Chapter Text
1 - the prince and his lord
In his childhood years, growing up in the Red Keep, Jace by no means considered himself the most versed in the religious arts. He spent long days of that sweet, cloying spring playing at being a hedge knight with his brother. Luke, always his squire, pretended to accompany him on marvelous adventures from Dorne to beyond the Wall. When his wooden horses became wooden swords and his tutelage in the arts of swordsmanship was given to Ser Criston Cole, Jace had even less time to learn prayers to the seven faces of god or to memorize all the rites of Old Valyria, almost completely forgotten in a court faithful to the Faith. He had, however, spent long hours in the Dragonpit with the young Vermax, dictating commands in High Valyrian and rewarding him with roasted lamb every time he made him proud by faithfully obeying.
Jace couldn't remember much of King's Landing, if he was honest. Few things still remained untouched in his memory: the sweet smell of scented candles from his childhood bedchambers; the constant noise of the smallfolk in the city below, so absent in Dragonstone; the warmth he felt rise from his chest when Ser Harwin Strong praised him in secret, far from the prying ears that scaled the walls of Maegor's Holdfast. Other memories, however, he forced himself to forget: his father's death and the night that followed it; the unbridled words of a young Aemond, bitter at being the last of Viserys’ children without a dragon to call his own; a raven that brought a painful description of a fire in Harrenhall.
Flying always brought back his most melancholy memories, and at sunset, he decided it was time to rest.
During his journey from the Vale of Arryn to White Harbor, Jace stayed for a day settled in the Fingers, far enough away from the farmer's herds not to be seen but close enough for Vermax to hunt wild animals and prepare to cross the bay to the seat of House Manderly. The Eyrie was not a good place for the dragon, who seemed to be annoyed by the inauspicious terrain and found little pleasure in goat meat nowadays. Spoiled, Jace called him in High Valyrian, like Syrax.
The further north they travelled, the more the influence of the Andals gave way to the First Men, and Jace set up camp on top of a hill in the shadow of a towering weirwood while Vermax feasted on fresh venison. Then he dreamed of death.
Not his own; it was never his death. Ever since he left Dragonstone, Jace had dreaded the time when his body would tire enough for him to pass out from exhaustion because he knew the dreams would come to torment him. It happened for the first time on the first of three nights he spent in the Eyrie and recurred on the following nights as his personal curse. And each night, he saw one of his loved ones perish.
The first night, he dreamt of his grandfather, Corlys, crossing a tide so high that not even the Sea Snake could navigate it. Then he saw his betrothed Baela burning in the sky after a fierce fight against Vhagar and her vicious rider. On the last night, under the protection of Lady Jeyne Arryn, he saw Daemon Targaryen succumb to the Triarchy, his body pierced by arrows through every chink in his armor as he lost to an enemy he had long defeated.
That night, on top of a hill less than a day's flight from White Harbor, and curled up around the roots of the tree, Jace dreamt of his mother falling from the sky.
He tried not to sleep, tried to keep his eyes on the moon and the pastures that ran as far as the eye could see, but his thighs ached from being in the saddle for so long, and his back was stiff from the journey. He couldn't even enjoy the comfort of a fire; after all, a dragon would attract enough attention. Then, when the stars were brightest and the cold breeze chilled his bones, he dreamt of the Queen.
Like the Conqueror Rhaenys, the dragon swooped down on her, bronze arrows piercing through Syrax’s skull, inevitably bringing down her rider in an end so tragic that he woke up coughing, choking, and with the taste of salt burning his tongue and eyes. Vermax, good boy that he was, climbed the hill where they had set up camp to curl up around him, sticking his nose into Jace's belly as he calmed down.
He doesn't remember screaming loud enough to alarm the dragon, but he was grateful for his calming presence. He was the only family he had at that moment, on his fourth night away from the Crownlands. He couldn't even remember the whole dream, but just the thought of his mother at death's door made him shake like a leaf.
Jace had never been the most versed in the religious arts. But that night, as the sun rose to give way to morning, he prayed with all his heart to all the gods he could think of. Even to the nameless gods, whom he knew little about, those who reminded him of Ser Harwin and Lord Lyonel Strong, good men he still carried with him; those of the northerners, men the Queen had entrusted Jace with bringing under her banner.
Take me , he begged, to the weirwood. Take me, but let my mother live.
Winterfell had a beautiful godswood, as the prince soon learns. And between the feast the night before and the company of the cautious Ser Medrick Cerwyn the morning after, Jace didn't have time to listen to his own thoughts. Then into the woods.
The northerners conquered, in their own way, the beauty that came with hard work. He had already realized, during his overnight stay under Lord Manderly's protection, how meaningless it would be for these people to ride down to the south to fight for a cause that was not common to them. They were a practical and hardened, who found warmth not in the comfort of a fireplace but in the mercy of their gods. Jace, who grew up among the rocks of a volcanic island, knew he wouldn't understand their way of life with the little time he had to win them over.
Their godswood were noble, melancholy, and fruitless. Lord Stark himself told him about preparing for winter, about trees that twisted in autumn and only blossomed again when spring came. He showed him, with the faintest trace of grief in his voice, the facilities that lay beyond the secure walls of Winterfell, where the snow would soon reach up to the knees of anyone who dared to cross on foot.
Jace had a curious first impression of the young lord. In his two days and one night in Winterfell, he had seen little more than a young man standing tall among a mountain of furs, with a seemingly permanent hard line in his jaw and a crease between his eyebrows that seemed to increase every time Vermax took flight. If it weren't for the direwolf crest or the ancestral sword of his House, Cregan would be little different from one of the knights in his grandfather's court. Jace constantly wondered if he had ever been knighted. There were few northerners in King's Landing, and the prince wondered if Lord Stark would be so averse to the idea of traveling to the capital in more auspicious days.
For now, he needed the lord more than the man.
Jace was not, on any level, a naive person. He understood that the reason Lord Stark had taken him to see his lands briefly the day before was to prepare him for a possible rejection. By the seven hells , the prince himself feared the numbers that would be offered to him after seeing how thick the snow fell and how they required every pair of hands and legs to prepare provisions for late autumn if they wanted their people to live through the harsh winter to come. He was fortunate to have been born in the long spring, and the only snow he had ever known was the ash that fell from the sky when the fire raged in Dragonstone.
Jace discarded his furs, a welcome gift he had gladly accepted the day he arrived at Winterfell. He carefully packed the heavy bearskin-lined cloak and folded it over a huge flat rock, then sat down at a distance between the roots of the heart tree. How common it has become for him, he thought, to find himself at the base of a weirwood in recent days. This one, however, was different: it had a carved, frozen face that almost seemed to mock him. Little prince, it said in his mind, what are you doing so far from home on a mission as barren as these branches?
The godswood were covered in a thick layer of moss and deep orange and red leaves. There was little light through the treetops, and the sun was slowly falling when young Lord Stark came looking for him, without any hurry, wearing the same clothes Jace had seen him in the morning. The prince, not forgetting his manners, made a point of getting up but was stopped by a measured gesture from the Stark.
The man stopped a short distance away, leaning against a high rock that adorned the dark lake. When he spoke, he seemed less restrained than before.
"Ser Medrick is usually rather boisterous company. Especially after a feast," he said serenely, "but even for him, it's a new achievement to take the crown prince away after just two morrows."
Jacaerys feared for a moment that he had offended one of them—Stark or Cerwyn—but the hint of a smile crossed the lord's eyes. He then sighs, unconcerned.
“I'll send him my apologies. I lost track of time, and certainly didn't plan to make such an impression.” Lord Stark stares at him for a moment, then Jace adds: “It's a beautiful place in here.”
Lord Stark frowned. "Indeed. It's not often we have visitors from so far south. It's even more unusual for them to find any comfort in the old gods."
Jace crossed his arms, suddenly missing his borrowed furs.
"There's a weirwood in King's Landing. It brings back childhood memories that are sometimes hard to conjure up." He says, "And I'm not acquainted enough with the old gods to deny their grace, even if it's not familiar to me."
A cold breeze cuts through the woods before the northerner answers.
"I'm glad you've managed to find any sort of familiarity here," he pauses for a long moment. "I can't imagine I'd have it as easy if I were you."
Jace replies dryly, "Being a courier in the North while your kin plan the civil war in the south?"
He's afraid he's crossed the line for a long time, and his tongue dies hard. Gods, he hadn't even had the time to discuss Lord Stark's support for Queen Rhaenyra's cause, the man having read the missive Jace had brought with cloudy grey eyes the day before. That was the first mention brought up by Jace, who held back, waiting for a good moment to bring up the subject again.
But there was a feast, with no more than the men and women of Winterfell gathered in the Great Hall and emptying the casks of the Wolf of the North, as Ser Medrick said. And at a welcome feast, it would be no courtesy at all to discuss war.
Jace, however, proposed a toast to Queen Rhaenyra's health and heard a thunder of cheers in response.
Mayhaps, he thought. Here's our victory.
He had crossed paths with Lord Stark in the morrow, hours before, only to be dispersed the next moment with an apology and some story about visiting Winter Town.
And then, there.
The northerner takes a deep breath, more amused than Jace expected.
"I actually imagined myself having to become an outsider in an unknown land. No companionship of any sort. Just me going down the Neck."
"Don't forget the dragon, my lord." Jace experimented, testing how far he could go. "It's an important part of my voyage."
"I wouldn't dare. The creature makes a point of not being forgotten."
"Cold is tricky if your nature is fire."
"I can't only dream of it." Lord Stark replied. "The creature must miss sweetmeat. The shepherds are terrified."
Jace rolls his eyes slightly. His dragon was as far away from the northern people as it was possible to be.
"I'm sure Vermax will be happy hunting for himself in the woods. He has become experienced at it over time."
"Forgive me for being cautious. The last time we had dragons in these lands, many provisions were lost to satisfy their hunger."
Jace has the decency to be ashamed, even a little. That was a story he had learned the night before from a man so old that his eyes were almost white, called Ser Raymor Dustin.
"A sad lack of consideration from the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne. My Vermax is still young, he’s content with boar and deer for days and nights."
"Then the Wolfswood will satisfy him. It saves me a lot of grumbling this way," says the lord after a long, thoughtful moment. "Tell me, Prince Jacaerys, how many men from the North have you met in King's Landing?"
He stands up slowly, using the time to think.
"Not many, really. I was no more than a child when we left the Red Keep. Although I still remember one or two knights. Oh, and the old Lord Locke used to attend my grandfather's court very often. Also, Ser Medrick and Ser Torrhen Manderly," Jace stares at him for a long moment, "never a Stark from Winterfell."
Lord Cregan's lips twitched slightly at the mention of Lord Desmond Manderly's sons, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by the prince. It was not a very pleasant reaction, given that he had promised Joffrey's hand to that House a few days earlier.
“The North is vast. And hard. We prepare for winter during the spring and summer. We share our conquests during the autumn. Not much time left for the court.” He says thoughtfully. "Have you ever thought about winter, about what it will truly be like? You told me you'd never seen snow."
He speaks each word as if it were the funniest joke Jacaerys could have told. The prince feels his cheeks heat up, unhappy that he is being mocked in some way.
"When the autumn wind begins to hurt the bones in Dragonstone, that's when I know the warmth is coming to an end. I've never experienced winter, Lord Stark, but each of the kingdoms has been suffering from the threat of it for some time." He says, "Not as much as the North, of course. Your autumn is what I imagined winter covering King's Landing would be like: calm and mild, but with fewer leaves." He adds, trampling some of them underfoot, and the lord smiles.
"I don't remember the last winter; I was too young. To my own men, I'm as much a green, summer lad as you are in my eyes," he said, with such a soothing tone in his voice that Jace couldn't feel offended this time, "but winter is coming, and fast. I'll consider that before I commit my men to Queen Rhaenyra."
Jace hides his hands behind his back, his fingers cold against each other.
"Of course. All the Queen asks is that the Great Houses remember their oath to the rightful heir to the Iron Throne and honor it."
Lord Stark nods slightly without taking his eyes off the prince.
"We remember, Prince Jacaerys." He says, getting to his feet, “And when you leave back to the South, I hope I can have renewed my own oaths to the heir to the Iron Throne.”
The man bowed slightly before leaving.
Jace watches him go; the sky is already filled with twilight. He wonders if Luke is having more luck in the Stormlands.
The night passes with casks and casks of black beer that dulls the senses five times more than the Arbor. Jace is beginning to like the North too much. While the harpist plays soft music, singing about the Age of Heroes, the Great Hall of Winterfell is once again filled with men and women among Lord Stark's vassals and their households, squires and knights, men-at-arms, and children playing among the benches running after domestic dogs. Jace talks animatedly with Ser Medrick Cerwyn's brother, a young squire called Mors; with Ser Beron Dustin, a middle-aged third son, so taciturn and ill-tempered that he makes Jace tell the worst and ugliest jokes just to try to make the man crack; and also with Ser Torrhen Manderly, who seems eager to hear news from White Harbor, having been in Winterfell for some time. Lord Stark himself remains succinct and distant, covered in a bearskin cloak as he talks to his kinsmen. He limits himself to glancing at Jace a few times an hour, without speaking to him more than necessary, something about the food that the prince responds to very positively, to which the man smiles and says, "You should see it in the summer."
"I will. I have a dragon, my lord; as long as you'll have me, I'll return."
Something seemed to break at that moment, a thin ice that Lord Stark seemed to be holding on to when he replied, hiding a smile behind his own mug: "Don't threaten me, my prince."
Jace, as good an opportunity-taker as he is, seizes the chance to engage the man in conversation. He starts with summer, describing how King's Landing burns when the sun reaches its peak and how the city seems to glow in the sunlight from inside the Red Keep. Yet even there, one can smell the rot that comes with the heat. He talks about the Dragonpit and the bustling bay filled with people and goods from all over, reminiscing about his few memories of Kingswood and the surrounding Crownlands. He's surprised at how little the man blinks, forming his own opinions and wrinkling his nose each time Jace mentions the possibility of his own journey to King's Landing.
"When we moved to Dragonstone," said Jace, a good few minutes later, "I learned to like stone statues and dragonglass. It's a beautiful island, although it's a little too dark for my taste. Driftmark, on the other hand, has always been much more appealing. I used to race Luke up to High Tide on dragonback, and it was-"
He pauses for a moment, realizing he's rambling, and blushes all the way down his neck before shoving his face into his own goblet, wine this time. "It was a lot of fun," he mutters.
"Luke. Prince Lucerys?" Cregan asks, his eyebrows furrowed. Jace nods.
"Yes, my little brother. He's a bit younger than me, so grandsire used to say we were almost like twins."
Jace chuckles a little at the memory, half-drunk. When he looks back at Cregan, his eyes are curiously warm.
"I had a younger brother myself. We were little more than children when he died, and my lord father was still alive," he says thoughtfully. "I've never been able to find the same complicity in any other member of my family. You're lucky to have so many brothers."
The prince took pity on him for a moment, imagining what it would have been like to grow up without Luke, Joff and the little ones. They often irritated him, and at other times they even made him angry. But he couldn't imagine growing up without Lucerys as his shadow.
"Yes, I am," he says at last, drawing a sad smile from Cregan. "Tell me about your brother."
The lord looks at the prince for a second, his eyebrows arched, and a genuine expression of astonishment crosses his face for a moment. He takes a moment before saying succinct but true words about a boy as foul-mouthed as you, which Jace rolls his eyes at, offended.
He goes to bed very late that night and discovers that he is staying not far from Lord Stark's own chambers.
"I bet a fine dagger with Ser Medrick that you would bring back at least half of his weight in foxes and rabbits," Lord Stark says, at morrow of the third day, as all the castle's men arm themselves to go hunting in the Wolfswood. Jace, astonished, freezes for a moment where he is fastening leather saddlebags to his borrowed horse, looking at the man with furrowed brows in disbelief.
"You overestimate my skills, Lord Stark," he replies humbly, filling his quiver with iron-tipped arrows and crow-feathered fletchings. Strange were the northern adornments: while hunts in the Kingswood were more ceremonial than a necessity, here seemed to breathe life into the castle. Jace recalled the colorful banners of every House at court, tents the size of small ballrooms, and pipers and harpists who stirred the night.
Here, he had a horse and the prospect of returning by nightfall; many provisions against the cold would be necessary for a night's stay outside Winterfell's walls.
"Especially in unfamiliar terrain. I've heard your men speak of direwolves roaming the night in packs of more than a dozen. Beasts the size of a horse eager to feast on the warm blood of unsuspecting victims."
Cregan chuckles softly, finishing saddling his own horse without a squire in sight. "And should a dragon be frightened by direwolves?"
"Should it? I ask you. I am a dragon as much as you are a wolf, my lord," Jace jests, with little time for modesty. He was indeed a skilled hunter; he had spent enough time with Ser Harwin as a child and with Prince Daemon in the following years to be certain of that, but he never overestimated his abilities in such unfamiliar terrain. "Ser Kevan offered me a longbow, a crossbow, and iron-tipped arrows; we shall see how many wolves are felled by that. Perhaps the formidable creatures of the North aren't so fearsome after all. Perhaps they're as lovely as your heart trees and autumn snow."
This time, Cregan gasps and shakes his head, seeming as young as he should be. "One day, my prince, I will take you to the ends of the earth. Where you cannot walk without sinking to your knees in the snow, and then we shall see if your opinion of what is lovely remains untouched."
Jace furrows his brows. "Is that a challenge?"
“It's an invitation,” he replies simply. “Every King or Queen on the Iron Throne should see the Wall with their own eyes.”
He closes the last saddlebag before hopping onto his bay horse, shielding Jacaerys’ eyes from the weak morning sun that has just risen.
"So, when all is said and done and the Usurper is overthrown, I'll have to convince my mother to fly here with her dragon." He says.
Cregan stares at him for a moment, his eyes as grey as the sigil on his chest. Jace wonders if it's natural or just the snow reflected in blue.
Suddenly, he realized why he liked being in the North. The men of Winterfell spoke so openly with him: about how southerners were too weak to endure the winter; about how their own land was harsh and wonderful in different ways, and about the men who would soon be sent to the Night's Watch. They saw him, yes, as a southern outsider, but in a short time they accepted him as a welcome visitor and not a spoiled princeling.
And Jace, who had grown up in a court full of Valyrians and Andal nobility, strangely felt capable of blending in much better with those who came from the First Men.
That was truly what it meant to be the ruler on the Iron Throne, he thought. Knowing all the people he would one day rule, and not just those who came from down the Neck.
"Don't let me lose that dagger, Prince Jacaerys," Lord Stark says before galloping off.
Jace finishes preparing his own supplies before mounting up and follow the procession: about fifty men and one or two women armed with spears, nets, bows, and crossbows, some accompanied by mule-drawn carts carrying large bear traps and others holding bright banners of one or two houses besides Stark's direwolf. A series of squires followed on foot, and Jace was even offered one, but he was not yet knighted and did not feel the need for a boy to tighten the straps of his armor when he could do it himself.
It had just dawned when the procession entered the Wolfswood, with the prince trotting alongside Lord Stark and the other lords of higher positions. The men split off to set traps ("Before the bears hide away for hibernation," Cregan explained to him before Jace asks), and a group of them moved away with hounds barking at their heels, following the trail of boars and wild pigs.
The widely dispersed pine trees and open trail terrain turn into oaks and small hills covered in soft snow, narrowing the path so that only three horses can pass side by side. Where the canopy of trees is thick, the ground is still green and brown, and the little snow that gets through melts when it touches the grass, almost as if they were experiencing an ordinary autumn for the rest of Westeros. When they reach a small clearing surrounded by intertwined roots of dark-trunked trees, it's so dark it almost seems twilight, even though it's mid-morning.
Cregan's hounds sniff copiously at the open paths to follow and weave between the legs of his owner's horse, wagging their tails and indicating a promising path to follow with barks and howls that stir the other animals. "Stag," he says simply, moving forward, followed by Ser Medrick and his squire, Ser Beron, and Jace close behind. The woodland terrain did not allow for fast riding; many wet leaves covered the ground and could interfere with the horses or even knock them down and cause an unnecessary fatality, so they moved slowly, Jace already feeling annoyed with the lack of excitement.
"I think your dragon ate the whole forest," Cregan tells him out loud when they cross an oak with the trunk marked in some symbol Jace doesn't understand. The men laughed lightly, and some looked at the prince with threatening eyes, as if it were his fault that only the dogs had managed to catch a dozen rabbits by that point.
"If a young dragon can eat an entire wood, then those animals have given up breeding." Jace defends himself.
"Karstark should come and live here, then," Ser Beron says mockingly. "maybe he'll give up breeding too."
A roar of laughter goes through the line, and Jace pretends to understand what they're talking about with a little smile. A man behind the front rows raises his voice, and the prince twists in his saddle to understand what he's saying.
"...Dustin is jealous," says the man, one with thick black hair and a beard flecked with silver, dressed in dark grey leather. "That the old man's cock still works and his doesn't."
Ser Beron Dustin laughs so loudly that a few birds take flight.
"That old man still being able to fuck someone is a work of witchcraft," he says. "It must help that you've got his balls deep down your throat."
Ahead, Cregan breathes heavily before massaging his temples. Jace reined in his horse, letting the animal trot up to the man and leaving the fight behind. At that point, Ser Beron had turned around to argue face-to-face with the other knight.
"Shouldn't you stop the fight?" Jace jokes, and he tilts his head back when Cregan squints at him.
"It wouldn't do any good. Beron and Grey Edd… Better to stay away from a misunderstanding that's been going on longer than I've been alive. When the two of them come back without any hunts, they'll be ashamed of themselves in front of everyone else, and their remorseful faces will be enough." He says, more amused than worried. "Let's dismount ahead; you haven't got any foxes for me yet. And the horses scare them away."
They lose another half of the procession following a long track that descends to the north-west, the confusion lagging behind. The squires set up a makeshift camp among the ironwood trees, and Jacaerys dismounts, offering the horse an affectionate stroke and apologizing for not having anything of the animal's liking with him. He sighs, missing his dragon. He seems to sense that Jace has left Winterfell and flies high into the sky above, passing over the northmen's trail a few times. Every time this happened, Jace stretched his back and hid a smile full of himself.
Following Lord Stark were about fifteen men, including the castle hunters, the master-at-arms, squires, and some of his kinsmen. Jace couldn't remember everyone's name, even if he tried. The prince himself stands shoulder to shoulder with the lord as he leads the way through the trees, up a hill covered in damp leaves and melting snow, his bow clutched between his frozen fingers.
"No hounds?" Jace asks, passing under a spider web so large and firm that it traps a small, dead bird.
"I prefer the old way," says the lord. "horns and drums and barking have their value, yes, but they get in the way of the main purpose of a hunt: listening. And knowing where to look."
Jacaerys reflects for a moment before continuing, his shoulders almost touching Lord Stark's as he walks.
"Much of a hunt in Kingswood comes down to filling the court with Dornish red and fighting over the best stag. Killed, of course, by a knight or a hunter, not by the lord who will take the head with him."
Cregan wrinkles his nose for a moment, and Jace laughs.
"Sounds like quite a spectacle," he says, trying to cover it up.
"Oh, how it is. There are musicians and singers, jesters, painters, and poets. It's a sport to entertain the court and a trick to get them out of town." He says the last part as if it were a secret, lightly pushing the man's shoulder with his own.
"Every time you talk about the court, it sounds more like torture to me."
Jace sighs. "It has a certain charm, without a doubt."
They cross a small stream before Cregan speaks again.
"I've been to King's Landing once." He says, and Jace must look very astonished, and the man quickly adds, "It's been quite a while..."
"And here I am, filling you with stories as if you hadn't seen it with your own eyes." Says the prince, suddenly displeased.
"But I haven't," Lord Cregan quickly adds, denying it with his head. "I went myself to swear my oaths to King Viserys after subjugating my kin; I travelled secretly off the King's Road, for there were many dangers in leaving Winterfell without a Stark. I didn't even spend three nights in the Red Keep, just enough for my few men to rest and leave again."
Jace remains dumbfounded for a moment. "So you met my grandsire?"
“Aye,” he nods before letting out a chuckle, “though His Grace called me by my father's name seven times.”
This time, the prince smiles sadly. "Yes, it sounds like something he'd do."
Cregan's expression sours for a moment. "Lord Hand, though. Seemed to have his own interest in the story he'd heard: a regent uncle usurping his nephew's birthright. He tried to corner me twice, too interested in my bannermen and houses sworn to mine."
He looks at Jace for a long moment, studying his features, before continuing, "I wasn't much older than you back then and considerably less skilled with my words."
"The Hightowers have a way of snaking their way up the sleeves of every lord or lady they find relevant to their cause." Jace says after a moment, "Prince Daemon believes they've been planning the usurpation for years, a thought I share with my uncle. I'm not surprised that he saw you as an opportunity to get above the Neck. His loyal men are in the Reach, and Lannister will remain by their side as long as it suits the Rock. The North... There's not much for the usurper in the North."
"There isn't, eh?" says Cregan, raising his eyebrows. "Good. Let's see if you've got a good eye on foxes; I'm not taking my men south for a prince who makes me lose such precious goods."
He discovers sometime later that Lord Stark has a penchant for competitions. When Jace spots the first rabbit, he draws back the string of his bow with an arrow nocked and ready to fire, only for the animal to be shot from somewhere behind him. The prince complains, asserting it's his hunt, to which the lord retorts, "Be quicker next time."
Two rabbits later, Cregan tires of torturing him when Jace sneaks up behind a pheasant, simply raising the prince's elbow a little higher with a gentle touch of his gloved hand and lightly kicking his legs apart a little more. It lasts a second, and Jace holds the breath he knows he should let out.
"Breathe," says the Lord behind him. Jace can almost feel the phantom touch on his back. "Let go."
As he shoots, his elbow hits the man's chest, close enough for Jace to mumble an apology and go to retrieve the arrow, hearing his own heartbeat in his ears.
They haven't come for pheasants, so Cregan orders him to leave the animal in the forest for the treecats or night wolves. Jace doesn't argue.
He realizes that he does have a good shot at foxes. As the sun is coming off it's peak, he has half a dozen of them hanging from the trunk of a large oak tree by their tails, an alternative they found since the horses were too far away. Cregan has a bit more and seems proud of it, but Jace nods and says that his are bigger.
"No, they're not. I'm going to lose my knife." He says it sarcastically, twirling the weapon between his fingers. It's a beautiful piece of work, Jace has to admit, with a wolf carved into the handle and a silver grip.
"Then you'd better use it while you still have it." He says, pointing to a collection of rabbits hanging by their feet from the lowest branch of the oak tree. "I'll bleed the rabbits. We can make a utility of your dagger and use it to clean them, yes? I’m starving."
Jace holds out his hand until a reluctant Lord Stark spins the dagger round and hands it to him by the handle, staring with furrowed brows as Jace precisely tears a gash in the hide of the first animal, right on the thigh where it hangs. He should barely remember how to do it; it's been too many years. In Dragonstone, there weren't many hunts for him, but it's almost like muscle memory.
The first rabbit's grey fur is cut by a thick stream of black blood that trickles down to the ground. Jace opens the vein a little wider, hoping it will be enough to drain the whole animal. He leaves it dripping and goes to the next rabbit, a white one with red eyes, and cuts it on the same leg until their blood forms a small puddle on the leaves.
"That's not going to attract wolves, is it?" he asks, wiping his trousers where dead blood has splattered well above his boots. Lord Cregan stares at Jace and then at the pool of blood before denying it slightly, his eyes almost black this time.
"No, not at this time of day." He replies, without much emotion in his voice, before sitting down on a fallen log. They had gathered dry branches in a hole in the ground to light a fire, but the fire was still low and barely making any smoke. The rest of the wood was piled up in a heap right next to it, waiting to be used to roast the hunt.
"I heard them howling last night. So loud they could have been in my bedchamber." Jace says, sitting down on the floor himself. Cregan laughs.
"You get used to it. My lullabies were always the wolves howling when the moon was high. These days, it's almost hard to sleep without it."
The last part is spoken almost as a confession. Lord Stark's eyes wander a little to the fire and Jace before he pulls himself together and says, "And it's even harder with a dragon roaring at the sheep."
He doesn't sound accusatory, almost mocking when he says it.
"Vermax is a good boy who misses company."
"He's a dragon the size of a catapult."
"And he doesn't like the snow. It's not natural to bring ice and fire too close together."
"On that we agree."
"But sometimes it is necessary." Jace says at last, receiving a simple smile from the lord in return. He hopes the man understands.
The woods fill with the sound of birds, insects, and crackling fire for a long time, fulfilling a calm and strangely comforting emptiness before one of the two speaks again. Surprisingly, it's Cregan.
"My father once told me about going down the Neck to kneel for the princess of Dragonstone, her father's heir. And he told me the way he remembered how different the Valyrians were, with their dragons, silver hair, purple eyes, and warswords. And as I learned the history of the Kingdoms, I asked my maester: How can such a short history be so full of death? "
Jace sighs. "Don't I fit your description enough, my lord?"
"Your hair may not be silver, my prince, but your tongue is. Don't think I take you for less than the Targaryen Prince that you are, for you would be misjudging me."
Jace looks him in the eye for a moment, searching for any sign of mockery or doubt in those words. He doesn't find it. There is no sign of the Hightower poison on Lord Stark's lips, and he thanks the old gods and the new for that.
"I think it's harder to keep your family together when there are too many cravings for power. My kin often seem to remember their own history when it comes to naming children, not when it comes to repeating mistakes that have already been made."
Cregan snorts, "When my own house turned against me, I realized that keeping the peace is a hundred times harder than fighting. The Targaryen usurp each other and kill each other like bloodhounds fighting over territory. Just like all the Great Houses. The difference is that their fire creatures can lead all the kingdoms to the hells in the meantime."
"Is that why you don't like Vermax?"
"I like that the dragon has stayed away, yes, because it frightens my people. But I don't ignore the possibility that when I choose sides in this war, a new Dorne will be made of the North."
Jace was filled with fury for a moment, his heart roaring in his ears. His more rational side tried to glean wisdom from the words of a lord concerned for his people, while his irrational side almost poured words of betrayal into the man.
"That's why I need you to understand: when I gather my people, it will be with an army that will overthrow the usurper once and for all. But that will take longer than the Queen asks."
"My… my lord, " Jace shrugs for a moment, suddenly ashamed of his earlier thoughts. "When war breaks out and the dragons duel, there's no point in a large army that only arrives when one side is already victorious." He says, pulling himself together. Cregan grits his teeth in dismay.
"Aye. I've thought about it, and I need to meet with the loyalists back at Winterfell before I can promise you more. And I will give you more. But let's take advantage while the war is in feathers and crows to articulate the next moves carefully."
"Of course, Lord Stark," Jace says, still a little stupefied by the conversation. In the Vale, Lady Jeyne was agile and succinct in her negotiations, just as it was at White Harbor. Cregan… seems to be taking Jace's words in small sips and arming his own part in the war where the prince cannot see.
The conversation changes to the blissful casualness of before, but Jace again feels that he has conquered another piece of the Wolf of the North. It's strangely endearing, in a way that made him feel as if one day he could truly create a certain camaraderie with the man that would go beyond wartime.
Maybe… Maybe…
Jace hears from the man himself this time about the story of his traitorous kin: a regent uncle who got a taste for power and a boy who grew up to assert his birthright. In return, Jace tells stories about Maegor the Cruel and his nephew Aegon, who was not as favored by the gods as Cregan was. He tells about the small dragon Quicksilver and the legendary Balerion, who fought over the God's Eye in an unjust battle. About how his own grandsire rode the Conqueror's dragon before he died and how his remains were so large that they took up an entire hall in the Red Keep. In the middle of the story, the prince divided his attention as he ripped the skin off both rabbits with the dagger before disemboweling them. They were fat, heavy animals, and he hardly remembered how to do it, but he did better than he had imagined. When they were both clean, he passed them to Cregan to skewer on a thin branch, ignoring how long it took the man to react. When the sun drops a little lower, they have the two rabbits on the high fire, and Jace has reached Daenys the Dreamer, while Cregan softly tells fantastic stories about the Kings of Winter up to the Age of Heroes.
When the sky gets even darker, and they've finished eating all the meat, they tie their hunts to a long piece of wood and head back down the river to their campsite.
At this point, they don't wait long for the other men; Lord Stark blows his horn, and they regroup on the main trail. It's a relief when they throw the foxes and rabbits in the cart and Jace can get back on his horse, his shoulders aching after the long walk back. Heavy animals they were, but nothing compared to the boars and deer that appear when the rest of the company joins them. The hounds bark and jump on Cregan's thighs, their fur colored red and crimson, where the lord strokes them absently.
"I hope our afternoon didn't disrupt your plans to find glory returning to the castle with a large boar killed by your sword." Jace chuckles, reining his horse up to the man and scaring off the dogs. "In my opinion, it was very enlightening."
Cregan frowns, "Enlightening, eh?" he says, in a cutting tone that Jace has learned to distinguish as a banter one. "Don't worry, Prince Jacaerys, there will be other opportunities to hunt wild boars if that's what your heart wants."
The horse plowed through the snow, irritable for a moment, before Jace tightened the reins. "What I want, Lord Stark, is to return to the warm walls of Winterfell. As the sun goes down, I begin to understand why my dragon remains so disturbed outside."
"Winter is coming, my prince," says the lord before mounting his horse. "Let's enjoy it while there's sun."
Two nights pass before Jace sees Cregan again. The lord had sent missives and apologies; he had gone to visit Winter Town and help the farmers prepare their provisions for the winter. It is the castellan who tries to fill the prince's days, showing him the crypts that are already piled high with preserves, furs, barrels of beer, and salted meat, and the glass gardens full of vegetables and flowers that grow without interference from the biting cold. He goes out a few times to fly with Vermax and warms himself on the dragon's scales when he sets fire to the night sky, and when he returns to Winterfell, he sees more curious looks than hostile ones this time.
The nights remain festive in the Great Hall, and Jace is beginning to understand the northern lords' preference for black beer as the cold sets in. He's happy to think that after this short time he's already able to overcome the suspicious glances and engage in full conversations, almost as if he'd always lived there. He hears stories about the mountain clans, absent in Winterfell as the season progresses, about the sons, nephews, and brothers who have gone off to the Night's Watch, guarded by the honor of an oath of chastity and fidelity to the safety of the kingdoms until the end of their lives. He hears about the wildlings beyond the wall and stories of an ancient magic that resides past the end of the world.
"It's nothing but horseshit. A story to scare children." Ser Torrhen says, receiving a barrage of furtive glances that he dismisses with a dismissive gesture. Southron, he hears someone whisper to him.
As the night progresses, Jace denies the sweet wine and carefully leaves the drunken men behind to seek the peace of the guest's bedchamber. He has been sending ravens to Dragonstone and short updates to his mother with a few coded words in High Valyrian to let her know the progress of his journey. So far, no message from the Queen has reached Maester Kennet, so Jace kept trying.
He's already halfway across the tower to his bedchamber when he runs into Lord Stark. It takes a second for the man to see him, raising his eyebrows before whispering something to the young man accompanying him. Not a young man, Jace sees as he approaches, but a girl with a child in her arms.
"Prince Jacaerys," says Cregan solemnly as he approaches. The girl gasps before pulling herself together with a curtsy that's barely more than a twist of the knees. "You should be in the Great Hall."
"My host has turned his back on me. I don't think there's much for me there now, my lord." He says it sharply, and Cregan lowers his head almost in shame. Jace then ignores him, returning the girl's nod. "My lady."
She smiles bitterly. "I'm not a lady, my prince."
"You look like one to me." He declares, felling especially impolite, and Cregan finally seems to recover from his stupor before clearing his throat.
"This is my sister, Sara." He says, and Jace frowns, "And my son, Rickon."
The toddler, younger than his own younger brother Viserys, stirs in the girl's lap, lost in his sleep.
"I didn't know Lord Stark had a sister." A son, yes, he remembered when he consulted Maester Gerardys in Dragonstone before travelling, as well as a now deceased wife. But nothing about another Stark from the main line.
"And he has not, my prince." The girl says it with a mischievous smile. "Not in name."
"Sara… is my lord father's daughter, but not my lady mother's." Cregan says reluctantly, and Jace nods.
"Well, it's a regret that it took us so long to get to know each other." He says it with his best gallant smile, and the girl blushes. "And, of course, this little boy."
He barely saw more than two name days; Jace could bet, and his cheeks are pink with cold.
"We've just come from up north." Sara offers.
"Oh," Jace mutters, curious. “Everything all right on the road?”
"They were visiting Rickon's mother's family." Lord Stark says, putting an end to the subject.
But Jace understands the malice behind his eyes. Sending the heir away on the eve of his arrival was quite a message: we don't trust him. Bringing him back was proof to the contrary. The prince smiled, feeling satisfied.
"You must be tired. I won't disturb your rest, my lady."
The girl rolled her eyes, the way Jace had seen her brother do a few times.
"You can come with us if you still think I'm being negligent." Cregan snorts, and Jace laughs.
"I wouldn't dare."
The chambers of the Lord of Winterfell are surprisingly warm. The bed is large, stuffed with fur, and feels strangely comforting; the fireplace crackles with the scent of roasted herbs; and there is a collection of maps and books scattered on the table below the window. It's an inhabited place, vividly, and it makes Jace warm inside.
Cregan enters first, then Sara, carrying little Rickon, and finally Jace, closing the door with a soft thud. The boy grumbles in displeasure when his aunt lays him down between his father's furs, but is calmed when Lord Stark himself takes a very ugly rabbit from between the pillows and gives it to the boy to hug. Sara snorts in derision as her nephew immediately hugs the hideous animal and rolls over to fall back into a nap.
"That ugly rabbit. I've been looking for it for days, and you kept it here," she says, stroking the boy's hair. Cregan arches his eyebrows, seeming curious.
"He forgot last time." He offers, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Only then does he seem to remember the prince standing in the doorway and stretches his back. "My Prince Jacaerys, don't be ashamed to leave us. Fatherly duties should not be in your interest."
Sara rolls her eyes and mutters something very low. The woman wears a woolen tunic and a pair of trousers that look well-worn. Her hair is brown and full, and she has the same silver eyes as Cregan. She resembles the Lord of Winterfell in such a way that they could be twins.
It is also curious how she also reminds him of his cousin Baela when she taps her feet impatiently on the floor or looks at the toddler with affection.
The girl. Surnamed Snow, if Jace had understood correctly, painfully resembled Cregan the more he looked. It shouldn't have been surprising: he himself was always reminded of how much he resembled Lucerys and Joffrey. Looking at her was like looking at Lord Stark, but without some of the main characteristics that Jace had learned to value in the man: the arched frown of his eyebrows, the change in the line of his mouth when he smiled at a memory, the low look he gave Jace whenever he stood over him… The curve of his jaw or the size of his hands when they helped Jace position the bow.
Gods. Jace felt his ears heat up when he replied weakly. Suddenly, his slight discomfort with the Snow girl became all too understandable. "I have four younger brothers. Fatherly duties are all I know." He says when he manages to find his voice.
Sara gasped, "Four? My hair is turning grey with one!"
"Don't act like I'm forcing you to look after him." Cregan defends himself.
"Oh, no. He's got plenty of nurses," she says to Jace, ignoring her brother, "but who can resist a cute little face?"
Cregan snorts, "You spoil him."
"He's two; he deserves to be spoiled," she says.
"He'll grow in the winter. Do you know what happens to spoiled boys in winter?" He asks, "They bring suffering to their families and die early."
Jace can't imagine how a child with a gentle countenance and a stuffed rabbit could bring any suffering to House Stark.
The girl frowns and looks even more like her brother for a moment. "You're especially sour tonight."
"Find your amusement in the Great Hall, Sara. I'm tired." That's what Cregan finally says, before looking at Jace as if daring him to say something. The prince doesn't.
"Good advice." She says, before looking at Jace with pitying eyes. "My prince. My lord."
And she leaves after a crooked bow, walking stiffly to the door.
"You should go too," Cregan says, after a moment of silence. Rickon stirs in bed, rolling closer to where his father is sitting.
"He looks like you, you know." Jace says at last, approaching carefully. Lord Stark nods slightly, reaching out with his bare hand to stroke his son's nose for a moment. Jace didn't see him take off his gloves or cloak, but they lay untouched on a chair beside the bed.
"He's got more from his mother." The lord says at last, without looking at Jace. "An ability to get into trouble that I never had."
The boy opens his eyes for a moment before grabbing his father's hand with his own and going back to sleep. Jace imagines that he has barely regained consciousness. Mayhaps thinking it was a dream.
"I'd doubt it," Jace mutters, moving a little closer to sit on the edge of the bed. "After all, the last time a dragon was in Winterfell, the Old King was still young. That's enough trouble for me."
Cregan smiles, and Jace's chest warms a little. He hadn't realized that he would miss talking to a specific person in that place so much in such a short space of time.
"I once called you silvertongue." He says, taking his eyes off the boy to lean back on the bed. "Don't use it to charm my sister."
She's not the northerner I need to charm, Jace thinks.
"A lady deserves to be treated with kind words." He replies.
If Lord Stark likes that answer, nothing reveals his countenance.
"That dagger," Cregan says after a long silence, "I lost to Cerwyn. It belonged to his mother."
Jace's eyes widen. "Oh, gods."
"It was my wedding gift to her. I found it shortly after she died. It was never used; it had no value. Such a waste to keep it."
He nods as he says it, and Jace can't find any lies in the words, despite looking for them.
"You were going to give it to him, weren't you?" Jace asks softly. Cregan assents.
"One day." He notices, in the next instant, Jace's discomfort. "Don't worry, it was my bet. Just a foolish prank. I've realized how much of a fool I've been over the last few days."
Jace laughs humorlessly, "Just you?"
The lord sighs, "Maybe. I've been a bad host to you. And a bad Warden of the North to the Queen."
"My lord-"
"But I haven't made a wasted journey. Hightower's ravens have reached Maester Kennet, so I believe your time here is running out. Tomorrow we'll discuss the war, and soon you'll be free to go."
Not now, he thinks. The North had been more than his mission; he had felt truly welcomed and had even begun to harbor a curious kind of affection for those thick-skinned, sharp-tongued people. He liked Stark's loyal men who talked to him every night, the old lords who sang the praises of Queen Alysanne and King Jaehaerys, the farmer children who pointed and shouted in excitement when Vermax flew over them. He liked Maester Kennet and the master-at-arms, Ser Kevan, Grey Edd, and Ser Medrick. He was curious about Sara. He liked Cregan very much.
"I'm glad you've remained faithful to the true Queen." Jace says at last, "Not as the Prince of Dragonstone, but as a son and brother who is fighting for his family."
"It is my duty," says the man, before looking Jace in the eye, "and honor. Prince Jacaerys."
The last part is said suddenly, as if the man couldn't stop it from rolling off his tongue.
"You can call me Jace." He says lastly, "It reminds me of home."
"Oh. Jace?"
He says, trying out the word.
"Yes. And Lucerys is Luke. It's what my mother… Well, what the Queen has called us all our lives." He corrects himself quickly. “Velaryon names for Velaryon boys. I'm not surprised that my younger brothers are called Aegon and Viserys, practically an ode to the Targaryen Conquerors.”
Cregan sneers, "All Valyrian names sound the same to me."
"You'd better call me Jace then."
"It suits you."
The lord's eyes turn from steel to quicksilver for a moment as he looks from Jace to Rickon.
"I'll meet the Queen formally when the throne is secured." He says, reluctantly, "She raised a good man."
The prince tastes the compliment like sugar melting in his mouth in an instant. Lord Stark's unspoken words are there when he looks at his son: I wish I could do the same , Jace imagines he would say.
"Were you fond of… your lady wife?"
Cregan lowers his gaze to the boy, staring at where the child's very small hand curls around his finger. The prince wonders what's going through his mind behind all the long looks that seem to fill the man, wishing he were an easier mystery to solve.
"Doubts of a betrothed man." Cregan affirms, and Jace snorts.
"Don't dodge the question. I don't think I've ever heard of a marriage that didn't have political intent behind it."
The northerner thinks for a moment before answering.
"I've never devoted myself to many things. I loved my brother when we were kids. And I love this little boy who bears my father's name." He smiles for a moment when Rickon mumbles something in his sleep: "But it becomes difficult to protect everyone who is valuable to you when too many people are valuable. It weakens a good lord. And winter is coming—for my people and for me. They wouldn't survive if I lost myself in my grief."
Jace couldn't disagree more.
"You deserve to be a man. Not just their liege."
Cregan studies the prince's face for a moment, and this time his smile is sad.
"For men like us, there isn't much… time," he says, "because many others depend on us to stand up and move on. So that they can move on as well."
"I know the pain. Grief." Jace says, frowning. He had lost his grandfather, his father, Ser Harwin, and the sister he couldn’t even meet. "And because I know, I guarantee that you'll only be able to leave the past behind when you allow yourself…"
"You talk like you know me." Cregan responds in a cynic tone, following a prolonged period of silence.
Jace thinks about what he in fact knows about him. About his young brother, forever a child; his father, who left without having the chance to teach his son how to rule; his uncles and cousins, who tried to steal the only home he ever knew; and his wife, who died so quickly that she didn't even get to use her own wedding gift.
"Honestly, I think I do." He says it audaciously.
And suddenly, he's there again. Steel eyes that in no way have the warmth of any previous moment they've shared, but rather a careful distance amplified by the man when Jace is too close to see him beyond the superficial layer he presents to his court.
"It's late. You should rest." He says it simply before standing up to the fireplace. Jace stares at him, astonished. He pulls himself together before standing up too, stroking the boy's dark hair. He remembers little Aegon and how much he missed him and his shadow, Viserys.
"I thank you for trusting me, Lord Stark." He says, staring the man in the back as he walks to the door, "I am honored."
"Prince Jacaerys," says the man, his voice tired. "Go to sleep."
Jace nods without saying goodbye again. That night, he doesn't sleep; the howls of the wolves are too loud.
The next day, the emerald dragon descends from the skies in the early hours of the morning, carrying an elk between his teeth. He throws it right in front of the hunting gate, then lands with a roar that wakes up the whole castle and makes the surrounding trees shake. When two dozen spearmen rushed out, brandishing their weapons and ready to fight, they found the prince unbuckling his dragon's cell while the beast curled up like a sleepy kitten. To the master-at-arms, Jacaerys says:
"Tell Ser Medrick Cerwyn that the bet has been won by Lord Stark."
Jace has been in the North for a fortnight when the raven arrives.
He has his northerners. Fewer at first, of course, but with a promise of more to come. With the Vale, the Three Sisters, and the North, Jace will be able to return to Dragonstone and show his worth to his mother's cause and to her throne.
None of that matters any more now that Luke is gone. His brother and shadow, best friend and protégé, taken from this life by Jace's ambition to prove himself.
It was his idea to secure the Great Houses for his mother. And now she has lost another son.
The distraught prince doesn't immediately fly home. When he tries, his fists shake as he clutches the saddle, and his eyes fill with tears. He won't be able to see the stars like this or guide his dragon without making it back to his mother.
And she can't lose another son. And he can't die and abandon his four — three brothers.
Sara talks to him first. She convinces him to dismount and get some sleep as Jace's bones freeze in the cold. Then comes Cregan, out of place and almost tripping over the threshold as day turns to night. Jace would laugh if he had the strength, but laughing reminds him of Luke, and that makes him tear up. He barely has the strength to get out of bed, but he stands in front of the window, watching the snow drift over the treetops.
Luke had never seen snow. He wouldn't see anything else.
"Ser Beron said I should put you out of your misery by finding you a silver-haired woman." He says, sounding skeptical, and Jace almost laughs without humor. "Grey Edd thinks you'd prefer a northerner."
Jace sighs. "And what do you think?"
His voice comes out low and worn.
"I think if I turned up on your doorstep with a whore, you'd feed me to your dragon."
The prince looks down at the torches burning in the castle's inner courtyard and the soldiers standing guard. He hears Vermax squealing in the forest ahead, lost in his own pain. He always reflects Jace's worst humors.
"You'd be right." He whispers, his voice almost lost in the wind. "You were right all along."
He hears Cregan's clothes rustle as he moves, his footsteps on the wood. Alter all these days, Jace thinks he can recognize his scent by now.
"To men like us, there's not much time for grief." He says, rubbing his eyes as an unruly tear runs down his cheek. One day, he learned of Lucerys' death and practically became useless. "And yet, here I am."
"Don't be cruel. He's your brother." Cregan says softly, and Jace is grateful that he doesn't use was .
"My Queen needs me. I'll be leaving when the morrow comes." He says incisively. "I'm counting on you to keep your word on our promise."
What Jace called a promise, Cregan called a pact. It was the final settlement with his vassals when the lord convened his own war council: a bride for Rickon of the blood of Old Valyria. Jace had no sisters or close cousins free to marry, so he promised his future children with Baela. And in return, the northerners would go down the Neck to fight for Rhaenyra.
"I'm a man of my word. The ravens have already flown south, warning that the North will keep its oath to King Viserys' only heir."
Jace nodded slightly, turning to his host. In his mind, he called him friend again, but with extra care not to let the sentiment run off his tongue. It was so curious how things could change so quickly in times of war.
"So my time here has come to an end." Jace assures him, sighing. Cregan, on the other hand, ignores his monotony as he approaches.
"I have something for you before you leave." He says, before pulling from his belt a sheath the size of Jacaerys' forearm. The prince recognizes it almost immediately from his first day in the Wolfswood: the dagger lost to Ser Medrick. Cregan holds it out carefully, and Jace holds it gently between fingers, as cold as the metal of the handle.
"You used it well against the rabbits. Try aiming for the hearts of the Hightowers if they get too close."
"It should be Rickon's." Jace mutters, exhausted.
"Give it back to him when the war's over." Cregan says, simply. Jace tucks the sheath into his belt, wondering if he can ever be that optimistic again. "And train more with long swords. Your left guard is terrible."
"A sword won't do me any good from atop my dragon." Jace replies frivolously.
He had trained in the courtyard with Stark and his men over the previous few days and knew he wasn't as skilled as Prince Daemon or Ser Criston Cole, but he felt almost ashamed to be admonished by Cregan in this way.
"Think like that, and you'll die." He replies softly, so close that his cloak tangles at Jace's feet.
"It seems to be the easiest way out now." He says, before realizing how ridiculous it sounds. He looks up, and Cregan's brow furrows from where he faces him. "I beg your pardon, my lord. I haven't been myself."
"Long swords, Jace." Cregan reiterates, and his gaze softens before he continues, "When we meet again, it will be on the battlefield."
The prince nods slightly. "You'll learn to love dragons when one saves your ass from death."
And the lord smiles, almost sarcastically. "That would be ironic, wouldn't it?"
After so many years of making up for his shortcomings and those of his brothers while striving to be worthy of the title he would one day have as Prince of Dragonstone, he became too fond of the possibility that the North had brought him: to be just Jace.
"It would make a beautiful song." He says it in an almost inaudible whisper. "The winter lord and the dragon I would call."
"Jace," Cregan says in supplication, and gods, he finally understands.
It's the prince who steps forward, brushing his lips softly against Lord Stark's, until he feels the man's breath against his skin and realizes that maybe—just maybe—he could take that small piece of mercy in such dark times. Jace finally kisses him, still cautiously, and when Cregan reciprocates his affection, it's overwhelming.
For a long moment, it's as if he forgets the pain that grips his heart. And the next moment, it's all over.
"Cregan."
"I shouldn't-" He sighs, brushing his nose across Jace's cheeks, still cold and damp from where his tears once flowed. “-it's not a good time.”
"It's not." Jace replies, swallowing dryly and making no effort to turn away.
“I’m sorry.”
The prince doesn’t answer.
"You must remain strong." Jace almost laughs at the irony—a stretch of the lips that is more than he has been able to manage in the last day. It seems to fuel Cregan, and he feels suddenly warm again when the lord takes him by the cheeks and kisses him, this time decently. When their lips open, it's the sweetness of the wine that fills Jace's tongue, and he wonders if mayhaps he's left a bit of the south in that man.
The cold fills his bones again when it's all over, and this time he doesn't want to endure it. Cregan stares at him with cloudy eyes before swallowing dryly, his eyes locked copiously on Jace's lips.
"Avoid the Riverlands on your journey back." He says, at last.
It's Jace's turn to take a deep breath. "I'll fly through the Vale."
"Good." Cregan nods, breathless. "I'll be there when you leave."
A day and a half later, after exhausting Vermax and himself to the bone, Jace sleeps among the roots of the same weirwood where he dreamt of his mother's death. This time, he's the one who's falling.