Chapter Text
Jacaerys can't say when he fell asleep, but he knows he slept some when he saw the early morning light filtered through the narrow window, casting a faint glow on the stone walls.
But it wasn't the light that shook him awake, but the murmurs from the wall.
So it was not a dream, it really happened— he thinks.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stood up, sticking to the wall just like he did yesterday, but no moans or humps came through this time, just words. His brows furrowed, straining to make sense of the muffled voices and hurried footsteps echoing in the corridor.
Through the thick stone wall, he could hear the same voice that spoke to him yesterday, the one that called for him. The deep, rumbling voice of Cregan Stark,
“I will not stand through this Cerwyn, it is simply unacceptable!” Lord Stark was saying gravelly.
“My lord, I apologise,” came the reply from the other man, Cerwyn, his tone placating. “We’re doing everything we can to find out who the intruder was.”
Jacaerys shivered from his spot.
“It is not just that,” the Warden continued, his voice dropping lower. “It was just not an intruder, it was the scent, their scent Cerwyn— I can't even begin to describe it. It was the most enticing I have ever smelt in my life. It was an omega, I'm sure. They came to my door, and then—vanished!” He screamed, truly angered. “The only thing I could see was a red cape fluttering down the hallway.”
Red cape.
Jacaerys looked at his own cape, draped over the chair. His crimson cape.
“We need to find out who it was and why they were here. And where they are now.”
He gulped.
“Do you think this person will be… indiscreet about this?” Cerwyn asked cautiously.
“I don’t know,” Lord Stark replied, his frustration evident. “But we can’t take any chances. Increase the patrols and keep a close eye on anyone or anything which seems out of place.”
Jacaerys felt a shiver run down his spine. He remembered the strange encounter from the night before, the voice calling to him, the fear that had gripped him. Could it be connected to this omega that Lord Stark was talking about? Maybe an omega had roamed the halls just before he came in, and he was simply unlucky to be the person the Warden had caught a flash of. He shivered at the thought of the Lord believing he was truly the bearer of the scent he liked so much.
“And what of the prince, my lord?”
“The prince?”
His interest was piqued once more as he pressed his ear closer to the door, desperate to hear more.
“Yes— what if he—”
“I'll deal with him later, I know exactly what he came here for”
Jacaerys heart pounded hard in his throat.
“All southerners are the same, with their wars and endless disputes over senseless subjects. Targaryens are only ten times worse with the threat of their dragons and their pretty words" he dismissed "That will certainly be no different with the Southron prince. I'll take care of him myself ”
“Yes, my lord,” Cerwyn said, and Jacaerys could hear the sound of footsteps retreating.
Jacaerys blinked out the words, all tiredness gone from him. Quickly, He stuffed his red cape on the bottom of the trunk.
Just a Southron prince, eh?
He eats some of the leftovers of his last day's meal and thinks of leaving his room. He enjoys the silence that accompanies him until a maid appears.
“G-good morrow my prince,” she says nervously, carrying a large bowl of fresh water and a hearty meal to break his fast. “Lord Stark entrusted me to tend to your needs, anything you want you ought to let me know.”
“Good morrow, ehm… would you tell me your name?” He asked drowsily, his voice coming out gruff and raspy. It was custom to know the servitude's names in Dragonstone. Jacaerys was surprised a young woman was tasked to him but paid it no mind.
“Oh, it's Daira, my prince” she blushed, Jacaerys believed she was a young omega. There was a tingly, sweet scent in the air, not strong enough for him to tell.
“I'd like a bath drawn, I probably stink of dragon” he chuckled. “And let Lord Stark know the—” southron prince “ Prince of Dragonstone, would like a meeting with him. At the soonest time possible”
The girl nodded furiously, “Yes! Right away, my prince”
“Thank you, Daira”
A bath was drawn for him. He noted how the woman brought soaps and oils with her, a treat meant to please him surely. Daira informed him a banquet would be hosted in his honour at nighttime, which was already a good sign. He was not sure how well received he would be in the North, knowing how dreadful preparations for the trifling weather were here.
“Oh and there is one more thing, my prince,” she said ”Lord Stark agreed to meet you. Before dinner, under the weirwood”
“The weirwood?” Jacaerys said, estranged. He remembered such a tree in King's Landing, a remnant of the old gods amid the faith of the seven.
“Yes, my prince. He oft goes there for prayers, I'm sure you'll find some solace there as well”
Jacaerys wasn't sure he had ever prayed by himself in his entire life. But he nodded anyway. Maybe it was the faith of the seven he found disinterest in, all felt too Hightower for his liking.
He sank into the brass tub, the water steaming and boiled. It was a pleasure to Jacaerys, after days on dragonback he couldn't wait to get rid of the dirt and grime clinging to his body
As he washed, he thought of what had happened the night before, what such madness ran in this castle? How could the warden of the north indulge in such debauchery? His thoughts turned to the lowly lords and servants of Winterfell. Surely, they must have known. How could they not? Perhaps they were all sworn to secrecy, bound by some unspoken oath to keep this dark pleasure hidden beneath the cold stones of the castle. But secrets like these were slippery, and it was only a matter of time before a careless word slipped from the lips of some young, naïve boy who didn’t yet grasp the gravity of what he’d seen.
What a scandal it would be—he thought—Lord Cregan Stark has a harem, where he fucks men and woman alike.
But then, another memory surfaced, unbidden, from the depths of his mind—the sight of Cregan’s form, the way his muscles rippled with every movement, the scent of sweat and cedarwood, the sounds of pleasure that had filled the air. Jacaerys felt a flush of heat rising to his cheeks, his body taunted him as he recalled the scene. He could still remember the pull of it, how his heart raced, but not just from the scandalous nature of what he had seen. His breath hitched as he imagined what it would have been like to step into the room. The thought of Cregan turning his gaze on him, of being pulled into that debacle of lust and power, made his pulse quicken.
Jacaerys giggled in his innocence, then stopped himself with a hand on his mouth, lest anyone hear. He found himself worried about not being as tested as Lord Stark on the subject of sex. He knew his fair share of things no doubt, but he also knew how older men could shame him for not having committed the act himself. Men like Aegon were like that, lascivious and drunken, but so were men like Daemon, rugged and brutish, experienced but still childish in their words.
He thought he was too young still, but that just left him more at a disadvantage, untested in war, untested in bed, what respect could he demand then?
He resolved he would have to show face to win Cregan Stark's support, he would need to be wise. He could not hide his age, his green, but he could compensate with all else. His knowledge, his diplomacy, and his looks as well.
He smiled despite himself and washed himself thoroughly— He would need to appear a proper Southron prince for the eyes of the unvirtuous Lord Stark
And if all else failed, how many of the Northmen could say they would dare tame a dragon?
――――――――――
Jacaerys found the weirwood tree without much trouble. He had spotted it upon his landing at Winterfell's gates but hadn’t had the chance to admire it properly until now.
The tree was ancient, its white bark standing in stark contrast to the crimson leaves that whispered in the cold northern breeze. The face carved into its trunk seemed to watch over the godswood with a solemn, knowing expression, its deep red eyes bleeding sap-like tears. Jacaerys shivered at the eerie image; he had never imagined religious symbols could be so unsettling.
As he stepped closer, he noticed a figure kneeling at the base of the tree. There was Lord Cregan Stark, with his head bowed. Seemingly in deep prayer, he seemed much like the image of a saint rather than the concupiscent devil from last night. The sight of the imposing Lord, so strong and provocative yesterday, in such a humble and vulnerable position, struck Jacaerys. He hesitated, unsure whether to interrupt or not. The moment felt private, sacred even.
As he stood there, Cregan Stark’s voice broke the silence. "Not going to introduce yourself, Prince Jacaerys?" he asked without turning around, his tone a mix of amusement and authority.
Jacaerys flustered, caught off guard. He stepped forward, clearing his throat. "My lord, I didn’t want to disturb you. I am—"
“There is no need for that” he cut off abruptly “You are Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and I am Lord Cregan Stark” He muttered, tired of formalities already. He rose from his kneeling position, not bothering to brush off the cold dirt from his knees.
He turned to face Jacaerys, looking him up and down as if it were customary. However, there was something calculating in his gaze. Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably, tugging his fur cloak closer. He would forlorn his red cloak for the time being.
Jacaerys eyed the imposing lord too; auburn hair, sharp features, burly frame, a few inches taller than him. All consistent with how he looked yesterday, just naked. A smile grew unbidden in Jacaerys’ mouth.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the Warden of the North’s lips as well, for whatever reason. "And it is no disturbance at all. The Old Gods are always listening, whether we speak or not, my prince" He gestured to the spot beside him. "Care to join me?"
Jacaerys hesitated. "I… I’m not particularly religious," he admitted, feeling a bit out of place.
Cregan remained stoic, his gaze steady. "It’s not about religion, not in the way you might believe. It’s about connection. To the land, to those who came before, and to something beyond ourselves."
Jacaerys thought Lord Stark sounded like an old man, an old septa trying to coerce him into finishing his studies and then he would be free to play swords with his brothers. But when he looked at the weirwood, at the way it stood so tall and ancient, he could not deny its strange allure. So he nodded slowly and moved closer, kneeling alongside Cregan Stark.
The cold earth bit through his trousers, but he tried to focus, to open himself to whatever it was that Lord Stark was talking about. He closed his eyes, breathed in the sharp, clean air, and let the silence of the godswood envelop him.
But as he knelt there, his thoughts began to race; His mother’s war, the mission he was sent here to complete, the respect he needed to earn from the North. It all felt like a mountain on his shoulders, and he had no one but his young dragon to help him carry it.
The more he thought about it, the more his nerves threatened to get the better of him. He needed to calm down, to steady himself if he had any hope of succeeding here. You can do this, he told himself. You are Jacaerys Velaryon, the blood of the dragon, the rightful heir. You’re not here for yourself; you’re here for your family, for your people. You can’t afford to fail.
He took another deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs, and slowly let it out. Stay calm, stay focused. You’ve got this, Jacaerys. You’ve got this.
He slowly opened his eyes again, staring at the hardwood. He shuddered in relief.
His relief was short-lived. When Jacaerys looked up, Cregan Stark was already looking at him. Hard.
“Is this so bad, then my prince?” Lord Stark asked, ignorant of his inner turmoil.
“...I guess not,” Jacaerys responded, ashamed and unused.
He let out another breath, now feeling more awkward than ever. "I… I saw you yesterday," he blurted out, trying to change the subject desperately.
Lord Stark’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What?"
Oh shit. Oh, shit!
"I mean—I mean, I didn’t see you yesterday. When I arrived, my lord." Jacaerys corrected quickly, his face flushing in terror at his slip-up. ”At the entrance. When I came in. With my dragon.”
The Wolf’s gaze remained sharp, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes, but he quickly masked it with a slight nod. "Ah— apologies, my prince. I had some matters to attend to, I hope your welcome was pleasant enough in my absence.”
Jacaerys bit back a bark of laughter. He was somewhat glad Cregan Stark had not tried to make a flashy excuse for his absence. “It was, I thank you,” he said humbly, though he should have sounded sarcastic. it had been rather lacklustre, especially with the spectacle the Stark had been mounting next door.
He looked back down to hide his smile.
After a few moments, Lord Stark spoke again, this time his tone was more guarded. "Strange that you came here alone. One would think vassals and announcers would trail behind a prince’s cape."
Jacaerys opened his eyes, glancing at the Lord. "Another prince might. But us Targaryens only need our dragons as company, and protection as well."
The Warden nodded slightly, but there was something else in his eyes, something wary. "Last night," he began, his voice low, "did you wander the halls at all? I heard you arrived quite late."
Jacaerys blinked, immediately knowing where the question was aimed. "No," he replied quickly, perhaps too quickly. "I… I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed."
Lord Stark studied him for a moment before leaning in closer. "Let me do something, Prince. An old custom, if you'll allow me" he gestured to his neck.
Jacaerys understood immediately but frowned in confusion. "A scent test?"
It was something the alpha lords and castellans used to do when a stranger visited their domain. As to ensure the guest did not carry any ill intentions. An ancient practice, almost forgotten." 'Tis only a formality, my prince. I would not wish to offend you.” Lord Stark’s tone was almost apologetic, but a little too keen.
Jacaerys nodded anyway, though he couldn’t help the nervousness creeping into his chest. He knew of such things—his mother had never considered doing the scent test herself, believing the ordeal too pagan, and saying she already commanded enough respect without it. But Jacaerys had seen Daemon perform it more than once, intimidating behind closed doors. whether it was with or without Rhaenyra’s knowledge, he did not know.
Lord Stark leaned in, inhaling deeply near Jacaerys’ neck. The act felt intimate, almost invasive, but Jacaerys held still, his heart pounding in his chest. A long moment passed, too long. Jacaerys cleared his throat to get the alpha’s attention away from his neck.
At the sound, the Lord pulled back, his expression unreadable. "You don’t have a scent," he said, his voice almost accusatory, though there was a hint of something else, something softer. It sounded like disappointment.
Jacaerys shrugged his shoulders, “I'm a beta, my lord.” he said simply.
“I see,” the Lord nodded but looked to the floor, lost in thought.
Jacaerys seized the opportunity to speak his part. “I assume you know why I am here, my lord. I would not pretend to fool you, you've surely heard of what's happening down South.”
Lord Stark seemed glad at his plainness “I do and I'm afraid I would be of little help to you and the queen”
“Why do you say so?” he asked cheekily, “I began to think we could be close allies if not friends.”
This was true, despite the scandal Jacaerys witnessed the day before, he could not deny the pull he felt in Lord Stark's presence. Be it for curiosity or an attraction to his person, Jacaerys would find out if the other felt the same.
“That, you might be right in” he answered with a smile, Jacaerys saw it as a small victory.
As they rose from their kneeling positions, Cregan Stark glanced at Jacaerys with a curious look. “You must know I support your mother's claim fully, the rightful heir of King Viserys Targaryen. But your presence and purpose are not lost to us northerners. Matters of the South always drag us from our duties, and winter is coming, my prince.”
<<' Winter is Coming,' they often say. It is both a warning and a promise to them.>>
"But you’ll throw a feast for me?" Jacaerys asked, trying to understand his reluctance.
"A feast I will hold in your honour," Lord Stark replied, his tone cool and measured, "But that does not mean I will have the entirety of my men be at your service or your war." Seeing Jacaerys about to protest, the Warden raised a hand to stop him. "Not because I am not loyal to your cause, or the Black Queen, but because preparations for the season are already upon us. I need my men here, Prince Jacaerys. For after the winter, perhaps an arrangement could be made."
After winter might be too late—Jacaerys shifted uncomfortably, realising the challenge before he was greater than he had imagined.
"Then my only option will be to convince you, my lord."
The lord looked at him slowly, his eyes visibly thawing as they roamed his boyish face.
"You will try," Lord Stark said, a small smile playing on his lips.
As they walked back toward the castle, with a newfound sense of camaraderie between them, the man turned to him. "The North is different from the South, Prince Jacaerys. It tests you in ways you might not expect."
Jacaerys looked at him, curious at the words. "And what if I pass those tests, my lord?"
Lord Stark glanced at him, something unreadable in his gaze. "Then you’ll have earned a respect few hold."
Jacaerys nodded, sensing the weight of the words, but before he could respond, Lord Stark added with a teasing note, "Though, you might want to practise your introductions. We’re not so easily impressed up here, my prince."
Jacaerys smiled, recognizing the challenge in the lord’s tone. "I’ll keep that in mind, Lord Stark."
――――――――――
During the feast, the hall was alive with laughter, clinking goblets, and the hum of conversation. But when Jace was asked to sing a southern song, well into the night when guests had already intaken maybe too much ale, the room fell silent. Jacaerys refused but was convinced by friendly slaps and clamours, and so his voice rang true. His voice, clear and melodic, filled the space, weaving a hauntingly beautiful tune that spoke of an ancient tale of the sea his father would sing. The guests were captivated, their attention held by every note. Even Lord Stark could not tear his eyes away from him it seemed.
As his song came to an end, the hall erupted in cheers and applause, but not everyone was impressed. Ser Torlas Manderly, a close family of Lord Desmond Manderly, with whom Jacaerys had treated back at White Harbor, seemed adamant about engaging in conversation with him. Known for his gruff demeanour and deep ties to the sea, he narrowed his eyes as he leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. Just as Lord Stark had said, he was not so easily won over by a pretty song.
When the cheers died down, Ser Manderly leaned forward, his voice booming across the hall. "A fine voice, Prince Jacaerys, but can you tell me of the seas you sing about? Do you know their depths, their dangers? The sea is not just a place for tales and songs…"
The room grew tense, Jacaerys met Lord Manderly’s gaze uptight. He knew this was more than just a test of knowledge; it was a test of respect.
He tried to handle it with as much grace as he could muster “ The seas of Driftmark are calm, but overly saline. The tide oft brings driftwood and algae to its shores, staining the white sands” He said carefully “But I'm afraid I could not be of much use to learn of its mysteries, or its sailing, good ser. It was my younger brother Lucerys who took to the craft more carefully, as he is to be the Heir of the Driftmark seat. I could not offer much but simple melodies and few journeys around the coast.”
"Well, then I suppose you could answer me this; How would you chart a course from White Harbor to Dragonstone, avoiding the treacherous reefs and shoals? Do you know how to read the stars, or does a dragon’s wings make such knowledge unnecessary?"
Jacaerys laughed, trying to ease himself, and the tension, “I would not know of the safest pathway, but yes of the direction. You see, my eyesight is not the finest, which is why I would prefer a journey closer to the stars on my dragon. You know, so I could see them better,” he jested.
A few men snickered, but the old man simply grunted "Can you predict a storm by the shape of the clouds or the smell of the air? To return your men to safety?
Jacaerys shifted in his seat. “Well, my grandsire would always say: 'To elude a storm you must either sail into it or away from it, but you must never await its coming'.”
Lord Manderly seemed to like that response, muttering on the low 'wise man, wise man that is'. But he wasn't quite ready to let Jacaerys go, to his dismay.
"Tell me then, Prince, what makes a ship seaworthy? What wood is best for the hull, and what would it need to withstand the fury of a storm?"
“I would— I would not know,” He said guilelessly.
The man huffed a laugh, “Come on boy, try!” Ser Manderly etched closer “Or one might wonder if you truly are a Velaryon,” He rasped in his ear, no doubt trying to egg him on.
Jacaerys was not proud to say he rose to the bait “You may think as you wish, but then call me for what you are sure I am, a Targaryen” he bellowed “Otherwise you would be blind to the dragon outside the gates, or perhaps you would you deny I came from my own mother’s womb?”
The room went quiet until a loud voice boomed:
“With that tongue, there is certainly no doubt!”
There was laughter around the room, Ser Manderly joined now at his outburst and clapped his back. But Jacaerys' mind was somewhere else entirely,
<< He remembered having a particular attention for the bow and arrow when he was younger, especially after seeing Ser Harwin Strong be surprisingly good at it on a hunting trip. Yes, he liked it so much that he snuck up to the training grounds of Kings Landing one night. He wanted his aim to be as true as his mother’s sworn sword had been.
Jacaerys drew back the bowstring, his focus entirely on the target ahead. Just as he was about to release the arrow, he heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind him. Ser Criston Cole’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“Wasting your time, boy?” Ser Criston sneered, leaning against a post with a disdainful look. Not prince, always boy. “There's never been record of a true warrior who hid behind a bow.”
Jacaerys turned to face him, feeling weird to be alone with a man who had endlessly shown he disliked him. “I'm learning to wield the sword as well, what is wrong with the practice of bow and arrow?” He asked, “Besides, not everyone has to wield a sword to be a real warrior.”
Ser Criston’s lip curled into a mocking smile. “And what would you know of what a real warrior looks like? How many have you seen fighting with a fickle arrow?”
Jacaerys hesitated “...Ser Harwin is good with the bow, I saw him last hunt. He shot a boar, clean in the eye!” he could not contain the excitement of his words.
Cole laughed then, exaggeratedly, he recalled thinking. “Ah yes, you would surely admire the man who you share such a strong resemblance with.”
The young prince shuddered, “And what would you mean with that?” he defied.
“I mean, you say such bold words…for a bastard playing at being a prince.” He pushed off from the post and closed the distance between them. He gripped the bow from his arms and yanked it away, making Jacaerys stumble to the ground.
“I’m not afraid of you, Ser Criston,” he growled, a lie “ And I won’t be scared off by your insignificant words. They mean nothing.”
Cole scowled, angered. He kneeled on the ground and caged Jacaerys in. “Mind your tongue, boy,” he growled, suddenly grabbing Jacaerys by the cheeks, his grip rough and unforgiving. His other hand slid down his body, making the prince’s blood run cold. “You’re lucky you’re not an omega. I would have loved to teach you some real respect. Right here, right now.”
Jacaerys had shuddered then, frightened and disgusted, he scrambled on the floor and kicked at the soldier's groin twice. At Cole's distraction by it, he scrambled at the muddy ground. His fingernails stained as he held the wet soil in his hand. He plastered his hand on Cole's vile mug, the slap echoed soundly in the silent sparring grounds. Cole staggered back, his face smeared with dirt.
“You shall never touch me again—” he shrieked, as he struggled to get up. “I am the son of Rhaenyra Targaryen, heir to the throne. That is all that matters!” He repeated the words he had been told many times by his mother. They sounded hollow coming from his mouth.
As he ran from the training pit, tears burnt his eyes. He found no desire to further train with the bow again. >>
Someone shook him back to reality. It was Lord Stark.
"You alright, my prince?" he asked, his tone awkward.
"Yes... yes, my lord," Jacaerys replied, trying to gather himself as best as he could.
"I apologise for Ser Manderly’s insistence." the Lord stepped closer, his presence commanding yet gentle. "Don’t pay him much mind. The old man is always looking for an excuse to bellow about his adventures at sea." He confided gently, “or make up for his infortunes, lately. Poor old man has been lost at sea for more times than I can count.”
Jacaerys nodded, "Yes, I... I understand." But he felt lost, he was still reeling from the words and the unwanted memory that they resurfaced.
Suddenly, a jolt ran through him as Lord Stark’s hand cupped his face. The warmth seeped through the leather glove, grounding him.
“Prince Jacaerys, remain here. Look at me.”
Jacaerys was caught off guard by the interaction. The image of the lord naked, the memory of the previous night, resurfaced in his mind unbidden, sending a flush of heat through him. The idea just worsened as he suddenly caught a whiff of the same pungent scent from that night.
Of course, it was Lord Stark's scent
He found himself uncomfortable over the newfound realisation, and under Cregan Stark’s sharp, wolfish features. He knew he would feel even worse under the scrutiny of those piercing eyes that urged to see right through him.
“Do not show shame standing in front of my court,” the Lord said, unknowing of the inner battle Jacaerys held to hide his embarrassment. He had seen this man naked and shagging, for the seven’s sake! “Look into my eyes.” Notes of peppermint sang in the air, strangely appeasing to his nerves.
And so Jacaerys relented with a deep sigh, concentrating on his eyes and his eyes only. His gaze locked onto the stormy grey of Cregan Stark’s eyes, swirling like the sea before a tempest. Promising showers and danger in its glint.
What a distinct colour…
"They’re grey," he said lamely, realising too late how foolish it sounded. "Uhm—I’ve never—seen that colour on anyone else before."
Lord Stark looked at him for a long while, Jacaerys wondered if everything he said truly sounded as foolish as to warrant such longing looks.
“Yours are purple,” the Lord returned as if he were equally lost. “A befitting colour—royal, distinguished, pretty… yes,” he decided asudden, his fingers grazing Jacaerys’ jawline, sending a shiver down the prince’s spine. “a pretty colour, for a pretty prince”
Jacaerys burned red to his ears. "I— What?" he began, but words failed him. What could he even say to that?
Lord Stark seemed to realise what he had said, what he was doing. He quickly dropped his hand. Thankfully, no one was looking at them, too lost in laughter and ale. Jacaerys waited for an excuse, an “I'm drunk”, an apology, or even a laugh to break the tension. Instead, all he got was:
"I—I must go."
And with that, Lord Stark turned abruptly, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to reach the large door at the end of the hall.
Time went by after the Warden of the North made himself absent. Jacaerys remained, listening to the men around him. He found a liking to Lord Cerwyn, one of Lord Stark's closest advisors it seemed, the one he had heard chatting with him that morning. He delighted in telling grandiose tales and gossip alike, and he called Jacaerys 'Your Grace' mistakenly. The prince stopped correcting him after the third time.
Jacaerys felt emboldened after drinking, unused as he was “Say, my lord, would you tell me more about Lord Stark? Is he always as stern and cold as he appears?”
Lord Cerwyn leaned in with a conspiratorial smile “Ah, Your Grace, since you’re so interested in tales of the North, I'll confide this in you. Lord Stark might seem a scary lad now, but he was a rebellious little boy, who oft found himself in trouble when I was younger.
Jacaerys' brows raised in surprise “Did he?”
The older Lord smiled as he reminisced “I was but a young knight, but I remember a time there was rumour a direwolf roamed the wolfwood at night. When young Cregan heard of it, he sneaked out and ventured to find it on his own. Our men were alerted of his disappearance and we were sent to search. After hours had passed, we feared the worst, but at dawn, he came back. He was muddied and dirty, I believe he had a gash on his head.” He shuddered “But he was grinning like a mad-man. He said the direwolf had appeared to him, he had felt his soft fur under his hands and the huge wolf had bowed his head to him as a sign of respect. We all thought him delirious from lack of sleep and blood loss, but I doubt he was lying, now. ”
Jacaerys hummed “He must have been a pain. Reminds me of my own brothers”
“Indeed, he was also as stubborn as a mule. Of course, this all changed when he presented as an alpha.” Lord Cerwyn continued “He was not only bound by duty now, but to his nature as well. Alphas like him, set to inherit such a title, can't afford to give in to their desires like others would”
Jacaerys thought about Lord Cerwyn's words— Well he gives into his desires in another way, doesn't he?—he wanted to ask. But he could not give away that he knew of Lord Stark's secret pastimes, he was sure Lord Cerwyn would do anything to cover and protect the young lord and his reputation. Cerwyn spoke before he could think of something better to say:
“And this should interest you, Your Grace.” he beckoned him closer, “It was his uncle too who tried to usurp him. When Lord Stark came of age, ready to take the mantle after his father's passing—gods be with him, he delayed the transaction until Lord Stark had enough of it. Imprisoned all of them, the young lad, his uncle and his children” He said, sounding almost proud.
“That is certainly… interesting,” he said as he took in the words. His mother should have thought of that, he mused sadly to himself.
“Yes, he was lucky his father had prepared him well over the years before his death, both in character and manner.” He mused “He was a wise man, a fair one. I served him for a long time…”
Jacaerys nodded “Rickon Stark, was his name, wasn't it?” he tried to recall. He had only had a few sips of ale but they had already been enough to muddle his mind.
The man grunted, equally drunk after several cups “Yes, Lord Stark's father, namesake of his son.”
Jacaerys frowned at the comment. “I was unaware Lord Stark had a son,” he said suggestively.
The men around him shifted uncomfortably. It was only after a dragged-out silence that Lord Cerwyn replied, rather weary after what he'd let slip.
“He does not, Your Grace. He was taken last winter.” He admitted.
Same as his lady wife.—Jacaerys thought.
No more words were said of the subject for the rest of the night, and Jacaerys’ thousand new inquiries were left pending.