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 please. Thx)
WINTERFELL Morning sun bathed Winterfell in a pale golden light, filtered through gray clouds and cold northern air. Snow dusted the stone ramparts and the bare trees of the godswood, though spring fought to make itself known. The cold was not cruel—it was familiar, constant.
Jocelyn Velaryon stirred in bed, reaching to her side. Empty. The space where Cregan Stark had lain was cold. A small smile tugged at her lips as she sat up, her hand resting on her soft belly—barely beginning to swell. Two almost three moons, the maester had said. She pressed her palm there for a moment, then rose, pulling on a heavy fur-lined gray gown that shimmered like silver in the dim morning light.
She braided her dark wavy hair loosely, then quietly left their chambers and made her way to the nursery, her soft leather shoes silent on the stone floor.
Inside the nursery, Rickon was awake already, nestled in his furs. The nursemaid greeted her quietly and stepped aside.
"Good morning, sweet boy," Jocelyn murmured as she leaned down, lifting Rickon into her arms. He giggled and reached for her face, brushing his small fingers over her nose. Jocelyn chuckled and kissed his soft curls. "Shall we find your father? Let's see what war he's planning this morning."
The walk through the keep was brisk. Outside, the yard was alive with movement—men sharpening blades, voices calling commands, horses being saddled. At the center of it all stood Lord Cregan Stark, tall and resolute, his breath misting in the air as he gestured over a wide table covered in a map of Westeros, stones marking positions, banners noting lords and allies.
Jocelyn slowed as she reached the edge of the yard, Rickon tucked securely against her. The toddler let out a soft coo, his small fingers tangled in her fur collar as they both watched Cregan intently.
He looked every inch the Warden of the North—his fur-lined black cloak catching the wind, gray eyes sharp with focus, his voice calm and commanding. Jocelyn's chest swelled with quiet pride and a flicker of worry. War was near.
Then Cregan looked up.
His grey eyes met her violet instantly across the yard. Jocelyn offered a quiet smile and shifted Rickon in her arms, who gave a loud babble as if to call to his father. Cregan's expression softened. He nodded once to the men around him, leaving them to continue their discussions before walking toward his family.
The wind teased strands of Jocelyn's hair loose as Cregan reached them. He looked first at Rickon, who held out a chubby hand for him.
