Chapter Text
For over a century, House Stark had distanced itself from the tedious politics and affairs of the courts down south.
Yet here Cregan stood; at the gates of Winterfell, Jacaerys Velaryon in tow, after their visit to The Wall where he had agreed to fight for the Prince’s cause.
The gate’s portcullis began to rise with a creak, though the sound was drowned out by the thud of Vermax landing heavily, the beast letting out a low, vibrating growl. The guards manning the gateway let out an array of alarmed shouts, and Cregan’s head snapped to watch the Prince of Dragonstone dismount. Even with the knowledge that Jace was friend and not foe, being in close proximity to such a formidable beast – more ferocious than his own Direwolf – was enough to make Cregan tense, even just for a moment.
“At ease,” Cregan’s voice echoed up towards his men.
“Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone. Our guest .” Cregan bellowed, passing the reins of his horse to a waiting stablehand. He set his sights once more on Jacaerys, who was speaking in High Valyrian to Vermax. Cautiously, Cregan approached.
“My Prince –”
“Dokimarvose, Vermax.” Jace placed a hand upon the beast’s nose, seemingly trying to calm it. “Lykirī. ‘Tis just a little cold… ” Finally, the prince’s focus snapped up towards Cregan, a huff leaving him. “Apologies, My Lord. Vermax is not used to flying in such conditions.”
Cregan studied Jace, gaze flitting from soft hands, which were red from cold, up towards his face - cheeks and nose also flushed a deep pink. Something within Cregan wanted to go forth and warm those hands with his own. A strange impulse… Flying at such heights, at such speeds surely wasn’t good for the Southron prince. Cregan daren’t speak his mind, merely nodding in understanding.
“Aye. Well, he can rest now.”
Meeting the dragon’s gaze, Cregan lifted his chin. The creature’s slitted eyes peered into his own, and it was at that moment Vermax let out a screech . Cregan flinched - the smallest of jolts, his jaw clenching as he quickly composed himself. Jace seemed to notice this, the corner of the prince’s mouth curling into a tiny smirk. Clearing his throat, Cregan took another step closer to the prince and his dragon, not wishing to embarrass himself further.
“While you are apart… Where will he go?” Cregan asked.
Jacaerys was an ally, yet Cregan was still concerned for the safety of the townsfolk. A dragon roaming the streets would surely cause unrest.
“Does Winterfell have a Dragonpit? Jacaerys asked, the faint amusement still present on his face, and evident in his voice.
“No, My Prince.” Cregan answered the jestful question matter-of-factly. “If I may – the sight of such a beast will cause a stir in winter town. The townsfolk will be settling down for their tea within the hour.”
Jacaerys shook his head, his expression reassuring. “There is nothing to worry about, My Lord. Vermax will be eager to find a cave, or some other sheltered cove to preserve his warmth for the evening. Your people are safe. My dragon is not feral.” The prince raised a brow at Cregan, and as he stepped away from his dragon, the beast took to the skies with ease. Cregan watched as it climbed up, into the heavy fog, and set off towards the hills with another shrill cry.
Once the dragon was out of sight, Cregan returned his focus to the prince, who had been watching the Lord of Winterfell all the while. The snow was descending on them much heavier now, settling like falling petals upon the prince’s brunette curls, the harsh winds picking up and causing the fabric of Jace’s cape to whip around him, almost resembling the beating wings of his dragon. One particularly strong gust pushed the prince forwards, bumping into Cregan’s chest.
“Steady,” Cregan braced a hand upon Jace’s shoulder, stabilizing the smaller man. He could now feel that the young prince was shivering even beneath his layers of clothing. Jacaerys was quick to step back, with a polite apology, the flush upon his cheeks even darker now. Poor thing must be freezing, Cregan thought to himself.
“Come, let’s get you inside. Your chambers have been prepared; a warm meal awaits us, too.”
—
Cregan waited at the head of the dining table, the door to the Great Hall finally creaking open. Jacaerys had bathed, it seemed, and changed into another set of intricate crimson robes, the Targaryen sigil adorning the chest of this garment. Cregan had shed his fur cloak but remained in the same leathers he’d worn earlier.
“You must be hungry, My Prince.” Cregan stood, pulling out the heavy wooden chair to his right for Jace.
“Starved.” Jace nodded, settling down in the dining chair, lips parting in surprise as Cregan pushed his chair back into position with ease.
“Let us eat.” Cregan’s own stomach was practically growling, but he’d waited for the prince to join him. He grabbed a leg of duck, taking a large bite, as he watched Jacaerys tuck readily into a hot bowl of stew.
“You’ve had quite the journey, I hear.”
“Mm,” Jace nodded, wiping at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "My brother and I were both sent to rally support for the Queen's claim. It was my idea to do so on dragonback, instead of sending ravens. I do find that it helps with negotiations.” A coy glance from the prince, and Cregan let out a huff, nodding in agreement. “My first stop was the Eyrie,” Continued Jace, “Then Sisterton. My third meeting was with the Manderly’s at White Harbor, and my final stop was with you at The Wall, My Lord.”
“Saved the best for last.” Cregan chimed.
With a roll of his eyes, Jace pursed his lips, fighting off a smile. “I am glad that the Lord of Winterfell has not forgotten his oath - to the rightful heir. You were wise to offer your men without any hassle.”
Cregan raised a brow at that.
“And if I had opted to refuse your request, My Prince? What was your plan, if there was any hassle ?”
Jace hummed, reaching for one of the empty goblets, and pouring himself some wine.
“Let’s just say - I have my ways. Even the most stubborn nobles will choose to bend the knee when staring down the nose of a dragon.”
Cregan scoffed out a laugh, raising his own tankard of ale to his lips. “I suppose that is quite the convincing tactic. Has anyone refused you so far?”
“No. I’m trained in the art of negotiating. I do prefer to not resort to violence.”
“Such a benevolent Prince, you are…”
They both laughed, and continued to discuss Jacaerys’ journey and negotiations as they dined. The wine and ale flowed freely, too – Jace felt a certain weight lifted from his shoulders knowing that he’d fully accomplished the goals of his mission as envoy. The warm buzz as the alcohol made its way through his system was a welcome one. The mix of exhaustion from his travels and the strength of the Northern wine caused him to become merry quite fast.
Cregan was telling a tale of his own now – some gossip about a difficult trade route negotiation with Desmond Manderly. Jace’s chin rested upon the palm of his hand, honey-brown eyes gazing intently upon the Northern Lord while he spoke. The prince let out a giggle at one of Cregan’s quips, and Cregan paused, that sweet little laugh like music to his ears. He found his own face warming now, watching as Jace swayed in his seat.
“My Prince…” Cregan reached across the table, hand wrapping around Jace’s half-empty goblet of wine. By this point Jace had already had three, maybe four glasses. “Perhaps you’ve had enough.”
“No .” Jace shook his head, a few loose curls falling across his forehead, covering his eyes. “Unhand my drink.”
Cregan smirked, his grip only tightening on the goblet, as he yanked it away. “And if I don’t? Going to set your dragon on me?”
Jacaerys gasped in feigned offense, standing from his seat now, and marching over to Cregan’s chair – slightly wobbly in his step.
“Perhaps I will.” Jace lifted his chin, staring down at Cregan with narrowed eyes.
Cregan raised Jace’s goblet, about to offer it back to the prince – but he then pulled it away again, drawing it towards his own lips and taking a sip.
“Oy!” Jace exclaimed, reaching now to grab at the goblet, causing the last of the wine to spill all over Cregan’s chin, and down his neck.
Both young men burst into laughter again, Cregan tossing the goblet aside and grabbing Jace’s wrist. “Fiery little thing…” Grey eyes gazed up at the tipsy prince, his large hand tightening around Jace’s smaller wrist.
Jacaerys simply grinned, reaching down with his free hand to cup Cregan’s face, thumb brushing across his lower lip to gather what remained of the wine. Cregan froze, letting out a breath through his nose. His heart suddenly felt like it was beating at a thousand miles an hour – he felt Jacaerys’ pulse racing too with the grip he still had upon his wrist.
Cregan watched with bated breath as Jacaerys brought his thumb up to his own plush lips, suckling at the digit for a final taste of the wine. Jace’s tongue lapped around the pad of his thumb, all the while staring down at Cregan, his gaze unrelenting. Cregan Stark, who had bed many women, and half as many men, fucked them through the night, all while spouting the most obscene things into their ears – felt what could only be described as flustered, perhaps for the first time in his life.
“My Lord?” Jace interrupted Cregan’s muddled thoughts, and he realized he was still gripping the prince’s wrist for dear life.
Cregan released Jacaerys’ wrist, pushing his chair back and standing up.
“Bed.” Cregan grunted. “Let me take you to your chambers.”
Jace tilted his head at Cregan’s words, a triumphant look of mischief on the prince’s face, as one of Cregan’s arms slipped around his waist to keep him upright.
In his merry state, Jacaerys allowed Cregan to guide him through the winding corridors, only mumbling a few complaints as they passed by the arrow slits of one of the towers, the ancient stone walls of the castle seeming to draw in the cold from outside. Cregan noticed, and quickened his pace, finally reaching the guest quarters of the castle – not too far from his own bedchamber.
“Here we are.” Cregan pushed open the door with a creak, practically hoisting the young prince alongside himself – Jace was already half asleep, cheek resting against Cregan’s bicep.
The guest quarters at Winterfell were cozy, the walls adorned with thick wooden panelling, carved intricately with illustrated Weirwood trees. In the middle of the room stood a grand four-poster bed. Cregan set Jacaerys down on the plush mattress, gathering the blankets and furs and draping them over him. Jacaerys exhaled a soft, pleased sound – it reminded Cregan of a kitten’s purr. Such a formidable prince – calculating, ambitious, with ferocious power at his fingertips. Yet ever so sweet. The softest features Cregan had ever observed on another man. Thick, dark lashes, quite like a maiden’s. High cheekbones sculpted by the Old Gods. And those full, rosy lips. Such a pretty face, perfectly framed by silken curls of brunette – Cregan had to force his gaze away, and along with it all of the improper thoughts which threatened to spill into his mind.
“My Lord…” A dreamy sigh from the prince, whose tired eyes blinked open once more.
“Yes, My Prince?”
“You will serve me?”
Cregan couldn’t help but smile – Gods, how long had it been since he spent an evening smiling like this? Not once the past year, that was certain.
“Yes, Your Grace. I haven’t forgotten my oath.” Cregan spoke, his voice a few octaves lower now, almost a whisper.
“Mn. Good… This war – we must stop the usurpers. With your help…” Jacaerys’ voice slowed to an incoherent mumble, and he rolled over, burying his face into the furs.
“Aye.” Cregan agreed with the mumblings, his expression softened, satisfied that the prince was safely abed. He spent a few moments more watching Jace, and then turned to extinguish the lantern on his nightstand.
“Sleep well, little dragon.”
He left the room as quietly as he could, and made haste for his own bedchamber. It took him some time to settle down, consumed by thoughts of the graceful Southron sleeping just a few doors away. What was this…? Perhaps it was loneliness, causing the Stark Lord to be enamoured by the first pretty face who dared smile at him since his late wife’s passing. But there was a twisting feeling in his gut, a racing in his chest which refused to calm.
Even without the ancient oath sworn between their families, Cregan thought to himself, he still would bend the knee to Prince Jacaerys. A thousand times over.
—
Rising early, just before the break of dawn, Cregan made his morning visit to the nursery. His young son Rickon, still just a babe, was still sleeping peacefully in his cot.
“My Lord, young Rickon was laughing in his sleep not long ago. He has such pleasant dreams.” The nursemaid spoke up, voice hushed so as to not wake the sleeping boy. “Perhaps he dreams of you.” There was a hopeful glint in her eye, as she looked up at Cregan.
Cregan’s expression was stern, as it usually was during his visits. Every morning he would see his son, and every morning he felt the same sense of anguish, faced with the memory of his wife’s passing. A bloody, cruel affair. How a life could be so violently torn away, as another was brought into the world… It was something he had yet to process. He didn’t speak a word to the nursemaid, the floorboards creaking under the weight of his boots as he stepped forth to look down at his son.
“Might you hold him today, My Lord? The boy needs his father’s warmth.” The nursemaid urged.
Cregan’s jaw clenched, pain lingering in his eyes. Even after all these months, he had not grown accustomed to his new role. Cregan was a warrior, a lethal swordsman, a commander of armies. He was convinced that nothing about his presence or company would soothe the babe.
Cregan left the nursery, another wordless visit.
—
Lord Stark took up his other morning duties, inspecting the grounds of Winterfell, consulting with the night’s guards before their changeover. All was well, it seemed, and so he set his sights on the Great Hall, joining the other members of the household for breakfast.
With breakfast well underway, Cregan’s gaze lingered on the doors, awaiting Jacaerys’ arrival. Yet… It never came. Perhaps the prince was a late riser? Perhaps he opted to dine alone in the mornings?
No, that was unbecoming of the young prince, who’d proven himself to be plenty companionable the previous evening.
Cregan ushered over one of the servants, his voice hushed. “Where is Prince Jacaerys?”
“His Grace is… Unwell, My Lord.”
Cregan’s chair screeched as he pushed it back, and stood at his full height. “And nobody thought to inform me? What has happened?” He was rushing out of the Great Hall as he spoke, the servant girl following after him with haste.
“Th – The prince didn’t want to cause a fuss. He asked to be left alone. His own words, My Lord.” The girl was jogging now to catch up with Cregan as he marched for the guest chambers.
“I will not have the Prince of Dragonstone unwell, under my care. What is his condition?”
“I –” The servant stopped as they reached Jacaerys’ door, bowing her head. She was perplexed, having never seen the Stark Lord so visibly worried about another person – a foreign guest, no less. “Perhaps you should see for yourself, My Lord.”
“I will. Go, now. Send for the Maester.” Cregan barked, and with that, she scurried off. Cregan gave the door a single knock before he pushed it open.
“I asked for privacy –” Jacaerys snapped weakly, not realizing that it was Cregan entering the room.
“Apologies, My Prince. One of my servants informed me of your condition. I…” It was only now it dawned on Cregan that he had no right to barge in on the prince, especially when he had asked specifically for no guests. “I only wished to see for myself that nothing is awry.”
Jacaerys looked rather… Dishevelled. He was sitting up, his hair a mess, his cheeks a rosy pink. At some point during the night he seemed to have shed his layers of clothing, and was now down to just a loose black linen shirt, the collar unlaced, revealing a portion of his chest, pale skin coated in a light sheen of sweat. Cregan licked his lips, unknowingly.
“Something is awry.” Jace sniffled, looking up at Cregan in despair. “My head feels as if it has been rattled – I… I’m freezing, and yet, feel as if burnt by dragonflame. I’ve never –” The prince was cut off by a sneeze, to which he looked horrified, a trembling hand coming up to cover his nose and mouth.
“You’ve caught a cold, My Prince.” Cregan hid a small smile by pacing over to the heath to rekindle the fire, tossing some more wood into the flames until they were dancing again.
“Some northern curse, more like…”
“A curse placed upon our guest? I wouldn’t allow it.” Cregan shook his head, and moved back to the bed, crossing his arms over his chest as he stared down at the prince. “It’s quite common for Southrons to develop such ailments when they first arrive, especially those not accustomed to the chill. You have travelled far these past few weeks – and not taken a moment to rest between negotiations. This takes a toll on the body…”
“Fire runs through my veins… This is not something I will be dealing with –” Jacaerys sniffled, “Perhaps those other Southrons suffer from this ‘cold’... But Targaryens are untroubled by the pestilences that afflict common men. Do you not study our history?”
A smirk spread upon Cregan’s lips at that – he was well versed in the propaganda spouted by most of the houses down south, each of them eager to prove their divine right to the throne.
“‘Tis nothing to be ashamed of, Your Grace. Even the mightiest warriors can be felled by the cold air of The North. I’ve seen it myself.”
“I am not felled.” Jacaerys’ voice was weak, and Cregan was sure he heard a hint of sadness in it. He frowned, taking a knee by the prince’s bedside.
“I know, I know. And rest assured, My Prince, nobody else will hear of it. Your reputation is safe. I’ll have all of the servants who saw you in this state rounded up, and I will personally see to their execution –”
“My Lord!” Jacaerys gasped, surging forward where he sat.
Cregan bellowed out a laugh at Jacaerys’ genuine alarm, though his words did seem to have drawn the boy out of his sulkiness.
“A joke, Your Grace. Though I will ensure it is kept quiet. Rest is what you need. You’ll feel like yourself again soon enough.”
“You… villain.” Jacaerys pouted, but Cregan was glad to see the smallest of smiles on the prince’s lips now. He reached across to place his hand upon Jacaerys’ forehead, brows furrowing at the prince’s high temperature.
“Hmm…” Jace sighed out, closing his eyes as he leaned up into the touch. “Your hands are nice and cool. You ought to stay here for a while.”
Cregan nodded, resisting the urge to let his hand roam further up into those dark curls. After a moment he reached for the bowl of icy water on the tray at Jace’s bedside, lightly wringing out the cloth and then pressing it back upon Jacaerys’ forehead. He worked the cool cloth down the side of the prince’s face, cupping one of his cheeks, and then further down to cool off his neck. Jacaerys’ lips had parted as he watched Cregan, relaxing back against the pillows with a satisfied hum.
Cregan dared to move the cloth further down Jace’s neck, gently swiping away at the beads of sweat which had collected on his collarbone. The prince had fallen silent, and Cregan worked slowly, cautiously. He gave the cloth a squeeze, ice-cold water dripping down Jace’s chest, beneath his shirt, eliciting a quiet gasp from the prince.
“Are you cooled off now, Your Grace?” Cregan asked in a whisper.
“Quite the opposite.” Jacaerys breathed, reaching up to grasp Cregan’s hand in his own. The movement caused Cregan to drop the cloth altogether, his free hand moving up, fingers tangling into Jacaerys’ curls, brushing through them as his impulse got the better of him.
“My Lord,” Jacaerys panted, his golden eyes glistening.
“Cregan is fine, My Prince.”
“Cregan.” Jacaerys laced his fingers together with Cregan’s, shifting over slightly where he lay, as if to beckon him onto the bed.
Cregan swallowed thickly, and made haste to join the Targaryen prince, to provide warmth, or whatever else he might require –
That’s when the door burst open, the Grand Maester arriving.
Cregan shot to his feet, stumbling back a few steps, almost colliding with the nearby wardrobe.
“Grand Maester Serlyn.” He greeted, voice somewhat hoarse, his breathing heavy as he looked between Jace and the Maester, and then back down to Jace. The prince was still staring up at Cregan, lips formed into a sad pout.
“I came as soon as I was summoned.” Maester Serlyn, a plump, elderly man, offered a bow towards the prince who was sprawled in the bed – Jace paid him no mind.
“Thank you… He – The Prince, requires your attention. I must…” Cregan beckoned uselessly towards the window. “Combat training.” He blurted out, his heavy footsteps rushing for the door.
Maester Serlyn looked confused, glancing toward the candle clock in the corner of the room.
Strange. Lord Stark’s training wasn’t for another two hours…