~129 A.C~

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DRAGONSTONE
The halls of the castle of Dragonstone buzzed with whispers. Word of Nettles and her wild claim had already begun to leak beyond the stables and soldiers. Now, Princess Vellena Velaryon strode through the corridors with practiced, sharp-footed grace—her jaw tense, her eyes narrowed. At her side, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon led Nettles, whose eyes bounced around the vaulted ceilings and dragon-carved archways like she was inside a temple built by the gods themselves.

"Seven hells," Nettles muttered, head craning to look at the stained-glass windows. "This whole place looks like it shits gold."

Vellena rolled her eyes hard. "Please mind your tongue in front of our mother."

Nettles grinned. "I always mind it. Just not well."

They entered Queen Rhaenyra's solar, where the air hung heavy with parchment, fire, and tension. Rhaenyra looked up from her writing desk, her golden crown slightly tilted atop her silver hair. Her expression was guarded—regal—but her purple eyes sharpened as they locked onto the young peasant girl standing before her in blood-streaked leathers.

Jace gave a low, formal bow. "Mother. This is Nettles of Spicetown. Rider of Sheepstealer."

Nettles stepped forward, hands at her sides. "M'lady. I mean—Your Grace." She glanced at Rhaenyra, eyes trailing. "Hells, you're hot as—"

She froze.

Vellena's hand smacked her forehead. "Gods..."

Jacaerys covered his mouth with a cough that did a poor job of hiding his grin.

Rhaenyra raised one silver brow, the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at her mouth. "Excuse me?"

Nettles paled. "I—uh—meant to think that. Didn't mean to say it. My tongue's got a life of its own sometimes. I'm honored to be here, truly."

Rhaenyra stared a moment longer... then cleared her throat delicately. "Well, Miss Nettles, I congratulate you. Sheepstealer has never been ridden. You've done something remarkable."

Nettles straightened a little, surprised. "Thank you, Your Grace."

Rhaenyra gestured toward the door. "Elinda will see you to your chambers. Rest. You've earned it."

Nettles gave a final awkward bow before Elinda gently guided her out. Once the door closed, silence returned to the solar.

Then Rhaenyra stood and walked to her children. Her expression was one of quiet triumph. "You've done well. One wild dragon claimed, another potential sword in our arsenal. That makes two riders in one fortnight."

Vellena inclined her head. "Thank you, Mother."

Jace added, "There are thirty candidates remaining. We plan to move to Vermithor next."

Rhaenyra's gaze sharpened. "Then this afternoon, I will descend to the pit myself. Vermithor shall feel the presence of a true Targaryen. Let the claimants see what they face."

Jace and Vellena exchanged a glance, bowing again.

As they left, the air between them immediately chilled.

They walked in silence. Tension thrummed between them like a drawn bowstring. The sound of their boots echoed in tandem, until Vellena suddenly sped ahead without a word.

"Vellena," Jace called.

She ignored him.

"Vellena," he said again, louder.

Still silence—until her shoulders tensed and she spun, eyes blazing.

"You shouldn't be so friendly with a peasant girl," she hissed.

Jace blinked, then his lips curled. "You're jealous."

She glared daggers at him. "You're insufferable."

Jace chuckled, that maddening smirk spreading across his face. "She flirts with everyone. Even you."

Vellena turned away sharply, heading up the steps.

"Are you seriously upset?" Jace asked behind her.

She whirled, voice echoing against the stone "Immensely!"

He caught up with her, grabbing her arm before she could vanish up another flight. She yanked back, but he pinned her gently against the wall, breath catching between them.

Her silver braid tumbled over her shoulder as she snapped, "You don't get to be angry at me for speaking to Addam once! And I cannot be angry at you for flirting with a bitch?!"

Jace winced. "Vellena, lower your voice—"

"I don't care if the entire castle hears me!"

"You should. You sound like you're having a fucking unnecessary crisis."

"I am having a crisis, you stupid moron."

She tried to pull away, but he didn't let go fast enough. In retaliation, she stepped hard on his foot, shoving him back. He hissed and stumbled.

Vellena's voice echoed coldly down the steps as she stormed upward, cloak billowing, braid snapping behind her.

Jace stood at the bottom of the staircase, watching her go.

"Gods save me from Targaryen women," he muttered under his breath.

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OLDTOWN
The candles had burned out, leaving soft pools of light across Alayne's desk that morning. She leaned over her sketchbook on the bed, carefully tracing intricate designs of weirwood leaves and ravens. Her red hair cascaded over one shoulder, glowing like embers in the flicker.

With a soft knock, the door opened gently.

"Alayne, darling..." came her mother's gentle voice. Samatha Tarly, eight moons pregnant, entered and closed the door quietly behind her. Her gown was simple but tasteful, and she moved with the slow carefulness of someone who carried another life within.

Alayne looked up, surprise and relief in her green eyes. "Mother!"

Samatha smiled, settling beside her daughter on the bed. "Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not," Alayne said, scooting over. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, her expression turning tender. "How are you feeling? Is the baby—?"

Samatha placed a warm hand on her belly. "Busy, and strong. I'm alright, truly."

Alayne exhaled, visibly relaxing. "I worry for you... and with the war approaching... for us all."

Mom squeezed her hand. "I've had three children before. You and your brothers turned out all right." She paused, gaze far away. "And no matter who wins this war, life finds its way forward."

Alayne nodded, hugging her mother tightly. The weight she carried felt both comforting and heavy.

A moment of silence passed before Alayne drew in a steady breath. "Mother... may I ask you something?"

"Always, child."

"How—how did you fall in love with Father?"

Samatha's smile was sad and wistful. "Ormund and I—our marriage was arranged. At first, we were... companions rather than a pair. Dutiful, polite, but distant."

Alayne's shoulders stiffened at the distance implied.

Samatha continued, "But moons later, after the first blooms of Spring, I remember standing in the gardens at sunset. He brought me a rose. Just... because." She looked at Alayne, eyes shining. "It wasn't grand gestures. It was quiet kindness. A shared laugh. And I realized I loved him. And then, one afternoon—he took my hand as I gardened, watching me carefully prune a rosebush, and he said, 'Your hands are beautiful.' I had never felt more seen."

Alayne lifted her gaze, her own thoughts turning inward. Was what she and Daeron shared just a spark? Or was it something more? What that kiss just a reckless moment?

"I—I just..." she stammered, voice soft. "What if I never find—"

"Love at first sight?" Samatha cut in kindly. "Not all love begins with flames, Alayne. Some grow like roots, strong and deep. Some shimmer in a moment. Both are true."

Alayne met her mother's gaze, uncertain.

Samatha continued, "Even if your heart wavers now, give it time. Give it truth. Let the roots grow, let the sparks decide what they need to be."

Alayne nodded, tracing her mother's hand. "Thank you, Mother."

They sat together in soft morning light, hearts both heavy and hopeful—each feeling for life unfolding in all its uncertainty and possibility.

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DRAGONSTONE
The sunbeat down upon the stone amphi­theater where Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, Prince Jacaerys, Princess Vellena, and Lady Baela descended through swirling dragonfire-scented air into the shadowed pit's edge. A hush fell over the thirty Targaryen bastards assembled there, their eyes fixed in silent, tense anticipation.

The queen halted at its rim, turning to face those gathered. Her voice strong, echoing.
"I once believed I understood the meaning of claiming a dragon—what it required, what it demanded—but now I see that my certainty was... ash in the wind. Perhaps it is blood. Perhaps it is courage. Or something deeper still."

She paused, steel in her gaze. "Each of you has laid aside a life to answer the call of fire. A life you may never again lead should you shackle yourself to a dragon's fate. But know this—if you survive, you will be changed. No man or woman who stands before a dragon remains the same. Some of you might welcome that transformation... or even death—better than privation, starvation, war. This is our purpose: to end suffering. To restore peace without needless bloodshed."

Her voice softened but sharpened with conviction. "With this dragon, the realm will bend, and peace will follow. Suffering will cease... gods willing."

A faint movement beside her—Baela nudged Vellena, sensing her stepsister's somber mood.
Baela leaned in and mouthed, What's wrong?
Vellena glanced at Jace, her eyes flashing with unspoken hurt.
Baela exhaled behind her hand: Not again...

Within the pit, a rumble echoed as Vermithor stirred. Rhaenyra continued. "Before you stands Vermithor, the largest dragon in living memory—second only to Vhagar. Some call him the Bronze Fury, for that is what he is rage incarnate. Yet today, you will see him as he is meant to be."

"Let us see who among you has the heart to claim him."

She turned gracefully and led the way forward. Jace, Vellena, and Baela followed as the bastards parted behind them, forming a path to where Vermithor lay motionless—scaled bronze-amber flesh gleaming in the flickers of firelight, his head raised in wary anticipation.

A dragon keeper stepped beside the queen and spoke in High Valyrian, his voice a low hum. Rhaenyra inclined her head and returned in the same ancient tongue "Lykirī"

The great dragon shifted, growling low, muscles rippling beneath his hide.

Rhaenyra spoke firmer "Lykirī, Vermitos."

The beast roared, a thunderous sound that rattled the pit stones.

Rhaenyra commanded, her voice carrying through the pit. "Dohaerās!"

The roar subsided, the massive dragon's tension easing.

Enchantingly, Rhaenyra approached, sliding a hand across Vermithor's snout with reverence and control. The dragon inhaled, then exhaled, submitting to her touch.

She turned and faced the silent group once more. "Who among you will step forward first? I will say no more. Let the dragon itself speak."

As the queen mounted the steps back to the gallery, she was followed by Jace, Vellena, and Baela. The bastards stood still, listening to Vermithor's low grumble, the air between man and dragon thick with challenge.

Baela leaned close to Vellena, her voice a soft murmur. "Looking at all this... I was thinking we could call him The Red Sowing. All those deaths below, all the ash and blood..."

Vellena raised a brow and stifled a laugh.
Baela chuckled in return—two young Targaryens where fire and iron tread the fine line between triumph and terror.

From their vantage on the gallery, Queen Rhaenyra, Jace, Vellena, and Baela watched with somber intensity.

The first claimant, a swaggering young man, strode forward—confidence etched on his face. He placed a hand gently on Vermithor's flank. The dragon's slitted eye flicked—then unleashed a gout of emerald fire that seared the man instantly. His scream echoed, cut short as Vermithor raised a claw and brought it down. The gallery fell silent except for the dying man's crackle of bone and flame. A reminder of power. A lesson.

The next bastard threw himself onto the dragon's back screaming "This is mine!" Vermithor snarled, lashed out with tail, and the man flew up—down—gone. The remaining bastards scattered, huddling in shadows, clutching each other, their screams mingling with the dragon's roars.

Behind a shattered boulder, Hugh knelt, heart pounding. A husband, a father. He thought of his sick daughter and fever-stricken wife—and the silver-haired blood he carried meant nothing compared to theirs. He swallowed his terror and rose, his voice cracking: "Here! Here I am!" His cry rang louder than any dragon's roar.

Vermithor stopped mid-flame. His great head snapped toward Hugh as the rest of the candidates scattered in panic. The dragon's eyes, vast and amber-bright, focused on him.

Hugh took another step forward, hands raised—but blood still dripped on his palms. I'm ready, he steadied himself, forcing out the words. "Come on!!!"

Vermithor grumbled lowly, muscles twitching. Then... he hesitated. The beast lowered his head toward Hugh's outstretched palm. Hugh exhaled, pressing his trembling hand gently against the dragon's snout. Vermithor's eyes closed in acceptance.

Upon the balcony above, Queen Rhaenyra smiled. Ash clung to her hair and face, but her features were alight with pride. Jacaerys beamed at his mother, pride swelling in his chest. Baela smirked knowingly.

But Vellena turned sharply on her heel. She strode out of the pit and down through the courtyard. She reached the training yard, grabbed her bow and quiver, and strode into the dusk toward the cliff edge. Silverwing, her dark-scaled dragon, was waiting.

Without hesitation, Vellena mounted. Her cloak and braid whipped behind her as she rode Silverwing skyward, a lone, graceful arrow soaring into the growing gloom below.

Vellena whispered caressing Silverwing's scales "To King's Landing"

They rose into a cloud-shrouded sky, leaving the valley and Vermithor's pit below them.

In the twisting caverns beneath Dragonmount, Ulf White stumbled through the darkness, torch sputtering. He was here on a drunken dare—claiming to be a Targaryen bastard—and had no idea where to go. Lost, befuddled, and half-buzzed, he kept mumbling slurred boasts until he saw a pale white light ahead.

"Ah—what fresh exit is this?

He staggered toward it and promptly walked face-first into a wall, crashing onto the stone floor with a yelp. The torchlight shook—and the creature above stirred.

A long, serpentine neck lowered and sniffed at him. Ulf, startled sober by fear, slapped the ground and spat mud from his mouth. He scrambled away, eyes wide, heart thudding.

"O-O gods, I—don't burn me!"

But the dragon— Grey Ghost with white scales—nuzzled his hair, letting out a low, curious snuffle. Ulf swallowed tears of relief as he sank to his knees before the dragon's warmth.

Ulf whispered with awe  "You—they gonna eat me?"

Tentatively, he reached out—and the dragon bent its massive neck low enough for him to climb onto its back. "Well... guess you're... uh... flighty."

The dragon lowered its body, beckoning. With a gulp and love for self-preservation, Ulf climbed atop. The torch's glow faded as they slipped into darkness.

One shaky moment later, they took flight, the cave echoing with the beating of enormous, ghostly wings.

Ulf laughed, spreading his arms " "I... I'm flying? Gods, I'm flying!"

Above Dragonstone, the two silhouettes drifted against cobalt sky man and dragon, voyaging into the unknown day.

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The skies above King's Landing darkened beneath the wings of Silverwing, her silvery scales gleaming like moonlight poured into metal. The city below stirred in panic as dragonfire echoed from the heavens—not in flame, but in fear.

People screamed and scattered like ants. High above the Red Keep, Vellena Velaryon stood proud on her dragon's back, white hair rippling like a banner of vengeance, violet eyes narrowed on the target that had haunted her dreams.

On a carved balcony, Prince Aemond Targaryen emerged, sneer curling beneath his silver hair and eyepatch. He looked up, expecting fire. But instead— A bow. Drawn. Steady. The glint of an arrowhead caught the sun, and before Aemond could blink, it flew—a flash of silver that sliced through the air, hissing like vengeance given form. It whispered past his eyepatch, grazing his cheek and drawing a thin, crimson line beneath it. Blood welled. Aemond stiffened.

Above him, Vellena smiled—not cruelly, but with silent declaration. This was a warning. People pointed at Vellena, shouting one name in terror and awe: "The Flame Huntress!"

Silverwing turned with a deafening roar, wings billowing like storm clouds, and the Queen's youngest daughter vanished into the distance. But Aemond was fast. Fury burned brighter than caution as he mounted Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon roaring to the heavens.

He gave chase—toward Dragonstone. Yet, as Vhagar neared the shores of the ancestral seat of House Targaryen, the sight that greeted him made even the One-Eyed Prince hesitate.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stood tall on the cliffside, wind tearing through her dark gown, her golden dragon Syrax at her back. Around her: the reclaimed might of Old Valyria. Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. Seasmoke, lithe and silver-blue. Grey Ghost, pale as mist and now unbound. Sheepstealer, an ugly mud brown and vicious and ill-tempered. All mounted. All claimed. All roaring. A chorus of dragons thundered across the sky.

From the high tower of Dragonstone, Vellena and Silverwing landed last, her hair tousled by wind, cheeks dusted with ash and salt, bow still in hand, as Silverwing let loose a piercing roar that echoed for leagues.

In that moment, even the sea stilled. And Vellena Velaryon was no longer the girl who watched from towers. She was the terror from above. And her name was legend.

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The wind still clung to Vellena's cloak, dragging ash and salt through the ancient halls of Dragonstone. Her boots echoed against cold stone. Servants ducked away, eyes wide, mouths whispering behind hands: "The Flame Huntress..."

Her hands still trembled faintly from the high of flight, her blood hot from the memory of Aemond's stunned face, of the arrow that sang like judgment through the sky.

She rounded a corner—and was jerked suddenly backward, arm yanked into a dark alcove near a stone pillar. Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, air rushing out of her lungs. Jacaerys Velaryon stood inches away, brown eyes burning like fire through smoke.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?!" he roared.

Vellena's spine straightened, her chin rising like a drawn blade. "Yes. It was a strategic move—"

His fist crashed into the wall beside her, stone splintering under knuckles. She flinched, not from fear—but the sheer depth of his rage.

"You could have been killed!" His voice cracked with fury. "They have scorpions, Vellena! Big ones. They line the fucking walls with them! What if Vhagar had been patrolling the skies? What if Aemond had caught you in open air?! You don't get to—"

"Why are you so concerned about me?!" Vellena snapped, voice rising to match his. "Nobody would care if I die! Nobody would mourn me! Maybe Mother—but she still has you. You're her heir. When Luke died, Corlys mourned him because he was his heir! I do not inherit anything! I'm not important! And nobody would—"

"I WOULD!" Jace shouted, voice ragged, fists trembling at his sides. "I would fucking mourn you! ME!" His eyes burned red, wet. "I would bawl my eyes out! I would cry until they were dry and bleeding!"

His chest heaved, tears spilling. His next words cracked from somewhere deep:

"I would kill myself, Vellena... so I could be with you."

Silence.

Vellena's breath caught in her throat.

Jacaerys's shoulders sagged, trembling with sobs he couldn't stop. He turned his face down, ashamed of the storm inside him. His rage collapsed under the weight of grief imagined.

Vellena's own eyes brimmed, lashes catching tears that didn't fall yet. Slowly, gently, she reached forward, cupping his face, tilting it back up so he'd look at her. Her thumbs brushed the tears from his cheeks.

"Shhh..." she breathed, soft and steady, "Shhh... I'm here."

He trembled. His forehead met hers, and he let out a shaky breath that broke against her skin. Their mouths were close—too close—but she didn't move toward him. Not yet.

She searched his eyes. "I'm here... I'm not going anywhere... I promise... shhh..."

Jace gave a single nod before folding into her—arms wrapping around her waist, clinging like he'd fall without her. His face pressed into her shoulder, breath ragged, hot with emotion. She held him like he was something breakable.

Vellena kissed his cheek, her own tears falling silently into his hair. Her chin rested on his shoulder, arms snug around his neck, fingers gently weaving through his thick dark curls.

There were no more words now. Just breath. Just heartbeats. Just two souls, breaking and mending in the same heartbeat.

Together.

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I PROMISE SMUT SOON🤪 (it's gonna be VERY CRAZY cuz Jace will be MENTAL AGAIN)