Chapter Text
Lord Cregan Stark is an honorable man.
An honorable alpha.
His desires? Well, it’s not dishonor if the boy is offered up fairly in trade…and that’s exactly what happens after the northern lord responds to the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen’s request for soldiers with one of his own: an omega to wed.
*
“A southern prince in northern snows?” Robb Cassel peers down at the vellum holding details of the queen’s agreement. “He’ll freeze before your men push through the Neck.”
Cregan slips the queen’s letter into his pocket to halt his castellan’s commentary. Then he dips his quill into a bottle of ink and scrawls his assent onto a fresh sheet of parchment. Robb’s protests are in vain, for Cregan will not be changing his mind on this matter. It’s why he’s standing in the rookery, inking his reply with haste against stone instead of writing it out in the comfort of his lord’s chambers.
He will send the raven tonight.
Justification of this decision arises when Cregan’s breath turns to mist on his next exhale; proof that although the north is still mid-harvest, the gods have commenced the changing of the seasons. Winter is coming, and before it does, Cregan must secure his legacy.
There is no room for delay.
Unfortunately, Robb notices the chill as well. “Where is the maester?” He asks, glancing back towards the stairwell at the unlit sconces. “Have you given him leave again?”
Cregan grunts, signing his name at the bottom of the parchment with a flourish.
The beta beside him releases an exasperated sigh. “My lord, the Citadel sent Maester Kennet to us for a reason. You cannot send him away whenever he vexes you. There are others in the keep who need his aid.”
“I did not send him away.”
“Cregan,” Robb groans.
“Mayhaps he should stop speaking of his obsession within earshot,” Cregan grates out as he stares at the ink, willing it to dry so that he can abandon this conversation entirely.
Maester Kennet has one interest, and it is a topic he will speak on until the ears of his companions have long burst and bled out: northern burial methods. Cregan initially gave the man leave following the birth of Rickon, for the beta’s eager response at having had an opportunity to practice such methods with the lord’s first companion was irksome. But despite the Starks having managed to raise their young for centuries without meddling maesters involved, Robb called the beta back to Winterfell within a fortnight to aid in tending to the babe whose mother had died and whose father had more important matters to mind.
With the mounting pressures of preparing for winter, it’s taken Robb nearly a full moon turn to notice the man’s absence this time. A small win, but a victory is a victory.
“You know I must send for him,” Robb sighs. “And once the queen’s son arrives, you will not be permitted to give the maester leave again until winter has passed.”
Cregan is already mourning the peace of quiet that the maester’s absence grants, but he doesn’t argue. He knows that Robb is speaking truth.
“I mean it, my lord. Winters are difficult enough for betas born in the north. A southern one?” Robb shakes his head. “It will be a long, arduous season for the prince.”
Cregan blinks, reaching for his pocket without thought before dropping his hand at the last moment. He would not lie to Robb, but mayhaps—
“Hold on,” Robb says, narrowing his gaze. “What’s got you so twitchy?”
Lord Stark is not slow. He’s quick on his feet and has spent many years down in the yard, honing his reflexes. But Robb is no dullard, and he knows the lord better than anyone. Before Cregan can shove the queen’s letter deeper into the pocket of his furs, the beta has snatched it and is reading her words.
Cregan sighs, but does not fight it. His castellan will learn the truth soon enough.
“You didn’t,” Robb whispers, horrified.
“I need an heir.”
“You will not get one from a frozen corpse,” Robb argues, reaching next for the parchment Cregan is willing to dry. “Write her back. The queen’s youngest is an unbetrothed beta—”
Cregan jerks the letter away before Robb can get his hands onto it. “I do not wish to bed a child,” Cregan snaps, rolling up the parchment. He no longer cares if the ink is smudged. His response is a mere formality—the contents will change nothing. “It is done, Robb. Prince Jacaerys is flying north as we speak.”
“Omegas don’t survive northern winters. You’ve sentenced him to die,” Robb accuses in a harsh tone.
Rage flashes through Cregan in an instant, and he bares his teeth at his old friend; a primitive response to being challenged. In a reversed mirror of instincts, all of the blood drains from Robb’s face and the beta tilts his chin to expose his neck—submitting at once to his alpha lord.
But Cregan isn’t through. “Do not speak to me of death,” the alpha growls in a low, threatening voice. Robb flinches, but Cregan can’t stem the ire that drips from his tongue. “I need no reminder of what the gods see fit to steal at their own behest.”
The gods have taken everyone from Cregan; his mother, his father, his brother...his first mate. Each death as harsh as the last. Each death hardening his heart. If it weren't for the fact that Arra Norrey had been a beta Cregan had known since childhood, he's not sure he would have had a heart to open for her. But he did, and it ended in tragedy—as it always seems to do in the north. The ache left behind by Arra’s premature demise is something he has, with the aid of delving into preparations for the incoming winter, emotionally moved beyond. But the trauma of losing his beta mate is not something he will ever forget.
Nor will he repeat it.
Cregan will wed the boy, but he will not take Jacaerys as his mate—not in the traditional sense. An alpha’s seed is potent enough that he will not need to give the omega his knot to ensure a pregnancy. And Cregan’s restraint is strong enough that he will not need to sink his teeth into the omega’s flesh to satisfy his own carnal instincts, either. It’s not needed for a breeding, and he’s already been down that road. It led to heartache he’s unwilling to revisit again in this lifetime.
His intentions with the queen’s son are to fulfill his duty as Lord of Winterfell.
Nothing more, nothing less.
And he must do this—for Rickon, his only child, is a beta.
Southern lords may rule as betas, but northern lords do not have the pleasure. They would be ripped to shreds by challengers in an instant…and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.
Meaning that to prevent his dynasty from being lost to the traitors locked away in down in the crypts beneath his keep, Lord Stark must father an alpha heir—and the best way to guarantee that his next child is an alpha is by bedding an omega, just as his imprisoned uncle somehow managed to do.
“Apologies,” Robb finally simpers. “I did not mean to suggest— I only meant—”
Cregan is irritated, but Robb is his closest confidante in Winterfell, so he takes pity on the terrified, stammering beta. He exhales heavily. “This was no decision I made out of selfish folly,” the alpha explains in an even tone, placing two fingers over Robb’s pulse to placate the beta’s instincts.
His castellan relaxes under the touch. “Forgive me, my lord. I believe you,” Robb says, although it’s evident he doesn’t, “but you must admit that it will appear that way to the other northern lords.”
“You know that Rickon is not fit to inherit my legacy,” Cregan says quietly, lowering his tone but not relaxing it as he gathers what he needs to melt wax for a seal. “I am doing what I must to protect the north.”
“But an omega?” Robb questions. “Many suitable betas remain unmated in the north…they birth alphas not infrequently, my lord."
What Robb leaves off, what both of them already know, is that northern betas birth alphas one to three. Other regions vary, but the blood of the First Men flows strong in designation; there are many alphas born to northern lords, for were there not, the north would have perished long ago to the harsh winters. Arra was more northern than even Cregan, having been born to the northern mountain clans, and so had she lived through Rickon's birth, she would have likely given Cregan more than one alpha to proclaim heir. He could have chosen the strongest.
But she did not live.
And thus, Cregan has yet to father a suitable heir to protect his dynasty and his keep—to protect the north and the realm beneath it.
Cregan lights a flame to heat the wax. “It’s rare.” Although in truth, Robb has a point, for finding an omega that hasn’t been sworn to another is even more rare. The only reason the queen acquiesced is because she has somehow birthed three of them—and needs his men, desperately. If rumors hold truth, she even broke another vow to send Jacaerys north…but even if it were not only rumor, Cregan has no duty to another man’s words. Only his own, and the queen has agreed to his terms, so he holds no guilt for a slight of someone else’s making.
“Your mother was a beta.”
“What are you implying?” Cregan asks as the wax begins to liquefy. It’s unnecessary, for he knows what Robb is thinking, but if the beta is going to make the accusation, he might as well do it in a form that Cregan can respond to.
Robb shifts from one foot to another. “You’ve spent enough time around others to know exactly what I’m implying,” Robb mutters. “But if you would hear it aloud, fine: they’re going to call you cruel. Regardless of what happens, you’ll be remembered as a callous lord who put his own hedonistic pleasures above the welfare of his mate—”
“That boy will never be my mate,” Cregan snarls.
Robb inhales sharply as Cregan drips wax down onto the fold of the parchment. “Apologies, my lord,” he mutters, “but you cannot pretend to be ignorant of what others will think.” He leans closer, as if he’s afraid of being overheard. “They’ll call him your whore.”
Omegas are rare, but when they’re born, they’re known for one thing above all else: their sex drive.
They’re mad for fucking. Their bodies are crafted by the gods to spend a lifetime hanging off of an alpha’s knot; their hips widen to bear children, their breasts fill with milk, and even in the most difficult season of their pregnancy, it’s rumored that their incessant drive for pleasure never quits. It’s said that some omegas will do anything to be fucked—and it’s not uncommon for a lord to take one or two in as companions in addition to his royal consort, should he hear of any unclaimed omega living in his lands. In fact, because of that, most omegas are betrothed before they can even walk—passed along to their future mate and kept locked in a vault until they’re of age for fear of another alpha encroaching…because should an alpha hear of an unmated omega, it’s not a matter of if he will come: it’s a matter of when.
Even Prince Jacaerys’ own ancestor, the conqueror King Aegon Targaryen, could not resist the allure of his omega sisters. He had two wives because of it; a beta to wed and an omega to bed.
And as awful as they sound, Robb’s words are truth.
Omegas are rare throughout the land, and nearly non-existent in the north. They’re so fragile that many of them die within a fortnight of their birth. As such, most of what people above the Neck know about omegas is learned from tales told around campfires. The worst of the stories call the omegas heathens beneath their alluring facade; claim that their appearance is an act. That they suck the souls of men out through their cocks and usurp the power of their lord husbands to wield it as they wish.
Most of the tales name omegas as no more than devils; slight, delicate creatures that use their designation to grasp at something that should only belong to an alpha.
But Cregan holds no space in his mind for such a thing. It’s laughable to think that an omega could ever wield the hand of the alpha they lay with each night. If they could, wouldn’t they have claimed Westeros by now? No…the only rumor that concerns Cregan is the one that has been proven true: that omegas only birth alphas and other omegas, and therefore, are invaluable to an heirless alpha such as he.
So although Robb’s concerns are not made from nothing, they’re unwarranted.
Cregan has never cared about the thoughts of other, less formidable men.
“I thought you were worried he wouldn’t last the winter,” Cregan grunts, pressing his ring into the wax. “Now you’re worried about what people will whisper?”
“I’m still worried about his ability to handle the harsh northern snows,” Robb sniffs.
Cregan reaches for a raven, tying the scroll to its leg and sending it aflight, and then turns back to his castellan, taking pity at long last. “If he is what the rumors bid, the prince will be fine.”
Robb furrows his brow, and then all at once, his eyes widen. “It’s true, then? The boy’s alpha was Ser Harwin Strong?”
The north may be isolated, but rumors carry through snow just as well as they do through sun. And with a war brewing between dragons, every alehouse from the Stepstones to the Wall is whispering the same one; that Prince Jacaerys’ dirty hair and muddy gaze speak of a truth that Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen refuses to reveal.
That her eldest son is a bastard.
That he was born not only with the blood of Old Valyria, but that of the First Men as well. That she named her fourth-born as heir not because he was the first of her children to present as an alpha—but because he was the first of her children born without shame.
But those rumors are exactly why Cregan made the request he did. Why he has no qualms against the proffered match, as plain as Jacaerys is said to be. For Cregan may be known throughout Westeros as a savage wolf, but he is no fool.
A delicate omega would, in fact, perish in the north.
But Prince Jacaerys is not a delicate omega. His blood is washed in that of the First Men. And although it is a secret that, should it ever be revealed for truth, could wreak havoc across the land…it is the entirety of the omega’s appeal—outside of his designation, of course.
Prince Jacaerys’ veins carrying the crimson of the First Men means that Jacaerys will be more likely to survive the winters than any other omega taken from a southern home. It also means that he will be strong enough for Lord Stark to fuck an heir into his womb the first night that they’re wed.
And the night after that, and the one after that.
Cregan has no plans to romance the omega and is under no illusion that such a designation might survive for very long in the north. He plans to use Jacaerys as any other noble lord uses their omega: to secure his dynasty. Cregan intends on laying the omega onto his belly and filling the boy’s cunt with seed for as many evenings as it takes to quicken. If the first babe to emerge is not an alpha, he will try again. And again. He will breed the royal omega he’s been gifted as many times as it takes for an alpha babe to emerge from between the boy’s plain, pale thighs.
Because while Lord Cregan Stark is an honorable man, he has never claimed to be a compassionate one…and winter is coming.
He needs an heir.
“Come,” Cregan says in lieu of a response. “I would prepare our chamber for his arrival.”
Robb looks as though he wants to continue arguing, but finally nods. “Aye.”
It’s harsh, this life that Lord Cregan Stark lives, but it is the life he was born to. The omega flying north is the solution he has needed for quite some time: Cregan will pup him up and then pass him off, allowing the retinue of handmaidens he’s brought into Winterfell ensure that all goes well.
And he will not, under any circumstances, fall victim to the wiles of a southern omega prince.
It’s laughable to even consider it possible.
*
It’s cold on the night that Prince Jacaerys arrives, and as is tradition in the north, the boy remains out of Cregan’s sight as they both prepare for the ceremony.
Which means that when they first meet in the godswood, when Lord Cregan Stark first lays eyes upon his omega offering, he nearly crumples into the powder at his feet as something sharp and hot strikes him in the chest. It’s like the compass that guides him through life is being yanked forth, crushed and remade in that very moment—changed, tethering his heart to the one beating in the chest of the boy that will soon join him beneath the tree of the same name.
“Omega,” Cregan breathes, the word tasting like the sweetest treacle atop his tongue—it’s a scent, too, he realizes. The omega’s scent, delicious and aromatic even from afar. “Omega.”
Jacaerys’ head jerks up, his dark gaze settling upon Cregan, and he whispers something as well—but is too far away for the alpha lord to hear it. Anger licks through Cregan at being denied such a pleasure, but he remains where he is, for when he lunges forth, Robb yanks him back.
Cregan snaps his teeth at Robb, because what could a beta understand about alpha drive? About needing to reach out and possess that which was created specifically for him, but the castellan shakes his head and digs his fingers into the meat of Cregan’s bicep hard enough to soften the haze Cregan hadn’t even realized washed over his mind.
“Oh,” Cregan breathes, attempting to reign himself in.
“Allow him to approach,” Robb murmurs. “It is how this must be done. He is not yours until he takes the vow.”
The omega’s steps quicken, and rather than rip out his beta’s throat, Cregan turns to look upon his gift with a shame he hasn’t felt in…ever. Jacaerys won’t be given away as is tradition, for he did not arrive with an alpha to do such a thing, and Cregan did not offer to find him an escort. In truth, the ceremony seemed frivolous. A ridiculous necessity standing in the way of the breedings to come, for Cregan has already been wed once. He had no intention of repeating the act with the same flourish; did not invite guests, did not plan for a feast, and would not have even had furs to cloak his omega in, were those used by his own parents not found late last night by Cregan’s castellan.
Cregan glances at Robb, suddenly feeling a fool. “We must delay,” he hisses. “This is not— this is not suitable.” There’s a buzzing just beneath his skin; an instinct like nails ripping through flesh. It’s screeching that Cregan is failing. That he has not provided. That he has not done what an alpha should do for their true mate.
That if he does not correct his mistake, his omega might reject him.
It is a horror too dire to consider.
“We must delay,” he hisses at Robb with more venom. “We must.”
Robb’s mouth pulls into a tight grimace. “This will do, Lord Stark. The vows must be taken.”
Cregan shakes his head. “This is not right. We will wait for Maester Kennet’s return.” That will give them plenty of time to prepare for something better.
Robb barks out a laugh. “We will absolutely not be doing that.”
But Cregan’s alpha hindbrain is incessant; demanding he do something, anything, to make their ceremony more than the pathetic joining it’s set to become. For he has vastly underestimated the allure of the southern boy he’s been gifted…and when the omega finally joins them in the snows beneath the weirwood, it only reaffirms the realization in his mind that he’s been wrong.
So very wrong.
The boy is as frail as any omega—shivering in the wind as it whispers through the air; his legs wobbling like those of a green colt in the springtime. It makes the beast in Cregan’s chest purr, for there is no better match for a rugged alpha lord than a delicate, graceful omega in need of warmth and protection—and Prince Jacaerys is exactly that. He’s a svelte young lad, a beautiful omega; a seraphic fawn in both mind and vision.
Nothing of the plain-featured bastard that people have painted him as.
The omega that stands before Cregan is like something out of a dream; he’s more stunning than words could possibly describe, and his trembling body does nothing but arouse the alpha lord to a startling degree. His porcelain skin is pale and flushed; and there’s a smattering of tawny freckles dusting the bridge of his nose that call to Cregan on a primitive level.
He would lave his tongue across each one right now if Robb would release him.
And the prince’s hair is not dirty. Cregan would pluck the eyes from anyone who dare to say such a thing in his presence, for the prince’s hair is a gorgeous mane of dark chocolate. It’s rich in color and appears as smooth as one of the silks brought to Westeros from across The Narrow Sea—but is far more alluring than any fabric could ever be.
His own silver eyes flicker to the omega’s next, and Cregan is filled with a vile repulsion for the men who dared call his omega’s irises muddy. They’re anything but. They’re the color of dark cedar. A burnt umber that appears as liquid; two perfect pools of sight that gleam in the setting sun. Cregan would drown himself in them, were he able, and as he realizes this truth, he realizes another—that the tales were true.
Were his new omega to ask anything of him, he would find it impossible to deny the boy his wish.
Even worse, he doesn’t care.
“You are untouched by any other?” Robb asks.
Cregan snarls. “Do not speak to him.”
Jacaerys’ lips curve up into a smile, and the alpha’s own knees wobble. When they part with a soft laughter, the dulcet tone makes Cregan weak. “I am pure,” Jacaerys says quietly. “Untouched by any other.” A soft pink blooms atop his cheekbones, making heat stir in Cregan’s groin. He turns slightly, bringing his round arse into view. “Am I to your liking, my lord?”
Cregan could wax poetic about the omega’s perfect shape, for the trim waist and the curve of his backside are both visible even beneath the multiple layers of lambskin and wool—but before he’s able to respond, Jacaerys licks his lips.
All of Cregan’s thoughts are abruptly pushed aside to make room for one focus; the omega’s mouth.
Cregan’s length twitches with something heady, and the alpha growls, for the beauty of the omega’s mouth is like nothing he’s ever seen. Ballads will be written about Jacaerys’ plush, swollen lips. Songs will be passed down for generations to come. Words will be inked forevermore into vellum of the softest calf, songs to be sang in taverns throughout the land, and caroled by men during long nights spent alone beside a campfire; dreams of a perfect omega in place of a warm body.
All of these odes will regale the plump, swollen lips belonging to the Lord of Winterfell’s precious omega mate. It will be said for eras to come that the curve of Jacaerys’ smile is so alluring, just one glimpse by a field of enemy soldiers would have them falling to their knees in submission.
Cregan will make sure of it.
A sharp pain in his side makes Cregan snap at the threat—but then he realizes it’s only Robb.
Gods, what is happening to him?
Cregan clears his throat as Jacaerys laughs again, a melody so sweet, it whispers through the air and caresses the skin atop Cregan’s face. “Omega,” Cregan responds, voice gruff.
Jacaerys turns to Robb. “Is this the only word he knows?”
Cregan’s cheeks burn with humiliation. “Jacaerys,” he says, quickly.
“Oh,” the prince smiles. “You’ve been taught my name as well. Well-trained, I see.”
Robb laughs so hard that he nearly topples over into the snow.
Cregan’s jaw drops open, but he’s unable to conceive of a response.
“Alpha,” the boy purrs. “Would you cloak me?” He bites down on one of his swollen lips. “It’s colder in your godswood than they said it would be.”
He may not be able to speak, but this much, Cregan can do. He rips the cloak his own father presented his mate from his shoulders and throws it around Jacaerys’ narrow ones; swathing the boy’s delicate body in the furs of House Stark.
The ceremony that follows is quick. Snow falls around them, as do errant red leaves from the heart tree, and by the time the handfasting is complete, and Robb calls for them to seal the joining, Cregan is burning with a need to claim his mate.
Instead, he presses his mouth to the lips he’s been gazing at for the entirety of Robb’s speech, and moans when the omega grants him immediate entrance. The boy winds his palms up around Cregan’s neck and presses into the man’s body—all while releasing the softest whimpers; little sounds of sex that make Cregan dizzy with need as he suckles at the tongue of the boy that now belongs to him.
When they part, Cregan leans his forehead against Jacaerys’ and winds his arms around the boy’s slender hips, holding them together. “Leave us,” Cregan commands Robb. Mayhaps he will take his new omega bride right here beneath the weirwood.
“I think we better go inside,” Robb says, his laughter from earlier fading fast. “Lord Stark, won’t you show your omega his new chambers?”
Cregan snarls at Robb. “Leave us.”
The castellan backs away a few steps, his palms raised. “Um, my prince—”
Jacaerys slides one of his delicate hands down Cregan’s chest. “I would like to see my chambers,” he pouts, pushing his fat lower lip out enough that Cregan has to force himself to look away from the boy’s mouth. “Please, my lord?”
Cregan frowns, tugging Jacaerys tighter into his body. His cock is large, but mayhaps the boy is unfamiliar with such a thing—unaware of the alpha’s ardent need. “You do not wish to mate?”
Jacaerys tilts his head, and then ever so slowly, slides his palm even further down, until it’s cupping Cregan’s length so cruelly that the alpha can hardly think straight for the way that his desire burns through him. “Wouldn’t you rather lay me in a bed of furs and taste my cunt before you take it?” Jacaerys squeezes.
White flashes across Cregan’s mind; a haze of arousal so thick and heady that it nearly rewires him all over again—but it wars with his alpha instinct to provide what his omega is requesting. Two equally powerful forces coursing through Cregan like clashing tides. One demands he fuck his omega beneath the heart tree before any other can be near him, that he imbue his mate with the scent of a Stark so that all know who he belongs to. And yet, the other is just as primitive in its demand that he bend to his omega’s wishes, that he make his omega happy; that he please his new bride.
The latter wins.
Cregan works his jaw and nods. “Yes,” he rasps.
Jacaerys’ palm remains where it is as delight gleams in his gaze. “And a meal?”
“Anything,” Cregan breathes.
“Anything?” Jacaerys squeezes again—a wicked promise of sorts, and Cregan whimpers, his throat releasing a sound that he hadn’t even realized he could make. “Careful,” Jacaerys hums. “A bed and a feast is not all that I desire.”
A breeze whips through the godswood so quick, it fills the air around them with a blanket of snow—stifling Cregan’s senses for a single breath.
During it, there’s a moment where Cregan’s mind is suddenly clear, and he freezes.
What in the name of the Others is he doing?
But his omega steps closer, whimpering softly into the space between them, and the thought dissipates as the alpha lifts his new bride up into his arms.
“Omega,” he husks, chest rumbling.
“Alpha.”