me, tearing words between us like claws.

I am a fool, Joy. A fool who regrets the bitterness and the silence I left in her wake. I wish I could undo what's done, but all I can do is ask for your counsel. How does one navigate the storm of desire and duty when the heart is both prisoner and warden?

And how are you, my lady of Winterfell? I imagine the halls colder without your warmth, yet filled with the fierce strength only you could bring. Does the North treat you well? Do the lords bend to your will, or do you still find fire in your path?

Write me back, Jocelyn. I need a friend now more than ever. I miss you...

Your closest friend,
Jace

Jace leaned back, rubbing his tired eyes. He whispered to the dark room, I need her—more than anyone.

He rolled the parchment, sealed it with his signet, and summoned a page to send the raven north.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

WINTERFELL
Jocelyn sat by the window in her solar, the early sun casting a golden glow on the raven's feathers as it perched lightly on the sill. She carefully untied the letter sealed with Jace's mark, her lips curling into a soft smile as she read his words.

Poor Jace, she thought, always tangled in storms of his own making.

Setting the letter down, she took up her quill and parchment, the scratch of ink soon filling the quiet room:

Dear Jacaerys,
It seems some things never change—your heart still a tempest, your pride still quick to sting. You are far too harsh on yourself, Jace. Fighting and jealousy are the marks of those who care deeply, though I wish you'd let kindness guide you more often.

As for the matter of girls—well, perhaps a fool sometimes must be one to learn. Just remember: love is not a battle to win or lose, but a fire to nurture or let burn.

Life here in Winterfell is as fierce and wild as the North winds. The lords have learned to listen, and Cregan... he is a man worthy of your respect and my heart. I carry his child now, and every day I am reminded of the strength that grows from love and loyalty.
The halls echo with new purpose preparing for war, and despite the cold stone, I have never felt more at home.

Please send my regards to Baela, Vellena, and Queen Rhaenyra. Write soon, and remember you are not alone in your battles. I miss you too..

With love and hope,
Joy or "Lady Stark"

Jocelyn sealed the letter with a steady hand, then sent the raven back south with a whisper of encouragement for her nephew's troubled heart.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The great grey wolfskin blanket was heavy with warmth as the last chill of night clung to the stone walls. Beneath it, Jocelyn lay curled against her husband, her head resting just above his heart, the steady thrum of it comforting in its constancy.

The first pale beam of morning sunlight slipped through the frost-laced window and touched the edge of the bed.

Jocelyn blinked softly awake, her lashes fluttering as she shifted slightly to look up at him. Cregan was still asleep, his brow smooth, mouth slightly parted, his long dark hair a tousled halo across the furs. She smiled, tender and quiet, as if the morning belonged only to them.

Her fingers moved in slow, gentle circles against his bare chest, feeling the strength there—solid, unwavering.

Cregan stirred beneath her touch, a low hum in his throat as he blinked himself into wakefulness. His grey eyes met her violet ones, and a lazy smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

She grinned up at him, the love in her eyes unguarded. "Happy Nameday, my love," she whispered, brushing her fingers along the stubble at his cheek.

Cregan blinked, caught off guard. "How did you—?" he began, then paused, realizing. "Mother..."

Jocelyn's soft laugh danced between them. "Of course. She told me a moon ago and reminded me two days ago."

He shook his head fondly, the lines around his eyes deepening with amusement. "She's as subtle as a war horn."

"I love her for it," Jocelyn said, her voice muffled slightly as she leaned in to press a kiss to his jaw.

Cregan's hand slid gently under the blanket, finding the curve of her belly—still just a soft rise beneath her nightshift. His rough palm lingered there, reverent, warming her already warm skin.

"You grow more beautiful every day," he murmured, leaning forward to kiss her fully this time.

Jocelyn giggled into the kiss, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as she pulled him closer. She whispered against his lips, "And you grow more mine."

He smiled against her mouth, deep and content, his hand protectively splayed over their child. "Always."

Their laughter was soft and full of love, swallowed by the thick Northern furs and the ancient stones of Winterfell that, for once, felt alive with joy.

Cregan shifted carefully, his weight settling just above Jocelyn as the blankets rustled around them. His hand braced beside her,mindful of the gentle swell of her belly—his greatest treasure beside Rickon, growing more real by the day.

Their lips met again, this time deeper, more insistent. The kind of kiss that spoke not only of love but of the want that hadn't dulled with time or cold.

Jocelyn's fingers slid through his dark hair as he kissed down her jaw, her throat. "I want to try something..." Cregan murmured against her skin, his voice low and warm.

She hummed, her breath catching when his lips brushed the top of one breast, capturing the nipple between his lips. "Something you forgot last night?" she teased, her voice breathy but amused.

Cregan chuckled against her, then shifted to kiss the other breast rolling his tongue over the peak, his hands steady and sure as he cupped her with reverence. Jocelyn's back arched slightly, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she tugged strands of hair from his face to meet his eyes.

Their gazes locked—hers wide and full of love, his dark with want, but tender as ever.

He let go with a final kiss between her breasts, then moved lower, down the slope of her stomach. He peppered soft, reverent kisses along her moon-belly, each one sending little shivers through her. Jocelyn laughed softly, brushing her fingers through his hair as he lingered.

Then the blanket was slowly pulled away, letting in the cool air and warm light of the morning.

Cregan looked up at her as he gently hooked her legs over his shoulders, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I already love this nameday," he said, voice like gravel softened by affection.

Jocelyn gasped, her smile faltering into something breathless as he began kissing her again—this time slower, lower between her thighs.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, the other hand clutching the sheets as her head tipped back into the pillows. "Cregan..." she whispered, her voice breaking on his name, filled with trust and heat and something impossibly tender.

Jocelyn lay back against the pillows, the chill of the Northern air forgotten beneath the heat blooming across her skin. Her fingers remained tangled in Cregan's hair, anchoring her to the moment as he kissed and licked her with reverence and boldness both.

He was always careful with her now—gentle in a way most men would not be with a wife carrying their child. And yet, he never let that care become distance. His love was felt in every kiss, every touch.

She let her eyes flutter shut for a moment, her lips parted as a quiet gasp escaped. A soft moan followed when he pressed a kiss to her mons, and her back arched slightly off the furs.

"I never thought..." she whispered, breath catching as his tongue parted her folds, "you'd enjoy this so much."

Cregan's voice rumbled low as he started to lick, amusement rich in his tone, "You are the North's most sacred altar. Of course I'd worship."

Jocelyn let out a breathy laugh accompanied by a sweet mewl, her cheeks flushed, her heart full. "Seven help me, I married a poet."

He kissed her again, slower this time, deliberate. His tongue circling her sensitive drenched sex, Jocelyn's mouth was agape murmuring soft pleads and cries of pleasure.

Her voice trembled through the pleasure, "It feels like... I'm unraveling."

"You should," he murmured between her thighs, his lips brushing against her clit like silk. "You carry my heart... and now our child. Let me carry you."

She whined again, her hand tightening in his hair. Her thighs clenched around his head, her breath coming in waves, and still she managed a whisper between gasps:

"I lo-love... you, Cregan."

He didn't answer—not with words. But the way he held her, the way he kissed her thighs like she was something rare and wild and only his, said everything she needed to hear.

Outside, the wind howled faintly against the walls of Winterfell, but inside, the world was still—held in the hush of love and morning light.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
The sky was a stark, cloudless blue. Below, the sea battered the black cliffs of Dragonstone, roaring like a distant beast. Gulls wheeled above the rocky coast as a loose circle of boys stood before their prince—some wide-eyed, others hardened, all bound by blood and uncertainty.

The surviving dragonseeds had been gathered again—those brave or desperate enough to try for dragons and live. The wind pulled at their cloaks and tangled their hair as they waited for the next name.

Jacaerys Velaryon stood before them, tall and regal in black riding leathers, his face set in stone. The prince's dark curls were pulled back in a warrior's knot, a thin scar still visible near his temple, perhaps from the time when he fought in the Stepstones. He looked each boy and girl in the eye—one after the other.

Behind him and slightly to the side, Vellena Velaryon stood like a shadow, silent and fierce. She wore her own riding gear: fitted black leather stitched with silver thread, her tall boots dusted from the climb. Her long silver-blonde braid fell between her shoulders, wind tugging strands loose. Her violet eyes were slightly swollen from crying—but no less sharp.

The tension between them was unmistakable. They hadn't spoken since the fight. Not with words. Not with apologies. Only the occasional glance when neither thought the other would see.

Vellena kept her arms folded tightly across her chest.

Jacaerys finally spoke, his voice firm but distant. "The next dragon is Sheepstealer. Wild. Untamed. Never ridden. He lives at the back of Dragonmont, between Driftmark and the Wendwater, where the cliffs meet the forest and the smoke lies thick even in summer."

The younger boys murmured among themselves. One of them— wiry and sharp-faced—asked, "And what if it kills us?"

Jace stared down at him, hard and unblinking. "Then you were not meant to ride."

The murmuring quieted.

Behind the group, Addam of Hull stood off to the side, watching closely. He was already beginning to wear the air of a dragonrider: not the arrogance, but the gravity. His silver hair glinted in the sun as he flipped through a High Valyrian scroll, a sign of his late-night lessons with Maester Gerardys. Seasmoke was slowly yielding to him, day by day.

Vellena glanced toward Addam—just for a second.

Jacaerys noticed.

He didn't speak, but his jaw tightened, and his hands—clasped behind his back—curled slightly into fists.

Vellena caught the motion from the corner of her eye. She didn't flinch, didn't smile. But her voice was cool as the sea breeze as she finally broke the silence.

"You think any of them have a chance?" she asked, still facing forward, not looking at him.

Jace hesitated. "No," he answered. "But we give them one anyway."

A long pause. Their arms brushed slightly as the wind shifted. Neither moved away.

Far below, a low, echoing roar rumbled up from the mountain. Sheepstealer was awake.

And the cliffs were watching.

Smoke lingered in the air like breath held too long.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

The rear slopes of Dragonmont were blackened and twisted, the rocks sharp, and the smell of sulfur heavy enough to sting the nose. The entrance to Sheepstealer's lair yawned wide—a scorched hollow where bones littered the dark threshold. A single gutted sheep carcass smoldered nearby, steam hissing from its open ribcage.

Jacaerys, Vellena, and Addam stood a distance from the cave mouth, perched on a higher ridge overlooking the field of char and ash. The wind was quiet now, muffled as if even the air feared to stir.

One by one, the Targaryen bastards approached the lair. Each armed with nothing but Valyrian names and misplaced bravery.

The first boy didn't even make it to the entrance. Fire lanced out from the dark like a whip, sending him screaming backward, his tunic aflame.

The second entered.

There was a pause—then a roar, and something wet splashed out the cave's mouth. Jace grimaced, already turning away. Vellena said nothing, arms crossed tight over her chest, her jaw clenched. Her eyes never left the lair.

The third stumbled out moments later—alive, barely. His clothes were smoldering, patches of skin angry and red. He dropped to the ground coughing, too dazed to speak.

More tried. Fewer returned.

They were silent witnesses to failure and fire. Until the air shifted.

Sheepstealer burst from his cave with a thunderclap of wings and a bone-rattling roar. His massive, mud-brown form crashed onto the scorched field like a falling mountain. His jaws dripped smoke and blood, his claws crushing the earth with every stride as he sniffed out the next fool to dare.

The bastards scattered. Some ran. Others dropped to their knees, unsure if prayer would matter now.

And then—

"Alyn! NO!"

Addam suddenly darted past Jacaerys and Vellena, his voice full of panic.

"Addam!" Jace barked, stepping forward. Vellena reached out but missed him, eyes narrowing.

On the field, Addam ran full-speed toward a taller young man with the same sharp features and sea-wind hair. The man—Alyn—was coughing, crawling, his tunic aflame. Sheepstealer's fire had kissed him.

Addam dropped to his knees beside him, flinging off his cloak and beating the flames down with wild urgency. "No, no, no—breathe, Alyn, breathe—!"

Sheepstealer turned.

The dragon's nostrils flared, catching the scent of burnt skin and desperation. A low growl rumbled from his throat as he began crawling toward the brothers—slow, deliberate, with hunger in his eyes.

Vellena stepped forward instinctively. "Jace..."

"I see him," Jacaerys muttered, already moving.

But before they could reach the field—

Seasmoke dropped from the sky like a silver bolt, landing between Addam and Sheepstealer with a thunderous crack of wings. He roared once, loud and defiant.

Sheepstealer snarled, smoke and heat rolling from his jaws. But he hesitated. His massive head dipped low in challenge... then turned away. After a tense moment, the older dragon backed off, hissing, and slowly crawled back toward his lair.

The field fell silent again, save for Addam's rapid breathing.

Jace and Vellena reached them moments later, boots crunching over burnt earth.

"Addam!" Vellena barked, dropping to one knee. "Are you mad?"

"I had to," Addam gasped, shielding Alyn's body. "He's—this is my brother. I had to save him."

Jace knelt beside him, face drawn but calm. "You're lucky Seasmoke listened."

Vellena's eyes flicked to Alyn, who groaned, face pale, sweat beading on his brow. He looked like Addam—same sea-washed eyes, the same rough edges.

"I'm Alyn of Hull," he said, trying to bow, pain twisting his face. "Your Graces."

Vellena gave a tight nod. "Save your breath, idiot."

Jace and Vellena exchanged a look. Tense, uncertain—but one shared understanding:

They were alive. And that mattered.

Behind them, Seasmoke nudged Addam gently with his snout, the dragon's breath warm and steady. Addam reached up, smiling faintly, hand resting on the beast's jaw.

Jace looked out across the field, where only a handful of bastards remained standing. "We try again tomorrow," he said, his voice quiet but resolute. "Those who return will be fed. Those who run won't be called again."

He turned back. "Let's get them to the castle."

Vellena nodded, as Jace helped to lift Alyn between him and Addam. As they began their slow walk back toward the fortress, Seasmoke trailing behind like a pale ghost, the wind carried the scent of ash, blood... and the faintest hope.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

WINTERFELL
The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with the warmth of roaring hearths, the scent of roast venison, and the deep hum of viols and flutes played softly by Northern minstrels in the corner. Banners bearing the direwolf sigil of House Stark swayed gently in the hall's high stone arches.

At the grand doors, Lord Cregan Stark entered with Lady Jocelyn Stark upon his arm. The hall stilled for the briefest of moments, all heads turning toward them.

Jocelyn wore a gown of stormy grey and deep blue, trimmed with white furs draped over her shoulders, a symbol of both her heritage and her new home. Her dark, wavy hair was braided back into a low, elegant bun, and the glint of silver pins held it in place. Her violet eyes, striking and strange in the North, seemed to glow like amethysts in the firelight.

Cregan, in his grey and brown furs, looked every bit the Wolf of Winterfell. The Stark direwolf was embroidered boldly on his chest, and his normally unreadable expression was softened by the presence of his wife beside him. They made a fearsome pair—ice and fire, wolf and sea.

They moved forward, arm in arm, to the head of the table, where Lady Glover, Cregan's sharp-eyed mother holding little Rickon on her lap, awaited in her chair. She smiled proudly at Jocelyn, nodding her approval, her daughter-in-law taking her seat beside her.

The evening began with ceremony as Northern lords and their families approached in turn. Some offered respectful bows and hearty congratulations to Cregan on his nameday, bearing gifts or offering words of loyalty.

But not all glances were kind.

A few wives gave Jocelyn cool, assessing stares, their lips tight, their silks Northern-thick. A southern girl playing Lady of Winterfell, their eyes seemed to say. Jocelyn bore them with effortless grace, her back straight, smile polite but remote. She did not shrink.

Other ladies, bolder—or more foolish—let their eyes linger on Cregan a little too long.

One with honey-blonde hair leaned forward too sweetly as she presented her husband's gift, her voice thick with implication. "May your nameday bring only warmth, my lord."

Jocelyn raised a single, sharply arched brow, looking sidelong at her husband.

Cregan, stiff as the Weirwood, returned his wife's gaze like a dog caught near spilled wine. His eyes quietly begged do something, and Jocelyn simply smirked.

Moments later, as if on cue, a younger lord—bold and likely full of mead—bowed before her and murmured, "If I'd known the North had such beauty, I'd have come south sooner."

Jocelyn gave a small, dignified laugh. "You'd freeze before you reached the gates," she replied sweetly, sipping her wine.

Cregan's fingers whitened around his cup, but he said nothing, his expression carved from Northern stone. Jocelyn rested a hand on his beneath the table, calming him with just a touch.

Finally, when the greetings died down and the musicians began a soft, reverent tune, after handing Rickon to Jocelyn, Lady Glover rose, lifting her cup high.

"To my son, Lord of Winterfell," she said, her voice sharp and proud, "a man of few words, colder airs, and unwavering strength. May the gods keep him steady as the snow, and his hearth warm."

The hall murmured with approval and raised goblets. Cregan stood, nodding deeply to his mother.

"I thank you all," he said simply, his voice low and firm. "For your presence, your words, and your loyalty. Let us eat, drink, and remember that winter may come—but tonight, we feast."

He turned, just for a moment, and looked down at Jocelyn.

And smiled.

The feast began.

Platters of roast boar and spiced root vegetables were brought in. Honeyed apples, thick black bread, stewed cabbage with pine nuts and venison. Jocelyn leaned slightly toward Cregan as conversation roared back to life around them.

"Well," she whispered, stealing a bite from his plate. "That wasn't so terrible."

Cregan grunted. "You smiled at that boy."

She bit her lip to stifle a grin. "Which one?"

He turned to her, deadpan. "Any of them."

The fire crackled warmly behind the high table, casting long shadows across the worn stone walls. Laughter and the clinking of goblets echoed through the hall as the feast continued.

Then Lady Glover stood, lifting her hand, commanding silence with nothing more than presence.

"I believe," she said with a proud gleam in her eye, "that our Lady of Winterfell has prepared a small gift for the Lord of this hall."

Jocelyn gave a tiny nod of acknowledgment, her hands resting gently around Rickon. Cregan turned toward her, brows lifting in quiet curiosity.

Lady Glover continued, "We both thought that perhaps this year... music might suit the mood."

Jocelyn gave Rickon back to his grandmother before she rose slowly, her gown catching the firelight like soft waves of dusk and ice. From behind her chair, she gently lifted a lute, its polished surface worn by time. The room quieted to near reverent stillness. All eyes followed her as she stepped to the center of the room, where a stool had already been placed.

Cregan sat very still.

The lute in her arms was Arra's—his first wife's. The strings had not been played in years. Not since her death. His eyes darkened with recognition, and then softened with disbelief.

A month ago, he had found the chamber door ajar, had paused to hear Jocelyn's voice inside—quiet, unsure, singing to herself with trembling fingers on those very strings. He had found her and to Jocelyn's surprise gifted the lute to her.

Now she sat beneath the high rafters of his father's hall and held his past with grace.

Jocelyn bowed her head, adjusted the instrument in her lap, and began to play.

The first notes were soft, like snow falling on a still pine forest. Then her voice rose with them—pure, smooth as northern wind winding between mountains, with a southern lilt beneath.

Her lyrics stirred the hall like embers fanned to life:

"In winter deep and shadows cold,
A heart may sleep, but still be bold.
With wolves that guard and stars that shine,
Love walks through snow in quiet time."
"O hearth, O flame, O steadfast stone,
Though frost may claim, I walk not alone.
For hands I hold and vows I keep,
Will guide me through the longest sleep."
"So light the hall, and raise the flame,
The snow may fall, but love remains."

The final note trembled in the air, echoing gently off the stones.

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then the room erupted into applause. Cheers, whistles, the thunder of palms hitting tabletops. The lords and ladies of the North stood, honoring more than just the performance—they were honoring her. Their Lady Stark.

Jocelyn inclined her head with poise, blinking quickly. She set the lute down gently beside the chair.

Cregan stood slowly.

A single tear had traced a silent line down his cheek. Another followed.

He walked to her without a word, his boots heavy on the flagstones, and gathered her into his arms, lifting her from the ground in one strong sweep.

He buried his face against her shoulder, his voice low and raw where only she could hear:
"I love you, Jocelyn. Gods help me, I love you."

She let out a small breath and wrapped her arms around his neck, their foreheads touching. She smiled through her own tears and whispered,
"Happy Nameday, my love."

They kissed—soft, sure, and long. Around them, the cheering only grew louder, a storm of joy inside Winterfell's walls.

And so, beneath ancient stone and the banners of wolves, the North cheered not only for their Lord—but for the Lady who had melted the frost from his heart.

The feast had mellowed into soft song and the clatter of half-empty plates. Candles flickered low, pools of golden light dancing across the long tables. The lords and their families still chatted and toasted, but at the high table, a gentler scene unfolded.

Jocelyn sat with little Rickon Stark nestled on her lap, his chubby arms waving in delight as he clapped and giggled. The two-year-old had his father's thick dark hair, but his eyes—those were his mother's: gentle, Northern grey. He kicked his small boots against Jocelyn's thigh, enchanted by the spoon she held out to him.

"There we go," Jocelyn cooed, scooping a bit of berry mash with softened oat cake and guiding it to his tiny mouth. "Only if I get a kiss after, hmm?"

Rickon blinked at her, then opened his mouth eagerly for the food. With a happy gurgle, he chewed—messily—and then leaned forward, placing a sticky, berry-smeared kiss on her lips.

Jocelyn laughed, scrunching her nose as she wiped at the berry trail. "Oh, you're terrible and sweet," she murmured, kissing his cheek before he launched himself against her chest in a warm hug, his little arms squeezing tightly around her. She hugged him close, brushing a few stray curls from his forehead and laying a kiss atop his head.

Next to her, Cregan watched them in silence, his goblet forgotten in his hand. His expression was unreadable for a moment, carved from stone—then it shifted.

His heart melted.

Lady Glover, observing her son's soft gaze, gave a satisfied hum and said dryly, "I daresay Rickon loves your wife more than he loves you, Cregan."

Cregan looked at his mother, eyebrows raised. "He does not."

"He absolutely does," Jocelyn said lightly, bouncing Rickon slightly on her lap. "Isn't that right, sweetling?"

Rickon clapped again, cheeks rosy, and gave another cooing giggle.

"I refuse to be outdone by my wife," Cregan muttered, reaching for his son. "Rickon. Come here. Give your father a kiss, too."

Rickon looked between them with a thoughtful frown—as though weighing the offer—then leaned toward Cregan with a berry-smeared face and pecked his father square on the nose.

Cregan grunted, mock-offended. "That's all I get?"

But Rickon immediately turned back and tucked himself once more into Jocelyn's arms, nuzzling against her chest as if it were the safest place in the world. Jocelyn chuckled, smoothing a hand along his back.

"You're lucky he's sweet," she whispered. "He's just like you when you're half-asleep. Only smaller."

Cregan gave her a crooked smile, eyes lingering on the picture they made: his son curled into his new wife, her hands gentle, her eyes luminous with peace.

"You're the only woman I've ever known who could make Winterfell warmer," he said quietly.

Jocelyn met his gaze and held it, brushing her fingers through Rickon's curls.
"I love him like he's mine," she said simply. "And I love you more than I can say."

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

DRAGONSTONE
The wind howled along the jagged cliffs of the Dragonmount, salt and ash thick in the air. The moon hung low, veiled behind drifting clouds, casting silver streaks along the rocky slope and the great black maw that was Sheepstealer's lair.

A small, wiry figure crept through the shadows, barefoot on the cold stones, her sharp eyes glinting with determination.

Nettles was no stranger to hunger or risk. At sixteen, she'd seen more blood than most men twice her age. Her brown skin was smudged with soot and sheep dung, her short, wild curls tangled with wind. A dagger hung from her rope belt, dull but loyal.

Over her narrow shoulders, she carried a dead sheep—its throat freshly slit, its fleece matted with blood.

She grunted, dropped the carcass at the mouth of the cave, and whistled—a short, two-note call, low and clear, almost like a bird's.

Then she turned and slipped behind a pile of boulders several paces away. She crouched, her knees pressed to her chest, dagger in hand, heart pounding—not in fear, but in wild, electric anticipation.

From the shadows of the lair, a shape moved.

Slow. Heavy. Ancient.

Sheepstealer emerged, his massive claws scraping stone, his mud brown scales dull in the moonlight, tail dragging behind him like a whip made of bone and fury. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent.

He growled.

Nettles stayed absolutely still as he sniffed the first sheep—then with a low grunt, devoured it in two bites. Blood splattered the rocks. And then he paused.

Ahead, another sheep lay.

Then another.

And another.

A line of offerings leading toward her.

Nettles didn't move, but her lips curved into a crooked smirk. Four nights she'd done this. Four nights of dragging bloody carcasses up the cliffs. She'd rubbed them with her sweat, tied bits of her torn shirt to their legs, even plucked a few hairs and bloodied a puff or two of their wool.

She had made herself part of the offering.

Part of the smell.

Tonight was the night.

Sheepstealer followed the trail slowly, snapping each sheep up with a deep growl and crunch of bone. When he reached the last, just five paces from her hiding spot, he stopped.

He lifted his head.

His eyes—molten gold and ancient hate—locked on her.

Nettles stood.

She stepped out from behind the rocks, dirt caking her toes, her slit nose wrinkling as she faced him square. Her hands were shaking—but she didn't back down.

She took a breath.

And then whistled again.

Sheepstealer let out a rumble that made the stones vibrate. Then, with slow, monstrous steps, he crawled toward her, his wings scraping the rocks.

She drew another sheep carcass from behind the rocks and tossed it forward with a grunt. It hit the ground with a wet thud. Sheepstealer sniffed it.

Then, instead of eating, he sniffed her.

He leaned in, hot breath hitting her like a blast from a forge. Nettles closed her eyes and held out her hand, palm up.

Burn me and be done with it, she prayed silently.

A long, low growl rumbled from his throat.

Then, his snout pressed against her hand.

Softly.

Testing.

Nettles opened one eye, then both, heart pounding against her ribs. She stared up at him.

He didn't burn her.

Didn't bite her.

He rumbled again, the sound almost questioning.

Nettles grinned, baring her crooked teeth. "That's right, you huge beast. I'm the one feedin' ya. Might as well get used to my face."

She reached up, resting her hand fully on his warm scales, and whispered like it was prophecy "I'm gonna enjoy this shit..."

From the darkness above them, the stars blinked in solemn silence. Far away, dragons dreamed of war.

And tonight—another had found its rider.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Mist still clung to the cliffs like faded gauze as Jacaerys Velaryon and Princess Vellena Velaryon made their way up the narrow stone path toward the back of Dragonmount. The air smelled of smoke and blood and sea. Vellena wore her riding leathers again, silver braids tucked tightly, her violet eyes shadowed by lack of sleep—and emotion she refused to name.

Only 30 Targaryen bastards remained now, all hollow-eyed, burnt in parts, or trembling at the edge of courage. The rest were ash or gone.

"This is the last time," Jace muttered as he climbed. "If Sheepstealer doesn't kill them, the mountain will."

Vellena gave a silent nod. Her eyes drifted toward the lair.

And then—a sound split the air.

A roar. Familiar. Close.

Jacaerys instinctively stepped in front of Vellena, his hand going to the hilt of his sword as the sky darkened momentarily above them. From the high cliffs, Sheepstealer dove, his enormous wings beating with thunderous force. Dust and wind blasted across the ridge.

But he did not attack.

Instead, the ancient, wild dragon circled once—then landed with a bone-jarring crash just past the mouth of his lair.

On his back—was a rider.

Small. Thin.

She slid off with practiced ease, landing in the dirt like she'd done it a hundred times. A bit of hay stuck out the corner of her mouth as she chewed, hands resting on her hips.

Her tunic was patchy, blood-stained, and too big. Her nose bore the unmistakable scar of a thief, and her brown skin was streaked with soot and sheep's blood. She looked like she'd fought with a flock and won—barely.

The girl bowed, a wide, crooked grin on her face. "Beggin' your pardon, your princeliness—your princessness—" she winked at each of them in turn, "—name's Nettles. I reckon I got your dragon now."

Jacaerys stared, blinking.

"You... flew him?" he asked, incredulous.

"Not far," Nettles shrugged, sticking her hay stalk between her teeth again. "Just a bit o' sky round the mount. Didn't fancy droppin' from the clouds on my first go. He's a nasty bastard, that one—but he's mine now."

She grinned wide, eyes sliding over Jacaerys openly. "And you, princeling, got any more dragons need ridin'? I'm good with wild things."

Vellena's eyes ignited. If looks could kill, Sheepstealer might've burned Nettles on her behalf.

Jacaerys choked slightly, caught between amusement and disbelief. "You... lured him? Tamed him?"

"I fed him sheep, made him sniff my blood, walked right up to him an' dared him to roast me," Nettles said proudly. "Didn't. So now we're friends."

She turned to Vellena, offering a lopsided smile. "Your Highness," she said with a low, exaggerated bow, "you're prettier up close. Hope you don't mind me eyeballin' your prince over there."

Vellena's mouth dropped open slightly in shock, ignoring the heat creeping up her neck.

Then Nettles winked at her, adding, "I'd eyeball you too, but you look like you'd turn me to ash with just a twitch."

"I might," Vellena said flatly, stunned—and oddly flustered.

Jacaerys fought a smirk. "You're a bold girl."

Nettles spat the hay stalk. "Bold's what got me here. The rest are dead or half-cooked. I'm standin'. That's got to count for somethin'."

Vellena crossed her arms, still glaring, but gave a reluctant nod. "It does."

Jacaerys took a step forward, looking Nettles up and down. "Congratulations, Nettles. You're now the rider of Sheepstealer."

Nettles gave an exaggerated curtsy, spreading her arms dramatically. "Well, ain't that somethin'? Guess I'm a lady now."

Then she grinned, sharp and ragged as a storm wave. "When's lunch?"

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

Y'ALLL NETTLES IS SOOOOO FREAKING FANTASTIC AND FUNNY😭😭😭 I LOVEEE HER. (She's bisexual). And I wanna pair her with Addam🎀🎀