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~
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
WINTERFELL The fire in Jocelyn's chamber had burned low, casting flickering shadows along the stone walls. She lay on her back in the large, cold bed, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, her thoughts restless.
She could still see the portrait of Arra Stark in her mind—the woman in the dark furs, her eyes sharp even in paint, the weight of her gaze lingering long after Jocelyn had walked away. And next to it... that locked door.
What is behind it?
The question gnawed at her, keeping her awake long after the rest of Winterfell had gone still. It was a mystery, one she could not shake. She turned onto her side, pressing her lips together as a plan slowly formed in her mind.
The keys. I need his keys.
But stealing them from Lord Stark would not be easy. He was careful, deliberate in all things. A man of discipline. He would not leave them lying about carelessly.
Jocelyn chewed on her lip, thinking. If she wanted to take them, she would need a distraction. Something to make him lower his guard. Perhaps a drink at supper? No, that would be too obvious.
A storm, she thought suddenly. Or a fire. A false alarm. Something to make him leave them unattended, even for a moment.
Her pulse quickened at the thought. It was dangerous—if she was caught, she could only imagine his fury. But the secret behind that door called to her, whispering in the silence of the night.
Tomorrow, she would find a way.
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
The morning at Winterfell was crisp, the air still heavy with the lingering chill of night as Jocelyn pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. She had barely slept, her mind turning over the plan, considering and reconsidering how she might steal Lord Stark's keys.
She needed an opportunity.
And so, she followed him.
Subtly, of course.
Or so she thought.
Lord Cregan Stark was not an easy man to track unnoticed. He moved with purpose, his every step measured, his every action deliberate. First, he oversaw the training yard, standing at the edge of the grounds as young men sparred before him. Then, he walked the walls, speaking with the guards, his face unreadable as he listened to reports. After that, the godswood—where he stood in silence before the heart tree, unmoving as if he were carved from the same ancient wood.
