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 skies above the Wolfswood were quiet but alive with movement—wings slicing the air in rhythmic, disciplined strokes. Jocelyn Velaryon leaned forward in the saddle, her small form almost vanishing against the curve of the dragon's neck. Her hands were firm on the reins, her posture sharp with control and purpose.
Mirax, her dragon, was still young by the standards of the great beasts of old Valyria, but he was clever—fast, responsive, and growing stronger by the day. His scales shimmered like molten chocolate, catching flecks of silver and blue in the morning light. His eyes—icy, piercing blue—reflected the snow-capped mountains in the distance and the ferocity of Meleys, his late mother.
"Vēzot!" (Up!) Jocelyn commanded, her voice swallowed by wind and sky. Mirax soared higher, avoiding a cluster of bare-branched pines with deft, angled wings.
"Geptot!" (Left!) she called.
The dragon flipped—wings curling inward for a heartbeat before unfurling again. Jocelyn's body followed the motion with smooth instinct, and her fingers moved quickly to her belt. She unsheathed one of her signature daggers—slender, curved, made of blackened steel and etched with Valyrian runes—and threw it mid-roll, downward toward a tree stump target she had marked earlier with red cloth.
The dagger sank into the center of the red, dead center.
Jocelyn grinned.
Mirax let out a gruff chuff of approval, his deep voice rolling through the air like distant thunder.
"Bona's ziry, dōna valonqar," (That's it, sweet boy) she whispered, proud. "We'll dance through the sky like no other. We'll fly under Vhagar's belly and make her bleed from below if we must."
They circled again, this time lower to the tree line. The thick Winterfell woods were a good place to test agility and reflexes—dangerous for larger, older dragons, but ideal for Mirax's size. Jocelyn practiced making him dive and then climb sharply, weaving between white-barked trees and snow-covered rocks like shadows in motion.
This wasn't just play. This was war prep.
They had heard the winds of conflict even here in the frozen north—Aemond and Vhagar scorching the Riverlands, tensions rising in King's Landing. Jocelyn knew her place as a daughter of fire and salt: part Targaryen, part Velaryon, now bound to House Stark. But loyalty did not mean passivity. Cregan Stark, her husband of only two moons, had told her once: "The snow waits, but it never sleeps."
