it's like a dark paradise

lady naelys of house velaryon, daughter of the sea snake and the queen who never was.

[dashaenka]

[adam-stark]

That balcony was just theirs, and the Northern prince silently cherished the peace that settled between them. The laughter and music from the Litha festival felt too distant, an entire world away with how little mind Adam paid to them. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she balanced on the railing, carefree and serene. He said nothing. He simply continued to stand at a good distance, close enough that he would be able to react if she lost her balance. And he looked up, only half-paying attention to the night sky and the lines he could imagine between stars to draw constellations in his mind. He simply took in the quiet and Naelys' company, and the way she held a special sort of charm to steady him more than anyone else could. It was a kind of peace he rarely found, and even more rarely shared.

I would come to Winterfell, I should like to, she said. He lowered his gaze from the heavens back to Nellie. A small smile graced his lips, the sort that managed to bring a gleam of joy to his eyes as well. A man of few words, Adam gave a soft nod in response. It was his own silent and sincere way of indicating he was glad she intended to visit.

Somehow the night had led them to reflect on times past, and how easily moments, days, years could pass them by. Time didn't want to be seen. That notion stuck with him and made him wonder. Was that truly so? Or was it seen, right there before them, and they were simply not paying enough attention? So often one could get lost in what had been and what could be, and not on what was right there and then before them. “Time has a way of slipping by without us noticing,” he murmured in response, his shoulders lifting into a subtle shrug. He tried not to dwell on the past, if he were honest, but some moments could be missed all the same. A smile, a laugh, a touch, a glance. “I’m glad you’ll be coming back,” he added then, knowing there were things better spoken out loud than shared only in silences and glances. Her apology, though, caught him off guard. His brow furrowed slightly as he looked at her. “Why are you sorry?” he asked. “If it’s for the time or the distance, there’s no need to apologize”. Why should she apologize when she was still so dear? When she also held space for him? “It’s all well between us, Nellie. It always is”. And always would be, he suspected, for there always had been that special ease between them.

He listened quietly as she spoke of moving between Driftmark, King’s Landing, Braavos. It sounded to him like the Velaryons, once so proud and close-knit, were more scattered these days. Pieces of a shipwreck drifting at sea. Adam thought, if only briefly, of his own family. The siblings, despite flaws and different temperaments, somehow managed to find their way back to each other. They tried to stay a pack. But the prince didn’t let that thought linger. It wasn’t fair to compare when circumstances were so vastly different. And when the Velaryon lady said her home was under the sea, his eyes lingered on her for a while, trying to discern the meaning behind the words. Was the ocean, the underwater scenery around Driftmark her home? Or was she dressing her words in symbolism, and she meant to say what represented home to her was drowned and sunken? He hoped it was not the latter, for he would hate to learn Nellie had lost something so precious... “Well,” he said after a few heartbeats of silence, “I hope whatever place, whatever feeling is home to you… that it’s something that can remain as well”. His words were simple, and perhaps not as eloquent as he wished he could have made them sound, but there was a special gentleness in them. A wish for her and her future.

When she spoke of Hadrian, her certainty, the way she looked at him as if she truly believed he was doing right by his boy, managed to stir something in him. At times he felt certain and at times he felt hesitant when it came to his son. But for all the doubts that weighed on him from time to time, Adam felt gratitude for her reassurance. “Thank you,” he said with a subtle nod. And his eyes stayed on her as the lady leaned back against the railing again. The lone wolf shifted imperceptibly closer, his subtle motion that of someone quietly guarding even without needing to state so. She could enjoy herself, and he wouldn't let her fall.

Her demeanor shifted only subtly before she spoke again, and he understood exactly who she meant without her having to spell it out. He had not opinions to share at present about the man who ruled over her realm. Starks and Velaryons had been friends for years, and the relationship he continued to see between Owen and Deimos appeared to indicate there would be no ending that ancient, true friendship. “You can tell me to visit, if you wish it,” he said in a tone lighter than before. “I like you more than I dislike him. That’s enough of a reason to visit”.

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

naelys velaryon had never quite fully grasped the stark difference between an alliance and a friendship; considering the association between the houses of stark and velaryon had long since blurred that line, she had always been raised with it simplified in her own mind, as it had always been by those speaking and guiding her as to who she could speak with. who she could spend time with. who she was allowed to be friends with; a velaryon could not simply befriend anyone that she found familiarity with, and even that was rare enough. her closest friend, the lady celtigar, did not agree with them spending too much time apart from one another and could grow upset if she had not answered her letter fast enough - and so, when adam insisted they were fine despite the time that had passed, she could not help but still feel a small bundle of nerves at the bottom of her stomach. was he merely saying it?

"...are you sure?" she asked, half hesitantly - she did not know how to navigate it being different now. what was okay for a lady to say to a prince, and what was not; what was too much, and what was not. what was strange, and what was not. "i know friends should see one another, and the war did end some years ago now..." never once did she even consider that adam too had not been able to see her, but rather naturally took the responsibility upon herself. she had not been focused enough, and had gotten herself wrapped up in everything that had happened in braavos. and more. "oh, time was hiding all along. a cruel mistress for both of us." she leaned forward slightly to try and survey how far the drop from the balcony was, and whether anything but woodland was below them.

and so, there had been times where she needed to remind herself time and time again that adam stark was a friend more than an ally; it had taken her some months to ensure she did stumble over her own words in his presence and call him so, especially when it was so clear he considered her as more than just an ally. she had to be careful when it came to him, and careful to ensure that her family did not do anything to upset or betray the starks; because then, they would not be able to be friends. she knew they would not, and that was the last thing she could ever have wanted, especially considering she also had finally met dacey stark in person now.

and still, whilst she did not think about the political ramifications and tensions that could be stirred by a stark prince venturing south for the sake of maintaining relations with the velaryons of driftmark, what she instead thought of was the sound of clashing blades and the carnage that had been the war. did that mean all the venom between the groups of men was now over?

"i think i will need to ask deimos first." she muttered, more to herself than to any other person in particular, less to him - she could not simply mention it to aemon and trust aemon to pass forward the message to deimos because they hardly spoke. and when they spoke it rarely was truly speaking. and rhaena could possibly wish to oversee the logistics of the journey and ensure everything was safe. she needed to know what was going on, to ensure if something went wrong she was not caught unaware - not because she was controlling. she could almost hear their voices in her head; in their exact tones. "if i can find him." she offered him an apologetic shrug, as if to say, i don't know how long confirmation will take.

if he came to see her, would they able to simply stand in the very same hall and not wish to ram a blade through the other? her mouth opened for a moment, as though she wished to speak; and then it closed, not minding if adam visibly saw it - it were clear she was still lacing her thoughts together, and did not yet want to utter them into existence lest she bring on some accidental prophecy. she did not know how the planets and the fates conspired, but she would not risk tempting the fates by speaking something into existence. she let out a light hum as she always did when she was considering what it was she wanted to say, how to word it - all without speaking something into existence she would tempt the fates with.

"it is probably better should i come to you." not once had she considered that, in all she worried about what to say, she had not thought about what she could or could not do. and perhaps, according to some, it was no longer appropriate for a lady of driftmark to be venturing across the breadth of westeros to see a friend. "because that way, you do not need to see..." and she trailed off again, not wanting to jinx it or prophesize some issue arising between the starks and the greens should they find themselves under the same hall in kings landing, or anywhere on the continent. and then her mind, almost vibrated, as a sudden impulsive question all but seeped into her mind. he had said things were always well between them.

"what would make things unwell between us?" her question was abrupt, and yet she said it as though he would know immediately what she spoke of.

[adam-stark]

Nellie moved to sit on the railing as if she were sitting on a comfortable sofa in her own home. She had that peculiar quality of moving almost as if she were floating. Instinctively, slowly, the prince moved to lean against the railing himself, quietly guarding that the Velaryon lady wouldn't fall down. His posture appeared relaxed, however, even if he was ready to spring into action if it were necessary.

“It's been some time,” he mused, taking in the scenery Riverrun offered with its tall trees and surrounding rivers, its night sky and scattered stars. “You used to visit more often in the past. It was nice having you as our guest. You didn't get drunk and cause chaos like so many others,” he half-joked. Her company had never felt like a burden, though, or like he was meant to entertain someone for the sake of politeness. His quieter nature had always merged well with Naelys' own introversion.

Her comparison of Winterfell and King's Landing drew out a slight scoff from Adam. As a true Northman, the South never sat too well with him. He wasn't compatible with the sort of environment the Targaryens of old had made of their capital, and that continued to exist in the present. He too appreciated the directness and honesty that Nellie spoke of, which was in the veins of many Northern folk and their lands. “Do you stay at King's Landing often? I always thought you spent most of your time in Driftmark,” he said, curious to know what circumstances looked like for Naelys these days. He had been under the impression that the Velaryon seat could be a respite from the pressures and burdens of the Crownlands' capital.

The Commander's expression shifted slightly when Nellie spoke about Hadrian. About what she heard others say about him and his son. Adam Stark wasn't a creature of warmth, but his son certainly had brought out a much more tender side to him that he had no idea could have existed within him. With Elissa's untimely passing, it truly had fallen on his shoulders to be a worthy parent for Hadrian. “I try to be there,” was all Adam could say. It was the effort he was making to ensure his little boy grew up with a sense of being cared for, protected, endlessly cherished. “I just don't want him to grow up—” the prince paused. To grow up like me, was the initial thought he had. Burdened, sad, isolated. He had been fortunate to grow up with his siblings, of course. But there had also been an unspoken weight... A burden his father willingly or unwillingly placed upon him. That wasn't something he wished to repeat with his boy. “I don't even know what I was trying to say,” he said with a light scoff. “Hadrian doesn't have his mother, and I hope I can make up for that absence in some way if I'm there by his side as much as I can, I suppose”.

Adam wasn't entirely sure what Naelys meant when she spoke about new ways of thinking about a subject, about the ephemeral nature of it. It happened sometimes, the change of direction in conversations, and the lone wolf of House Stark simply tried to follow the trail she left for him like footsteps on the sand. “I find those are the thoughts that shake me most. The ones that sneak up on me, the ones I hadn't considered before,” he murmured after a heartbeat. Those changes of view stuck with him for their newness, their unexpected nature. The 'what if?' of it all. “What's on your mind?” he inquired then, noticing the distant and almost longing look in her lilac eyes. Perhaps Naelys Velaryon had already snuck into mysterious, deep waters in which she didn't wish to be followed.

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

she sat as though the railing had been made for her, not for safety but for quiet reverie, the weight of her slender frame balanced in a way that seemed at once casual and carefully placed. her dark purple shoes glimmered faintly where the moonlight caught them, and when she shifted, she nearly lost one; it tilted at the edge before she pressed it back onto her heel with the faintest of movements, pretending not to notice at all. the night wrapped itself around her like another gown, deep indigo and endless.

the sounds of the hall behind them were muffled now, nothing but a low hum of laughter, clinking cups and distant song; yet out here the rush of rivers was sharper, the faint snap of some unseen animal moving through the underbrush more distinct.

naelys velaryon tilted her head back slightly, letting her eyes travel upwards, but it was not the stars that held her gaze—it was the dark ink between them, the unbroken stillness where the heavens seemed to fold into themselves. she thought, distantly, that she had always preferred that part of the sky. “i would come to winterfell,” she murmured at last, her voice soft and pale as the mist rising off the water below. “i should like to.” her lips curved faintly, the sort of smile that did not fully arrive. “i used to, didn’t i? i don’t quite know where the time went. it only seems a few winters ago, and yet…” she let the thought drift like smoke, her eyes fixed on some memory she did not name. she had always imagined that she and adam would simply come across one another, the way tide and current meet without thinking. to realise otherwise, even for a moment, left her oddly adrift.

she wondered if he would hear the quiet apology folded inside her words, though she did not say it aloud. she wondered if he would sense the part of her that still felt like the girl who sat in his chair all those moons ago, waiting for someone to tell her where she belonged. but she only sat there, her hands loosely clasped around her knee, her hair moving faintly with the night wind, her gaze fixed on the dark sky as though it were a sea she might dive into at any moment. "time didn't want to be seen, i think. i'm sorry adam."

her gaze flicked to him when he scoffed, not defensive but faintly amused, and to her own surprise a soft laugh escaped her. it sounded lighter than she felt. the north had always drawn such reactions from its sons, that quiet iron pride like old stone; he wore it like another skin. she lifted her hands to her cheeks in mock astonishment, as though his reaction had truly shocked her, and for an instant she looked younger, almost girlish, before the expression faded. “kings landing,” she said slowly, almost tasting the words as she spoke them. “driftmark. braavos. the canals, the towers. they all blur in my head now. i go where i’m needed, i suppose. or where deimos and rhaena go. driftmark is so often empty these days; my family don’t think it right for me to be alone.” she shrugged, the movement small and loose, like a petal tilting on the water.

“home is under the sea. everything else just… remains.” her tone did not carry bitterness, only a distant kind of truth, as though she were narrating a dream aloud rather than speaking of her own life.

when he spoke of his son she listened without interruption, her body still but her eyes alive, holding his face the way one holds a candle flame in the dark. she found it strange to think of adam stark as a father. still she pictured the quiet, gloomy young man whose chair she had once taken in winterfell’s hall, awkward and uninvited, and he had never corrected her. and yet there was a boy now, somewhere far to the north, following his footsteps in snow. “and he'll know,” she said quietly. “he'll know.” she did not finish the thought; perhaps she could not. parents try to be there until they aren’t. until sickness comes, until blood spills on a napkin or dragons breathe fire, and then they are gone. she thought of her own father, always away for months at a time, and for the first time she wondered if he had chosen to be away. had she ever truly thought about that? she realised she hadn’t.

she traced a pattern into the dust of the railing with one finger, little loops and spirals like seashells or fragments of a forgotten sigil. “i never really thought about any of it,” she said after a moment, her voice almost an echo; she still does not fully expand on her words, and yet in her mind it was already clear. she sounded not sad but distant, as though speaking of a story she’d once read but couldn’t quite remember. adam’s words drifted to her—thoughts that sneak up on you, thoughts that shake you most—and she turned her head slightly, the lilac of her eyes soft and unreadable. the question came, as it always did: what’s on your mind?

for a heartbeat she almost told him. almost told him she didn’t picture a future for herself, that she couldn’t see it, that she sometimes wondered if something would happen before it could ever arrive. instead she only shrugged again, the gesture like a ripple across still water, mirroring him without realising it. “i don’t even know what i meant,” she murmured. silence settled between them then, but it was not an uncomfortable one. she let herself lean a little further back on the railing, careful but unafraid, her dark purple shoes catching the light again as she swung her leg softly. somewhere below, a fish leapt from the river with a sound like a coin dropped in a bowl, and she thought it was a fitting sound for the moment—small and bright and gone before one could see it. "i would tell you to come and see us, but....you don't like him."

she said nothing, as though her image of the green king in her head was one he would wordlessly be able to understand. even naelys knew the northerners and the greens hated one another; too much blood, too much history.

[vilde-harclay]

Vilde looked at the young woman with interest, searching in the recesses of her mind if there was a name she recalled to attach to her face. She remembered her. A Velaryon shadow behind her sailor brother. The dark-haired woman with Valyrian eyes had been in the North some time in the past. Their paths had not fully crossed, though. Neither had exchanged words before. The fact that the Velaryon lady knew the word sálþyrja was telling, however. It meant that she at least understood some of the oldest Northern ways. She could recognize a sin-eater, a soul cleanser, when she saw one. “Aye, I am,” Vilde answered plainly. Conversations that began with one seeking a sálþyrja often led somewhere interesting.

Her ice-blue eyes studied the younger woman before her with the same quiet patience she observed falling snow or the frosting of the lakes in her homeland. There was more to it. The Northern detected the thoughtful little pauses, the way the lady's gaze seemed fixed on something that wasn't fully material in front of her. The silence stretched, and Vilde did not break it. She recognized in the other woman someone who, similarly to her, could inhabit her thoughts more naturally than what transpired around her. She wondered if the Velaryon girl paused to listen to something else too, or if it was her thoughts alone that gave her pause before she spoke.

When the Valyrian lady spoke of having something to ask, Vilde's tight lips curved into a subtle smile. It was a ghost of a gesture, really, barely there. She tilted her head slightly, her tone remaining matter-of-fact. “You want to ask me about death”. Few sought a sálþyrja for anything else. Few had those momentary, quietly haunted looks in their eyes that revealed death had left something unresolved for them. “A death that has passed, or one you feel approaching?”

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

naelys velaryon’s lips parted as if she meant to answer clearly, but what slipped free was little more than a soft, uneven breath - her mouth momentarily drying as she thought quietly about how best to piece her words together, almost hearing the sounds of her oldest brother's voice reminding her to speak louder. she could not hold vilde’s gaze for long; those eyes reminded her too much of frozen seas, endless and merciless, and yet she found herself tethered to them - was this what it felt like to be a fish, gutted by a hook?

“i do do not think i could feel death approaching,” she murmured, her voice light, dreamlike, as though she were speaking not to vilde but to the empty air between them. her fingers pressed against her skirts, smoothing folds that did not need smoothing; almost imaginary, and for a moment it almost appeared as though naelys velaryon was more some glass doll, floating within the space between them. it was then the renements of a small smile crossed her lips, eyes momentarily brightening as though she had caught onto something legendary - and then it slipped from her mouth, something cryptic and bittersweet all at once.

"oh, wouldn't that would have saved us all some trouble."

how best to ask her questions, and to further contemplate the prospect of death: if she were to smudge her fingers with ink writing on it with each short story and poem, she would like to know it better. it were not as though it had already clasped its jaws around driftmark and all the souls who inhabited it like a madman already - no, rather she wished to sit across from it beneath a frozen sun and contemplate on all the other impossible facts of life. a frozen sun, and to allow the dead to walk again.

naelys’s voice carried with it that lilting softness she often fell into when her thoughts slipped untethered, as though she were reciting some half-forgotten charm, something whispered at the edge of candlelight. her lilac eyes did not quite settle on vilde but rather moved just past her, chasing shadows that did not exist.

“i like to imagine your old friend is a black cat,” she said, the words leaving her lips in a slow, deliberate hush, as if shaping them might summon something that ought not be summoned. “sometimes it crosses your path and sometimes it doesn’t...comes and goes as it pleases.” her tone lingered on the last phrase, curling around it like smoke, until the air seemed heavier for it. there was a strange rhythm to her words, not unlike a lullaby sung off-key, and though her voice was calm, there was an undercurrent of unease—as though she herself could sense how the cadence of her speech might make the air prickle. "i think it best if we all ignore the way it creaks outside the bedroom door."

she almost smiled then, the faintest ghost of one, a flicker gone as soon as it appeared, her gaze returning to vilde with a softness that belied the spell-like edge of her words - the sounds of the sea snake's steps creeping into her rooms, creaking as she would keep her eyes squeezed shut, half scared - but she knew it would be him returning. and now he was dead. naelys did not feel it; not really - it’s like ink spilling across parchment, but it would not stain her fingertips. her lilac eyes lifted again, half-curious, half-lost, and another ray of sun seemed to creep upon her lips. “you must feel it, though. more than anyone.” naelys shifted, the motion so slight it was almost invisible, like a ripple in still water. when she spoke, her words came soft and uneven, as though falling from her tongue without her permission.

“where are my parents?” she asked, the question small, nearly childlike, as if she had forgotten her place in the high hall and stood instead in some bustling market, tugging at the hem of the stranger’s cloak. her gaze flickered across vilde’s face, wide and searching, as though she were looking for a map, the endless path to a dark world only vilde could see. “do they walk beside us?” she asked again, the question thinner now, weaker, a strand of silk about to fray. her hands turned over against each other in her lap, her eyes on the pale crescents of her nails as though they might answer her instead. “or… have they gone somewhere far?”

[vilde-harclay]

Closed starter for @naelysvelaryon Setting: Highgarden, the Reach. Set during the Verdant Concord.

The drink tasted poorly, but she drank it anyway. She missed the warm sensation of Northern ale. The sálþyrja sat on her own far from the beating heart of concord, having stepped away from the chatter and the whirring noises of clever inventions. The sounds of the exhibition felt somewhat grating after a time. She found herself longing for the soft hum of the birch leaves in Moon Circle, and missing the soothing song of snowfall.

Vilde was not alone, though. Not truly. She tilted her head back slightly, letting the warmer Reach wind brush across her face. Sometimes she felt a peculiar sensation, something that whispered in the back of her mind that she was being watched. She knew it too well. Sometimes the whispers followed. Subtle utterings threaded with her own thoughts. She lifted the goblet to her lips again and took a small sip, grounding herself by the sensation of the wine on her tongue.

The prickling sensation was still there. Eyes on her. Vilde's ice-blue eyes shifted, and she actually found a gaze meeting hers. Not a void, not something unknown, but a young lady staring with curiosity. The sálþyrja recognized her. Lady Naelys Velaryon, daughter of a house older than most. Vilde knew her only by sight, had never spoken to her, though she remembered seeing her and her Valyrian-eyed family present at King Owen's ball. The Harclay's daughter blinked once, slowly, growing gradually intrigued as to what drew the lady's attention to her. “Yes?” she asked, not unkind but direct.

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

the rolling of the word sálþyrja had left the tip of her tongue time and time again in the run up to this moment, never among the company of those who shared the same gaze as her own, or the same foreign blood that seemed to run cold within her own veins - no, her company were of another lineage, more ancient than her own in this world. the northern court seemed to appear some sort of unintentional buffer between naelys and the reality of what it was to be of house velaryon, a veil she could easily hide behind as though she were five summers old again, hiding in some dusty corner of driftmark.

"you are the sálþyrja of the north." her words were not direct, despite the fact her sentence was not a question; there was an air of uncertainty in her words, despite the fact she knew she was speaking to the right person. the sin eater of the north; who was supposed to help in allowing souls to rest.

the concept of home was an abnormal, strange one; if home were a place, it could easily be destroyed - burned to ash, the roof caving in upon itself, becoming empty of any signs of life. the endless snow of the north felt much like a home; but one day even that would be no more, for nothing was ever permanent. naelys did not consider herself a pessimistic or gloomy individual, and yet, looking through the view of endless rolling hills for days on end on their route to highgarden made her feel strange - to know only some years ago this was enemy land, the most fearful area in the whole continent...and now here they were. with her gaze looking upon dandelions that had withstood flames, or regrew from the ashes.

and within the smallest of breaths, there came the crushing realisation of how pointless it had all been. all the blood that got stuck beneath the nails, the sacrifice of children's innocence for the sake of upholding a blade on their back, the lives forced into poverty...only for them all to have continued. whilst so many did not.

naelys hadn’t meant to feel bitter. she told herself that often—that she was above bitterness, too glass-hearted to carry it properly. and yet, watching the velaryons smiling in the reach, garlanded in flowers and raising cups as though there had never been a war, something inside her curled and hissed; something startling, and something she did not think existed. her mother had died in the skies, her mother had burned for them. rhaenys velaryon, queen who never was, who held herself proud above the world even when it did not love her back—was now just a name they toasted in passing.

and meleys, her scarlet fury, reduced to a story told in whispers. what had they died for?

and then her grief turned, sharpened into something more pointed; shaded in hues of black rather than deep indigo or blue. the rogue prince. daemon targaryen, who had sworn to ride beside her mother—who swore he had loved her in the strange, selfish way only family could—and yet had flown off with ceraxes, crimson wings stretching across the clouds, leaving rhaenys to fight alone. to die alone. naelys clenched her jaw, the burn of it bitter in her throat - feelings she did not fully understand she was ever feeling. songs were worth nothing. it took too long to gather men from harrenhal; and in the end, her mother had been the one to pay the price.

there was no use in asking a septon where daemon targaryen was. even she knew the answer they would give her, spoken from their own religious view point and hightower influence. she only wanted to hear one answer; the truth. she could only hope that the truth was that daemon targaryen was not at peace. "i think i have something to ask you."

[femalestunning]

ANA DE ARMAS photographed by Greg Williams for the 2023 SAG Awards

[adam-stark]

“Lucky her, indeed” Adam exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. It was nowhere near as chilly as Winterfell, but it felt familiar enough for the Commander to feel at ease. He was enjoying his time in the Riverlands, he could not deny it, but there was always a part of him that began to yearn for his homeland after being away from the Northern woods for more than a couple of days. Neither he nor Nellie were the most sociable of individuals, and perhaps that was why they’d struck such an agreeable, comforting relationship. They could chat or they could stand in silence, and still at ease with each other.

The Velaryon lady spoke his son’s name and the prince smiled a little. “Elissa chose it. It was her father's name,” he said after a moment, turning to lean against the balcony’s railing with his back to the Riverlands’ scenery, his head turned to the side to look. Lord Hadrian Dustin had died in the early years of the Dance, and his late wife had loved her late father very dearly. She wanted that name for her firstborn -the only son she ended up having- and Adam had no argument against it. “I just didn’t want him to have a name that felt like carrying a burden,” he said after a moment. That was why he’d not even suggested naming his boy after his own father, his dead brother, or even naming him after himself.

The lone wolf of House Stark crossed his arms across his chest and smiled as Nellie asked more about his song. His posture was more relaxed as images of Hadrian filled his mind, how the little boy watched the world with wide, curious eyes. Always reaching, always searching. “He's aware of everything,” Adam admitted, his tone softer. “Always watching, always listening. If you put something in front of him, he has to touch it, turn it over in his hands. He has to figure out what it is”. He let out a quiet breath, almost a chuckle. “Nothing like me”. He wasn’t sure if that was true, not entirely. It was too soon to tell how much his son would be like him. But Adam told himself Hadrian didn't take after him. He wasn't burdened with any of the things Adam carried —grief, guilt, the ghosts of the past pressing at his back. His son was just a little boy. Innocent, bright. And Adam would keep it that way for as long as he could.

“I would like you to,” Adam confirmed without hesitation. It had been some time since the Velaryon lady last visited Winterfell. “So consider this an official invitation”. He even thought she might accompany his family on the way back from the Riverlands if she wished to extend her travels, if she did not mind being away from her home for a few more days.

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

it was only the slight tinkle of jewllery from around her thigh and the movement of deep indigo silk that indicated the manner in which the youngest daughter of driftmark had all but slinked onto the balcony's edge, seamlessly and uncaringly, no doubt oblivious to the facial change upon that of the prince of winter. sat on the edge of the railing, her hands wrapped loosely around one knee drawn close to her chest, the other leg swinging softly into the open air. she liked the way the chill bit at her ankles—reminded her she was still here, still flesh and bone, and not some hazy thought lingering too long in the back of her own mind.

there was an endless view of woodland before her, stretched beyond everything she saw - the tips of pines, and the sight of it made her feel strangely anxious.

she suddenly pictured being lost, wandering through such thick woodland for days, desperate for some sense of someone; and it caused a light chill to creep over the bottom of her spine. "then i shall come," she added after a moment, the corners of her lips lifting into something soft and fleeting. "to winterfell. i haven’t been in years, and it’s always strange when people speak of it, like it’s a place carved from old bones and frost, not somewhere people live and laugh and drink too much." she tilted her head, eyes flicking back to him; she remembered all too well the level of drunken behaviour she had seen many a night in winterfell's great hall.

"besides, the cold feels honest...the chill of the capital feels false." there was no literal cold in kings landing, but it were merely another metaphor; the thoughts, the tensions, the looks. the eyes of a king who glared down upon her with a thunder of a dragon's breath. the embarrassment. the shame. the quiet laughter from courtiers as she walked by them now, no doubt happy to relish in the public embarrassment of a velaryon again - after jaehaerys had stripped her brother of his rightful title.

naelys looked at the figure beside her through a veil of dark lashes, and for a moment, said nothing. it wasn’t because she didn’t have anything to say—it was because she could. silence was not uncomfortable with him. it never had been. she did not contemplate whether it ever could be, as she often did not contemplate on what ifs when it came to the days that were still to come.

"i think young hadrian is fortunate," she murmured eventually, her voice soft as the wind that skimmed over the tops of the riverlands trees. "to have you. i’ve heard things said around me… people talk, people think i am not listening. they always talk about who’s raising whom. who is warded where. but they always say your name. that you’re... there." her gaze flicked over to him properly then, searching his features, not for confirmation—she already knew it to be true—but for some kind of understanding.

"i think it’s rare. what you do—" her voice quietened, as if even saying it too loudly might shatter something fragile. she did not finish her sentence; because she knew how pathetic it all sounded. to speak well on his reported presence and involvement as a father; would she have thought to do the same for a woman?

her fingers traced a small circle into the dust on the railing, thoughtful as her gaze seemed to fixate upon it; it were as though she were etching seashells onto the balcony, to leave remnants of what this moment was when it was all over and left behind. "i don’t think i ever truly thought about any of that," she said suddenly, almost as though she’d interrupted her own train of thought; and to her own mind, it seemed so obvious what she was speaking of - in reality, she had not specified at all. "it is easier picture it as the shape of water. moving before you can grab it." she didn’t sound sad, exactly. more... distant, too uncharacteristically matter of fact to be leaving the lips of nellie velaryon. as though it were a book she had once read, but could no longer recall the words.

[jaehaerysiitargaryen-deactivate]

Jaehaerys had seen that look before. Once, long ago, across a grand table where power and pretense were served alongside roasted meats and Dornish wine. He had been a boy, young but not blind, when his mother’s face had betrayed her. Just for a moment—distress flickering in her eyes, a silent plea for help in a room full of people who would offer none. His father had sat at the head of the table, slurring between bites of overcooked venison, while his grandmother steepled her fingers, watching, always watching. The Lord Commander had been silent, his expression carved from stone, and Jaehaerys had gripped his fork, calculating.

He had thought, even then, of the quickest way across the table, of how he could move like a shadow, climb like a cat, and bury the silver prongs of his utensil into his father’s throat before anyone could stop him. The thought had burned bright and real in his mind, a child's quiet rebellion against a world that had forced him to watch. But before he could move, a heavy hand had landed on his shoulder. His grandfather’s voice had boomed, sharp and unyielding, and the tension had vanished, snuffed out like a candle. The table had carried on. No one there to touch his shoulder now.

The memory passed like a phantom, leaving behind only the weight of his own silence.

For a fleeting moment, if one were watching closely, they would have seen the king falter. His expression did not change, nor did his stance waver, but there—beneath the firelight’s flicker—was a pause. Barely a breath. A crack in the iron. He had called her Nervous Nellie as a boy, laughed at the way she flinched at shadows, at her quietness. But now, looking at her, he could see through the glass dragon, through the thin layer of dignity she held onto so desperately. He saw what lay beneath, and he did not enjoy the way it felt.

And in that feeling of guilt, he felt anger.

"Stand up," he ordered, his voice carrying through the hall, sharp as Valyrian steel. "You are a Valyrian."

Jaehaerys straightened as she rose, his gaze locked onto her, unyielding. There was no softness in his expression, only command. "Do not let it happen again," he continued, each word measured, deliberate. "Times have changed since your going. Catch on."

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

naelys velaryon stood because he told her to, in a movement that was quick and sudden, as though she almost scrambled upward. because there was no other choice. the sharpness of his voice made her visibly flinch, and she gripped onto the sleeves of her dark velvet dress, trying to ignore the faces of the other courtiers - those who had not overheard her slip up no doubt wondering what she had done now. her limbs moved like seaweed pulled by the tide—without will, without direction—her body obeying even as her mind fluttered elsewhere, seeking shelter. the cold air clung to the silk of her skirts, the dampness of the stone now pressed into the soles of her feet instead of her knees.

you are a valyrian, he had said, and the words had been a command, not a kindness. she could feel the weight of them still, sharp-edged and unrelenting, like a name spoken with too much force. valyrian. not girl. not cousin. not naelys. not even nellie. merely a creature, warped in history and twisted in present; if she were a true valyrian, she detested it with every fibre she had in her being.

she did not speak. not because she was stubborn, nor because she wished to punish him with silence—though gods knew there was something bitter enough in her chest to wish exactly that—but because there was no voice left in her. it had burned up somewhere in the heat of his scorn, had dried into dust between her teeth when he berated her before the eyes of the court. she had thought she might find it again if she stood, if she gathered herself with dignity, but dignity was a thing long since stripped from her, peeled back like gold leaf until only nerves remained.

the air was too loud. every breath seemed to echo. the scrape of leather, the shift of cloaks, the subtle, poisonous quiet of an audience watching and waiting—hungry for a misstep, for a tremble in her lip or a faltering blink. she kept her chin angled just enough to seem composed, just enough that no one could see how tightly she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from shaking. her eyes would not meet his. they hovered somewhere around the level of his chest, as if she might find refuge in the weave of his tunic, in the familiar thread of the house colours he wore so differently now.

she swallowed hard, once, because if she didn’t she might choke. not on grief. not on regret. but on the taste of being small. as though she were nothing more than the worms which hid beneath the rocks on the shore, desperate waiting for the tide to return and hoping the very edge of the waves weren't going to drag the entire rock down upon her. the king had spoken. and she, a lady of a defeated cause, had no reply that would not break her. so she stood. still. quiet. shamed. valyrian, perhaps. but not unscathed. "yes, your majesty." was all she could manage to utter, waiting for him to walk away, and to leave her stood there.

the public disgrace and embarrassment would be far more a comfort than this - this lecture, this command. he looked upon her as though she were the sea snake's navy, or her mother atop of meleys - an actual threat. in reality, she was nothing. perhaps even less than nothing in this moment. and so, when he finally turned and left her stood there, various of his courtiers following after him as the trails of their dresses and cloaks swept her to the side like some collection of dust, she finally let out a low, broken exhale as though she had been holding her breath for days.

end of thread.

[cellaceltigar]

marcella let herself absorb the warmth of nellie’s touch, the way she clung to her sleeve for that single, fleeting moment before letting go. it was an instinct marcella knew well, though she never gave voice to it. dependence, longing. these were feelings she saw as weaknesses in others, but it felt different when it came to naelys. she did not recoil, did not think to weaponise it. no, with nellie, she allowed herself to indulge. she pressed a hand to the back of her friend's head, smoothing down the dark waves as though taming something wild.

“the king was only a boy then,” marcella murmured, though her tone held little defence for the king. “boys are cruel because no one expects anything different of them.” ladies and lords were not raised with the same expectations. boys were not taught to conceal their true selves as girls were. “and when no one stops them, they grow into men who think the world is theirs to take.” she tilted her head, studying her friend as she sprawled across the bed. but cella did not judge neither max nor jaehaerys for their ambitions. the world was a cruel place, and she'd rather those who shared the blood of valyria ruled. she longed to see valyria come again, for valyria to become more than the pages in her books, and the stories told through generations. “but he has always been childish. even now, with a crown on his head and dragons at his back.” she did not say more, did not need to. she had spent years whispering secrets, letting them slip through the cracks of court like ink seeping into parchment. jaehaerys was only predictable in his unpredictability.

“if you were pathetic, nellie, i’d tell you.” she allowed herself the barest smirk. marcella had a sharp tongue when need be, and naelys was the only person, where a lie seemed to have a bitter taste on her tongue. it never did stop her from lying though. lying came as naturally to the silver-haired lady as breathing. “but you’re not. you made a mistake and hurt his pride, and jaehaerys was in the mood to punish you for it.” she allowed herself a moment of silence, watching the way nellie’s fingers curled into the sheets, small and fragile against the vastness of her bed. it unsettled something in marcella’s chest, something she refused to name. nellie was always too much, and yet never enough. she did not know how to exist in moderation, and marcella, for all her precision and control, had never wanted to make her learn.

“you think i’m fearless.” marcella let out a quiet breath, something between amusement and something else, something darker. “i’m not. you just don’t see the things i fear.” and that was the truth, wasn’t it? the fear was there, it simply had no place in her carefully crafted mask. she was afraid of being powerless, afraid of losing what she was carefully building. and sometimes she still feared what lived inside her, the darkness sealed away on claw isle. “i will handle it,” she promised again, her voice softer than usual. she purposefully avoided answering why she wished to speak the with the king. “and i will not allow you to float away, sweet girl, you will stay here with me.” there was a possessive edge to her voice, her words both tender and almost threatening. marcella would never allow anyone to take naelys from her. “we will keep each other safe no matter the cost, won't we?” she asked, her voice sweet as honey, all while knowing she had to ask her closest friend for a favour that might cost her later.

nellie’s hand moved, brushing marcella’s hair from her face, her touch light, almost reverent. it was a strange sort of intimacy, one that lingered too long, made the air between them shift. marcella did not move away. she let her gaze settle on naelys, the lilac of her eyes dark in the candlelight. then, the moment broke, shattered by the name of strangers. the starks. marcella's brows lifted, the change of subject unexpected, and almost annoying. but her natural curiosity got the better of her, the hunger for whispers. “of course, i do.” in fact, she had something that seemed to belong to their house hidden away in a chest. “the north clings to its wolves as tightly as we did our dragons.” her lips curved, not quite a smile. “have you grown close to them?” and while marcella had once sworn to herself, she would try to keep naelys away from her business as much as possible, she could not help herself from prying. perhaps to store the knowledge away for later in case it was useful to her, maybe just because she hated the thought of nellie being close to anyone else.

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

naelys velaryon had always thought of marcella as something otherworldly. not the way men spoke of beauty, or how courtiers spun tales of noblewomen with teeth made of pearls and hearts of frost, but something deeper—a creature shaped by the tide, made of smoke and crimson silk, forged in the same fire that birthed dragons. nellie, by contrast, was something softer. she knew it—moss instead of stone, seafoam instead of flame. and yet, when she sat beside marcella, when cella’s touch smoothed down her hair with such casual grace, she felt like the most dangerous girl in the world.

because cella had chosen her. looked at her, spoken to her, shared secrets with her in those hushed twilight hours when the court slept and they were just two girls tangled in a thousand silences.

there was a quiet then, one that only existed between them. the kind of silence she never had to fill. but still, something tugged at her, something she’d been meaning to say and never quite had the words for until now. “i think i’ve grown closer to the northerners,” she admitted softly, shifting back onto her side, her head resting against her hand as she looked at cella’s profile in the mirror. “dacey... she’s exactly like she was in her letters. just, good. you can tell, i think. and seeing adam again—i didn’t realise how much i missed him until i saw his face.” her voice lowered, uncertain, as she continued to speak and open up.

she listened now with quiet reverence, curled up on the bed like a child half-lulled to sleep, her cheek pressed to her wrist, eyes fixed not on cella’s face but the curve of her lips, the dip of her throat. the way her voice moved. every word from marcella’s mouth seemed to settle over her skin like snow—cold, lovely, a little too sharp. boys are cruel because no one expects anything different of them. gods, that was clever. gods, that was true. and it was another reason why nellie didn't want to bring another boy into the world. nellie’s lips parted, as if to agree, but no sound came. she didn’t need to speak when marcella was speaking. there was something holy in the way she thought, the way she saw things—like she had always known more than anyone else dared admit.

“it’s nice, you know? having friends who don’t know me here. who don’t expect me to be anything. who don’t know what i’m like when i’m standing next to my sister. they don’t ask me to go anywhere, don’t look at me like i’m wilting when i say no.” she comfortably laid back, her arm folded beneath her chin as she looked up at her closest companion, her eyes widening slightly a little bit as she heard herself speaking. she would never want her to feel as though she preferred any other to her cella. "but you will always come first. who else will i come home to?" she asked, a genuine, bright smile momentarily smile crossing her features, as though it were the most innocent of questions. because it was.

and then marcella said she was afraid. just a small thing, really. slipped in with such ease nellie almost missed it. but it snagged in her chest like a fish-hook. afraid. marcella. the two didn’t belong in the same sentence. and yet, it lingered. not in her words, no—but in her posture, in the way she avoided nellie’s eyes for half a breath too long. something shifted in naelys, then. she pushed herself upright slowly, dark hair tumbling like ink over her shoulders, her fingers twisting in the fine fabric of the covers as though anchoring herself. like a selkie emerging from the depths, she cared not for the way her nightgown slipped from her shoulders - marcella was afraid. and she couldn't see it.

“oh, but i would always keep you safe, my heart.” she said, and though her voice was gentle, the promise in it was unnerving. endless. infinite. it was not spoken like a knight’s vow, nor a lover’s plea, but something in between. something truer. "let me see it."

there was something awfully harrowing about the idea of losing marcella celtigar, in any way; letters would not be enough. the promise of seeing her again would not be enough. she was not akin to her sister, not akin to a twin; but a part of her. an extension. and the idea of something happened to her, like something happened to everybody else...she could not even name it. could not even put it upon her tongue. “sometimes i dream—” she hesitated, her fingers curling tighter. “i dreamed something happened to you. and when i woke up, and it were as though i had no more tears left to cry.” she let out a small laugh at that, but there was no real humour in it. “i thought something had really happened. i thought i’d lost you.” her gaze met cella’s then, wide and solemn. “but i won’t. i won’t let that happen. whatever it is—whatever you’re frightened of...

i’ll stand in front of it, and i won’t move. okay?”

[benblvckwood]

it was obvious by the shift in her tone that she recognised his name. it happened often enough that it should not come as a shock, the way people's faces changed when he uttered his name. ben ought to be used to it by now, but he wasn't. there were men who revelled in their reputation, but ben wore his awkwardly. no matter how well earned it was, it always threw him. the ben blackwood, she said, and he once again felt like the boy in the war camp, nothing but determination and armour that didn't fit, trying to speak with a voice big enough to make up for how small he was.

"yeah." when he eventually spoke, it was a single word of confirmation. "that's me." there was no use denying it - he was the ben blackwood, no matter how much it set him ill at ease to hear his name spoken like that. he knew not what else to say to her about it, instead taking a big bite of his sandwich to fill the awkwardness of it all, chewing longer than necessary to carry him through the silence.

ben looked at her in renewed interest when he own name was offered. velaryon was a house familiar to him, if only because, during the dance, they had found themselves upon the same side, yet even that felt complicated to think about in a way that meant ben often avoided thinking about it all together. nellie velaryon, though, sounded strange for him. it was a name that was almost ordinary - didn't the velaryons go in for the valyrian names that spoke of their ancestry? where had nellie come from? he couldn't make sense of it. his brow furrowed slightly as he considered it, as though trying to work out a puzzle with missing pieces. had she been named for someone? or maybe there was nothing to it at all, and he was thinking too hard about something that didn’t matter.

"i know deimos," he said, when he had finally swallowed his mouthful of sandwich. "well, no, i don't know deimos, but... name's familiar, you know? lord of the tides, and all." he was talking a little too quickly, and it occurred to him then that he sounded utterly witless in his speech. aemon velaryon, too, was a name that brought with it faint stirrings of recognition, undoubtedly due to some war-time achievement of her brother that ben had long since forgotten. it all seemed to bleed together at points. "can't say i know the other one," he admitted, pausing to glance at her again to see if she took offence at the admission. she didn't seem the type, but then, valyrians could be funny about that sort of thing.

he wasn't quite sure what to make of her yet. he'd never thought her to be anything but a high-born lady, but the name velaryon carried with it a different sort of lineage. it made it all the more curious, what exactly she was doing in a shop like that to begin with. and then there was the rest of it, the way she spoke with an odd sort of uncertainty that he wasn't sure he'd ever really seen in anybody. was she always like this, or was she just as unsure of him as he was of her? it was almost as though she was waiting for something - for him to speak? for this conversation to end? for the ground to open up and swallow the both of them whole? ben couldn't tell.

he put the last of his sandwich in his mouth, cramming in what was a little too big to be a single bite. where he had used eating as a way to fill the silence between them before, this time, the amount of time he took to chew was purely unintentional. ben raised a finger, circling it in the air to indicate he had something to say, and was going as fast as he could to get to the point of saying it.

"so," he crumpled the paper the sandwich had come in into a ball, and dropped it on to the floor. "d'you often find yourself in trouble like that, nellie velaryon? or was today a one-off?" the question was in earnest, though the half-grin that he shot her made it plain he was not entirely serious about it.

"i’ve got to say," he pressed on, his tone shifting slightly into something more thoughtful. "That shop’s the last sort of place I’d expect to find in lannisport. all that stuff... can’t imagine I’d have stumbled across it on my own." he studied her for a moment, more curious than before. "how’d you manage to find it?"

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

as ben blackwood of raventree hall spoke, naelys was mainly focused on the way her sandwich seemed to threaten to collapse in on itself - she was careful with her sandwich, overly so. she held it with both hands like it might dissolve if she dared bite too hard, as though it would crumble and betray her with the mess she dreaded—so she nibbled instead, mouse-like - a sight that was no doubt odd, but she placed a hand over her mouth when she chewed. despite her efforts, a smear of goat’s cheese lingered on the corner of her mouth, unnoticed. it gleamed faintly in the sun, catching on her skin like an unwelcome spotlight. she did not know it was there.

had she known, she would have made a terrible fuss about it and probably hidden behind her sleeve for the next half hour.

still, she kept nibbling, listening to him, trying to ensure she kept note of everything he said so if he asked a question she knew what to say and would not need to ask him to repeat himself. his words were sparse but not unkind, and for that she was quietly thankful. there had been no war stories, no grand recountings of blood and ash and fire. so many men loved to slip into those tales, as though war was some great competition and each memory was a badge they polished for admiration. but not him. not yet. and gods, she hoped not ever. it wasn’t that she didn’t respect those things—she did, deeply—but there was a sadness in such memories that made her feel like an intruder.

sometimes she wondered if that was why she found war stories so difficult to stomach: she felt too much for people she didn’t know, imagined all the mothers they left behind. war wasn’t glory. it was grief. and then their was her own mother - now was not the time to think on such a topic.

she nodded softly, a little more relaxed now that their names had been exchanged. it always felt like the most awkward hurdle, didn’t it? once names were said aloud, it was as if they’d been granted permission to properly exist in one another’s company. and it was easier now, not easy, but easier. her fingers tightened slightly on the bread between them, and her lips pressed together before she shrugged at his question, that sheepish gesture she used when words failed her. she hated how accurate his question had been—did she get into trouble like that often? yes. the answer was yes. always something. always something about her that people had to be delicate around, as though she were made of spun glass and even speaking too loudly might cause her to crack.

she didn’t want to explain it because it made her sound ridiculous, like a girl still trying to find her footing in a world that had moved on without her.

so instead she offered a small, sheepish embarrassed sound of agreement. it was neither yes nor no, but something in between. something like: i know. and then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and shifted her weight as if to reset the mood. and then he was making strange circular movements with his fingers, and she looked at him as though he had grown another head; a momentarily panic as she looked around her, wondering if he was pointing to something. what did that hand gesture even mean? and then she realised he was simply chewing, and was waiting to swallow his food before talking - she let out a little chuckle.

“...um. i broke one of my sister’s eggs,” she began, her voice quiet but clearer now, not thinking to clarify it were a glass egg, but continuing as though this was the most understandable thing ever. for all ben blackwood knew, it was a real egg. “she collects them. delicate little ones. they’re all blue and silver, and she leaves them by the windows where the sun can get to them.” her brow furrowed faintly as she glanced down at her sandwich. “i knocked one over yesterday. it fell. cracked." her lips curved in a frown, and her eyes flicked up to his briefly, then back down again. “so i thought i’d try to find her something.” she gave a tiny shrug, more to herself than him. “the shop’s tucked down by the fishmonger's. you wouldn’t think there’d be treasures in it, but it’s crammed with them."

"....are you allowed to touch your siblings things?" she did not even think to ask if he had siblings; she only recalled her squabbling with rhaena and how they would make up over the dinner table by silently offering eachother food. she sighed, delicately licking at her thumb before finally noticing the smear of cheese on her fingertip. she stared at it, mortified, and wiped it quickly with her sleeve, pretending like it wasn’t there in the first place. her face flushed faintly as she mumbled to herself, “they should put warning signs up for cheeses. they’re sneakier than people think.” her eyes flicked back to him, uncertain but not quite afraid.

“thank you, again. for helping me out. i’d probably still be down there if you hadn’t.” and though she didn’t say it, not aloud, she thought: you don’t look like a legend. but you do look kind.

[naelysvelaryon]

Have you heard the rumour about the supposed "Glass Velaryon?"

whispers travel faster than ravens, and in the case of lady naelys velaryon, they drift through the taverns of driftmark and the lower alleys of king’s landing like sea-mist curling around gullied stone. the smallfolk say she’s not truly one of them—not quite mortal, not quite sane.

they say she’s a mermaid.

not in jest, not in poetry, but in half-believing, wide-eyed mutterings passed between fishwives and stable boys, cooks and candle-makers. “i heard she sleeps all day,” says one washerwoman to another over a bucket of soapy water. “never opens her shutters ‘til the moon’s up. what sort o’ person lives by night unless they’ve got sea-blood in ’em?”

“or gills,” the other replies grimly, crossing herself.

the stories vary, of course. some say her father the sea snake laid with a selkie on a storm-tossed shore and brought her home. others claim she was born of a pearl, found nestled in the reef below high tide, swaddled in seaweed and crying salt tears. a stableboy swears he once saw her at dusk, barefoot and strange, walking the cliff’s edge with wet hair clinging to her shoulders, humming a song not fit for human throat. he says he couldn’t sleep right for days after.

she doesn’t take suitors, they say. never bathes where anyone can see. and when she disappears for days at a time, they swear she’s slipped back into the sea. a few even claim—stupidly, proudly—that they saw her scales once, shimmering faintly beneath the moonlight at her ankles. but those few are either drunk or trying to impress kitchen girls.

still, the rumour clings. nobles scoff, of course—except for the more ridiculous ones. a certain lady of house crabb reportedly ordered a septon to sprinkle holy water on naelys’s doorstep within her apartments in kings landing, “just to be sure.” another loutish young knight declared loudly at a feast that he’d marry her and keep her in a golden tub, “like a prized fish.”

but naelys? naelys says nothing; for naelys has not yet realised or heard of these comments, and her family continue to shield and protect her from the rumours. sensitive, soft, too fragile - and so the tale grows, as tales always do.

[sophsun1]

New Girl – 2.18: TinFinity

[rebeccasundstrom]

via instagram

[sercatohill]

| for @naelysvelaryon | what: cato is in the crownlands guarding the prince when he sees naelys. | when: during this gap of the regions not being in the same place.

Cato moved quietly through the palace grounds, the hush of evening settling like a soft cloak around the manicured lawns and gently cascading fountains. Lantern light flickered against the stone pathways, illuminating the crimson and gold of his fitted tunic—colors of the Westerlands, worn in deference to his temporary post of guarding Prince Arron Lannister. Despite the official nature of his presence here, his thoughts wandered with a touch of private amusement; the night was far too beautiful to be spent on strict vigilance alone.

His gaze drifted until it landed on a figure standing near a low stone wall. Dark hair framed a face lit by the subtle glow of torches, and pale eyes met his own with a quiet curiosity. Something about her bearing—graceful yet slightly distant—stirred his attention more than any polished court intrigue could.

He slipped closer, the measured steps of a man accustomed to both stealth and confidence. With a light vault, he came to rest against the wall, a polite distance kept between them. A hint of a smile curved his lips, betraying the ease with which he handled himself around women.

“My lady,” he said softly, his tone smooth but tinged with earnest concern, “no one should wander such vast grounds alone. May I walk you somewhere?”

Even as he spoke, thoughts of past encounters drifted through his mind—a reminder of the weakness he often indulged. In that moment, the promise of a new intrigue felt more compelling than any duty-bound patrol.

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

"no, i am quite well th-" nervous amethyst orbs glanced up and down at the emerging figure and the bracelet caught in a thread of her silken gown, desperately trying not to tear it. only when she looked up again, it happened seamlessly - the world narrowed to a single point.

it was not the soft hush of evening, nor the distant laughter of courtiers that reached her ears. it was not the flickering lanterns that bathed the world in shifting light, nor the gentle murmur of fountains that whispered against the cool stone. all of it faded, dimmed to a hollow silence, as though some great hand had reached down and smothered the night in thick velvet which had gone on to wrap itself around her throat. wrap around her throat, and shake her. she saw him - she saw only him. her breath did not catch in her throat—it did not exist at all.

for a moment, for an eternity, she was nothing but an empty vessel, bereft of air, bereft of sense.

her fingers, delicate and trembling, curled against the fabric of her sleeve as if she might anchor herself to something real. but what was real? what could be real, when the dead stood before her, whole and breathing? her lips parted, but no sound escaped. his face—luco’s face—was lit by the torches, and gods, it was not merely a resemblance. it was the same face she had traced in the dim candlelight of a braavosi chamber, the same sharp cut of cheekbone, the same slant of a mouth that had once murmured words of devotion against her skin, had once sworn that he would never leave her. the same voice, smooth and edged with some quiet mischief, that had promised her forever.

forever had ended in blood. would her blood have eventually been the end of forever, regardless of what fates the gods had decided?

her stomach twisted. it was a cruel, impossible trick. she had buried him—no, she had not buried him, for there had been no grave, no body to mourn. only whispers in the dark, only the cold realisation that he was gone. and yet—was he ever gone at all? was he here? truly? or had she been deceived from the start?

and then the world lurched.

she had been standing, she was sure of it—only a moment ago, she had been whole, steady, thinking of nothing more than the cool air against her skin, the quiet hum of the night. but now—now there was nothing steady at all. her heart pounded, a beating, fateful drum against her ribs. her legs trembled beneath her, weak and traitorous. the night tilted, the torches blurred, the very ground seemed to slip away— her lips moved, forming something soundless, something broken, but the darkness surged before she could speak.

she did not feel herself fall.

nor did she register how long the world went black as her head thundered into contact with the ground beneath their feet.

[benblvckwood]

ben grunted a no to her question, despite the smarting in his ribs. he'd taken worse tumbles than this and come through unscathed ; it did not seem worth comment or fuss to bring up. he was too busy assessing the crumpled state of the shopkeeper to truly register her words at first, but something in her tone had him glancing up, brows furrowed in confusion as to what could possibly be worse than kidnap and ransom.

and then it hit him.

a dawning look of horror grew on ben's face as he caught hold of what it was she was referring to, speaking of so casually as though the worry was second nature. for all his experience on the battlefield, for all the horror he had witnessed, ben had spent precious few moments in his life in the company of women. there were things he would never have to fear the way she did. he had always thought of violence in terms of war, of blades and blows clashing and blood spilling under tattered banners. she spoke of quieter cruelties, and it were enough to bring a flush of red creeping up his neck at the fact it had not occurred to him what could happen behind locked doors in shadowed corners.

"...right," he said, at last, voice a bit quieter than before. "yeah. sorry."

and then she was laughing, and ben couldn't say he wasn't grateful for the distraction from the topic at hand. the corner of his mouth lifted in a grin, and he didn't bother to hide his scoff as the shopkeeper continued to bemoan the loss of his lunch. ben had seen men spill their guts with less fuss than was being made over a bit of bread. he said nothing of it though, his jaw clenching with the effort of hauling him up the stairs while naelys darted around, her attempts more frantic than useful, but ben said little of that, either.

you've done this before, she said, and for a brief flash of a second, ben wasn't on the stairs of a dusty westerlands shop with an elderly shopkeeper leaning on him, but back in the riverlands, mud sucking at his boots, wet with rain and blood. an open gash on his forehead, a dead body slung on his back. it was only for a moment, and then he was back, nodding his head and giving her a noncommittal grunt of a response. the tension in his arms, the ache in his back, it was all too familiar. only this time, the man clinging to him wasn't an inch from death.

by the time the shopkeeper was deposited back into his stall, ben was more than happy to take his leave from the whole situation. "you're all right, man." he clapped the shopkeeper awkwardly on the shoulder, barking orders across the street to other vendors to find someone who would know what to do with him. he didn't bother waiting for a response.

he'd already turned to leave when naelys returned, and he realised he hadn't noticed she'd darted off. he blinked as she pressed a sandwich into his hand. it was a small gesture, but he found it endearing all the same. it warmed his hands, and thought it might have seemed silly, he could not help but feel gratitude for it. perhaps that was why, instead of returning to his business, he fell into step beside her, walking away from the chaos of what had occurred side by side.

he took a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. "not bad," he said, more to add something to the conversation than anything else. it was a fair trade, all things considered, but he shook his head anyway. "you don't need to thank me. anyone would have done the same." he truly believed that. in ben's world, that was what men did - came to the aid of those who needed it. it was the dogma he had lived by since he was ten years old, the thing he clung to in order to make sense of it all.

it was a very good sandwich, he decided, taking another bite.

"anyway, wasn't much of a rescue, was it? went crashing down those stairs like a bag of flour," he barked a laugh, loud, even amongst the bustle of the street. he glanced sideways at her. she still seemed on edge, nervous. perhaps it was the events of the day, or perhaps it was ben's presence itself. he didn't know.

"ben," he said, finally. then, realising he'd given little indication as to what he was talking about, he gestured to himself with his free hand. "ben blackwood. that's... well, that's my name."

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

naelys seemed to peer over at him with cautious eyes through her dark fringe, trying to keep her thoughts from running too wild as she considered what had transpired. there was no need to think about everything over and over again; some things did not need thinking about, some things simply needed forgetting. she could not help but briefly grimace upon noticing his shoulders were broad and tensed, with his back slightly hunched under the weight of the shopkeeper - was he truly in no pain at all? had she somehow resulted in the man doing serious damage to his spine?

and yet, it wasn’t just his physical effort that had her momentarily distracted—it was the way his face had shifted when he understood what she had meant. what she had not realised she had said, until she saw his expression morph - obvious enough even for naelys to notice. "oh...whatever are you apologising for? you don't need to apologise to me." she quickly uttered, fiddling with the buttons on her cloak as she took another bite, swiftly removing a crumb from the corners of her mouth.

it was subtle, but in the brief flicker of his expression, she realised something she hadn’t yet fully grasped until just moments ago: and they both knew what the topic briefly danced along the line of. there was a moment of silence between them, filled only with the sounds of the marketplace—carriages rumbling, distant voices shouting, the rhythmic clink of metal against stone—but to her, it felt too heavy, too awkward, with no fault of his own. only hers, naturally. naelys didn’t know how to respond, so she just nodded, turning her gaze away from him, the brief spark of discomfort making her fingers tremble as she adjusted the hem of her skirts.

what had she said? had she overstepped, shared too much of her own hidden worries? she had not meant to lay such things bare in front of him, a stranger—well, almost a stranger. it had probably made him uncomfortable, to be subjected to the grim and dark nature of how her thoughts could wonder. she had wanted to laugh off the moment and dismiss it entirely, but the soft, unspoken understanding in his eyes had stopped her. she walked beside him, conscious to keep up with his steps whilst her steps remained light, though her grip on the sandwich in her hands was anything but. it was a very good sandwich indeed.

the marketplace stretched ahead, golden in the late afternoon sun, but she was only half-aware of it. the smell of roasted almonds, the distant chatter of merchants, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer—none of it seemed as important now. because she had finally placed him. bloody ben. it sat unspoken on her tongue, like a secret she wasn’t meant to have. she glanced at him from the corner of her eye, taking in the cut of his features, the shadow along his jaw. he didn’t look like a legend. no, he looked tired. not in the way a man is tired after a long day, but in the way a man is tired after too many years of never knowing when the next battle will come.

"you’re ben blackwood." she repeated, the words slipping out before she could stop them, her hands remaining crossed over her torso as his own indicated toward his own chest as though he needed to indicate to himself. "...as in, the ben blackwood?" she quietly asked, still glancing at him from behind her fringe as her tone turned more inquisitive - she did not know of another ben blackwood, nor had she heard of one. but it was quite the name in these years. still, she wanted some sort of confirmation.

bloody ben, the child soldier - the one who led the riverlands when the blacks turned their backs on them. the one who told the queen herself what she didn’t want to hear. she thought he would have been taller; much taller. she had always wanted to know what he word he had sent forward to queen rhaenyra when they were being burned by the greens; she knew better than to ask.

what was graceful to do in such situations? what did maidens do when they had been rescued? was she supposed to invite him for dinner for her family to thank him? she felt it would be rude to offer him payment; he did not seem as though he needed her alms. she hesitated then, visibly realising belatedly she had not introduced herself, though the thought seemed laughable now, after all that had already been said. she had repeated his name, without even offering him her own.

“nellie,” she said instead, her hand gesturing to herself mirroring his own gesture to himself. “nellie velaryon.” her gaze flicked to him, gauging his reaction. “you wouldn’t know me, but you might know my brothers. deimos and aemon, depending on which battles you served in.” she did not say which sides he had fought them on. she did not need to. still, she sounded almost reassuring and rushed to ensure he did not need to know of her - glass was glass, at the end of the day.

[stydixa]

Since I’ve been here, I’ve learned many wonderful things. Most importantly, I’ve learned about friendship and loyalty and trust. And that those are not things that are just given, but things we must earn. So I want to thank Carter Mason for teaching me these things. And for being my friend. Princess Protection Program (2009) Dir. Allison Liddi-Brown

[naelysvelaryon]

@rhaena--velaryon

[rhaena--velaryon]

rhaena stopped herself from huffing quietly as she listened, the mere forced exhalation through her nose would be enough to set her sister into more of a spiral, which would merely exasperate the elder velaryon further. it was a feedback loop she'd fallen into plenty of times before, as she was not always as patient in her youth as she was now. a joy of having a dragon was that she could fly off before she said something she'd regret in teenaged fury, or get on moondancer's back and go somewhere -anywhere- that had people she didn't have to tenderfoot around. but now that luxury, underappreciated at the time, was gone and so she had to stand there like stone, allow naelys to spin herself up and hope she would say something that would get her sister to calm down.

but she was still angry about the unsolicited touching of her things. how many times had she instructed naelys to not touch her possessions? even their nephew and nieces were better behaved than this. she was more than aware that her treasures were eye catching and desirable, but even the small children understood they had to ask, that there was a special way that rhaena wanted them to handle the delicate breakable items. did she have to instruct naelys to do the same? that she needed to ask, to sit in a chair, to have rhaena hover over her constantly and half hold the item to ensure it would not be broken? all the thoughts crossed her mind, running across the icy stone she turned to in order to keep from allowing something unintentionally venomous past her lips.

and then she brought up moondancer.

her tenderest spot, the ache that surpassed losing their parents and brother, the pain she could only voice to the last few dragonriders and be understood, and it was deeper than that. she raised moondancer; let her perch on her tiny shoulders until she was too big for it, teaching her the words for fire, for flight, and sadly for war as she grew. moondancer was her child, her second half, the hole in her that would never fill again and would be her own secret sorrow. the two times moondancer had been stolen from her, as an egg and by death, she had screamed bloody hell, her face red and tears down her eyes, like someone had beaten her and ripped her very soul from her. the mention of her cracked her shiny stone surface.

"naelys, i don't come into your room and touch your things without permission, do i?" the tone was even, but the broiling heat in her belly made rhaena clench her fists, and it was good it was not naelys' wrists in her hands but the makeshift pouch of glass which cracked and crushed further, punctuating her words with an underlying anger that threatened. the question did not need to be answered, for they both knew that rhaena respected her sister's things. they had no need to take from each other, not in her mind, but yet here her sister was, kneeling amongst broken glass. "come now, you are a woman grown, i shouldn't have to talk to you like you're six." the elder lady stood and deposited the glass dust and ruined fabric into a waste basket, forcing herself to unclench her jaw, her hands, to loosen all the tension in her shoulders and neck. just breathing, no matter how hot her breath felt as in came in her nose and out her mouth. "you know better than to do what you did." it was not just about the egg, it was bringing up moondancer, it was making excuse after excuse, it was being in this room with all these temptations that she knew she couldn't have. if naelys wanted her own things, their family had more than enough money to get them, and her name ensured she'd get a nice husband who could pay for more. if they could find a husband for her.

rhaena looked back at her sister, kneeling there on the floor, looking as small and childish as she could, and she knew naelys didn't have a single iota of manipulation in her. she looked sad and nervous because she was, and rhaena hated the mix of pity and sympathy in her belly as she watched her for a moment. she hated that she made her own little sister feel this way. "i am angry, yes, but i am more concerned that you didn't get hurt, nellie. that's the nature of glass, eventually it would break, and so will the others. whose hands will do it is the only unknown." she moved and took one of nellie's hands in hers, gently urging her to her feet. "now stop worrying before you start crying over inevitability."

[naelysvelaryon]

¿

naelys wished she could swallow down the heat burning beneath her skin, but it sat there, stubborn and stinging, curling in her stomach like something bitter. "you could come into my room and touch anything. they are things." she could feel rhaena’s irritation, the way it pressed in the space between them, thick as a storm about to break. she did not mean to sound argumentative or combative, and yet, here they were. the silence that followed was not comforting, nor was it gentle—it was taut, strained, the kind that made naelys feel small no matter how straight she sat, how much she tried to keep her chin up. she was tired of this. tired of feeling like no matter what she did, she always managed to be the foolish little sister, the one who ruined things, the one who was careless, reckless, thoughtless.

naelys merely looked at her as she talked. angry, yes. more concerned? she was not more concerned than angry, it was clear by the signs on her face and the way she was irritated with her. angry with her. it was okay to just be honest - there was no need to lie.

rhaena was careful, measured in every way—she knew the worth of things, held them close, treasured them in a way that naelys simply could not. and she knew she had made a mistake, a foolish mistake, but why? why did it matter so much? it was all naelys could think about as she looked down at her hands being cleaned, listening to the stern voice of rhaena as it blended and morphed the way it always did; trying to be measured, whilst making it clear a line had been crossed. she wished to murmur how an attachment to material things would do nothing to make them feel better, and how even glass that was gifted was simply just glass in the end, but she knew better.

knew that the moment the words left her mouth, she would see the flicker in rhaena’s eyes—an almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers curled at her sides. naelys knew she'd have said the wrong thing. but she didn’t understand why. her hands curled into her lap, fingers pressing into the small cuts left by the broken shards, but she barely felt them. her heart still raced, her breath uneven, as though her own body was trying to punish her for something she hadn’t even meant to do. “...you’re acting like i did it on purpose.” she tried to keep her voice steady, but there was something fragile in it, something breaking apart at the edges.

“i know it was important to you, i do—but it was an accident, rhaena. and you—” she faltered, staring at her sister as though searching for some answer she couldn’t find. and she didn't find it; not in the moment nor the days that came after.

naelys did not understand why rhaena was looking at her like that. as though she had done something irredeemable, something wicked. as though a shattered ornament was an offence that warranted this cold, leaden silence stretching between them, this weight that pressed against naelys’ chest, making it harder to breathe. her fingers twitched where they lay in her lap, raw from the tiny cuts, little beads of red welling up, but she did not brush them away. she lifted her chin, just a fraction, though it did little to steady the unsteadiness inside her. “i just don't think i fully understand,” she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them. she wasn’t even sure if she meant to say them aloud. but it was true. she didn’t understand. how could rhaena care so much about something that was not alive? something that could not love her back?

naelys had seen the way rhaena looked at her dragon, the way she spoke to her, as though moondancer were not just an animal, not even just a companion, but something more. something deeper. at least the dragon was alive. what was this? and naelys, her own blood, her own sister, could never seem to earn that same kind of devotion. her throat tightened, and she pressed her lips together, suddenly aware of how hot her face felt, how her hands trembled where they rested in her lap. she shouldn’t be crying. there was nothing to cry over. it was just an argument, just one of many, just another moment where she and rhaena could not seem to meet in the middle.

but it wasn’t just that, was it? naelys had never told her. had never told anyone. she had come back from braavos with a weight in her chest so heavy she thought she might drown in it, but she had not let it show. she had stepped off the ship and smiled, and let the world believe she was the same naelys she had always been. because how could she explain it? how could she explain that she had loved someone without knowing their name? that she had lost them without even knowing who they truly were? the confusion was making naelys far more sensitive; overly sensitive, and exhausting. how could she tell rhaena, who treasured the past so fiercely, who clung to what she knew, that naelys had given her heart to a ghost?

so instead, she wiped at her face, furiously, forcing a smile that did not fit right on her lips. “it doesn’t matter,” she said, and she hated how brittle her voice sounded. “it was a mistake.” a mistake. that was all. nothing more. but inside, something still churned, something restless and aching. was she a bad sister? was she thoughtless, selfish, incapable of being careful with the things that mattered? or was it rhaena? rhaena, who could love a dragon and a glass egg more easily than she could love her? she did not say it. instead, she exhaled slowly, her fingers pressing into the cuts in her palms, grounding herself in the sting. "i know. i will not touch your things again." and she didn't mean for it to sound like defeat, yet it came so naturally to her tongue. it was not an apology. it was just a truth. she stood there for a moment longer, using the back of her sleeve to wipe away at the stains on her cheeks one final time as she sniffed.

she felt a growing emptiness in her stomach, feeling it shift in hunger as she stood there in silence, almost as if she was waiting for something else to be said. "i will go to the feast hall early...get a good seat." she half murmured, as she turned on her heel and made her way through her sister's door, into her quarters of driftmark.