Targaryens are known to have queer costumes, an unusual tradition in which the brother and sister wed each other in order to secure the line of succession as pure as possible. Well, it is not always the Targaryens that have such habits, who says tha...
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~129 A.C~
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
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.
