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~
·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·
(No silent readers thx. Also a surprise;)
DRAGONSTONE The wind from the Narrow Sea was sharp that morning, the air heavy with salt and the lingering memory of fire. It bit at Jacaerys's skin where he stood outside on the balcony of the eastern wing, his hands gripping the stone railing with such force his knuckles blanched to white. The waves below crashed relentlessly against Dragonstone's cliffs, echoing the storm in his chest.
He hadn't slept.
He couldn't forget her voice—Vellena's voice. "This is all your fault." "She is dead because you did not let me go." "I hope you will rot in the Seven Hells."
Her words burned deeper than dragonflame, deeper even than his own guilt. A shuddering breath escaped him, and before he could stop it, a raw, broken sob tore from his lungs. His body curled inward slightly from the force of it, eyes squeezed shut as another followed. The tears came fast then, carving hot paths down his cheeks, falling silently into the sea air. He didn't notice the soft footsteps behind him until a gentle hand settled on his shoulder.
"Jace?" Baela's voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it reached him like a bell through fog.
He stiffened instantly, wiping at his cheeks hastily. His voice came out hoarse and tight. "I... I'm sorry you had to see that."
Baela said nothing at first. She stepped beside him and leaned against the railing, her profile turned toward the sea. Her silver hair was braided down the back in a traditional Targaryen style, the ends wrapped in black ribbon. She wore a high-necked black riding coat embroidered with waves and seahorses in silver thread—mourning, yet proud. The dark hue complimented her rich brown skin, which was kissed by the northern wind. Her violet eyes, though swollen and red-rimmed, still held their fire.
"What happened?" she asked quietly.
Jace swallowed, forcing himself to speak, even when every muscle in him screamed to shut down. Of course she would ask. Baela knew him better than almost anyone else now. She, Jocelyn, and their mother. But Baela had known him in the silent hours of grief after Luke... in the quiet, shared pain of knowing what it meant to lose a part of your soul.
"I had an ugly fight with Vellena. Again."
Baela arched a brow. "About?"
Jace scoffed and ran a hand down his face. "Yesterday, she fucking took flight to Rook's Rest, didn't care if the Greens were still there. Just... took Silverwing and flew off like it was nothing. Like she didn't just throw herself into death's arms."
