Lord Stark

Pale fingers strum a golden lyre while a melody slips past plush lips, "Oh, once I slept in a feather bed with woollen blankets warm. Now I'm glad to lay my head on a cloak that's old and torn. Oh, sing with me a merry catch as summer days will come. My love he is a soldier boy, and so I'm following the drum." The song rose up to the ceiling and floated out the door; it swept up and down the street, luring passersby like a siren song. Wyll was a beautiful boy who had washed up upon the shores of White Harbor one evening. Without a name of his own or any memory before waking, he employed himself as a sailor. His looks attracted a nearby madame who employed him at her fine establishment. The Pearl offered a warm body and bed to sailors who could afford it. Wyll was exceedingly popular, and made expensive to stave off any sailors unworthy of his attention. He didn't mind this, as he was often left to strum his lyre and sing. Wyll much preferred his lyre over the male instrument.

With Aegon crowned, Cregan had little reason to remain in Winterfell. Passing through White Harbor on his way back home he would be compelled by a familiar voice. It called to him from down a bustling street, beckoning him forward and into the Pearl. Wyll was clad in an outfit of chiffon, leaving most of his pale chest exposed. Scars littered his torso, with one even sitting above a vital point above his neck. He was so pretty that his clients didn't mind these blemishes upon his body. Wyll's song was full of yearning and it curled around the room, compelling Cregan closer and closer until he was standing before the stage. Nobody would dare correct the Lord of Winterfell. If he wanted to stare at the Pearl's prettiest boy he was well within his right to do so.

But it was done. He had been named Hand of the King, and had borne that title for little more than a day. Two men had been beheaded, and victory had been assumed. Assumed, but the taste in his mouth was not one of victory, but of dread and disgust. The taste was bitter, and it remained in his mouth all the way back north. If anything, traveling beyond the Neck intensified the taste. The familiar cold winds made him reminisce about Jacaerys. A time that felt so long ago, but so close at the same time. In some moments, he caught himself wondering when Jacaerys would come back to visit. More often, he found himself staring at the pale scar across his palm, one that had once brought him some source of purpose, but now brought only feelings of sadness. Misery. Grief, but he would not allow himself to admit to feeling such a way. Grief was not something that he could feel often and openly, and certainly not for a prince who had, in the eyes of the realm, had been only an ally. But he allowed himself to grieve quietly. Silently, but no less powerful. It settled in his chest, as heavy as his heart, and Cregan feared that it would remain there for life. 

Seeking a day or two to rest, Cregan and the few men that had come home with him had settled into White Harbor. Lord Manderly had been kind enough to permit them to stay, attempting to please his liege lord by insisting that he and his men could stay “as long as they required,” but Cregan knew his bannerman. He was… a cautious man, he would say that to Lord Manderly’s face, but fickle was the word that he kept to himself. He had no intention of staying in White Harbor any longer than was necessary. The march had been a long one, the elements and his own grievances wearing him down, and whilst it was nice to sleep in a feather bed, he was feeling quite homesick. He missed sleeping in his own bed, being within his own keep where he truly belonged. He missed his son. He missed Alton as well, who had decided to remain in the South for a while longer, for reasons that Cregan had no desire to be told of. But above all, he missed Jacaerys. Not a moment went by where he didn’t, and it pained him to think that he would never truly see him again. A few times, it crossed Cregan's mind to perhaps have a small statue erected in the crypts to honor him. He considered, but the thought slipped away easier than it came. Whatever statue he could have created would never do the true beauty of his face justice, and he refused to give his love one last insult. 

They would leave on the morrow, he had decided. The horses had been fed, watered and rested, and now they must move on to return home. He had been to White Harbor a few times in his young life, but he had never truly gotten to explore the place. Before he and his men would take their leave, he had decided to poke his nose about. Perhaps a walk would do him good, distracting his mind from the boy who, even while dead, had settled inside of it like a weed. A weed that had begun to infect his very senses, it seemed. Cregan hardly ever went to brothels. Sparse times, few and far between, when his loneliness began to crush him and twist at his innards, when he desired not for touch but for comfort. But he had felt drawn to this place. The Pearl, it was called, if his maester had not failed in teaching him to read. Someone within was singing, and it was quite a lovely sound. Soft and smooth, like velvet or silk. Jacaerys had sung like that. Though the prince had been a bit shy in his abilities, but a few cups of ale had been enough to loosen his tongue, and he had been glad to have loosened it. To think of dying without hearing Jacaerys sing a singular time seemed a bleak existence. 

But he did not allow himself to say those words aloud, and certainly not to Jacaerys’s face. No, if time proved eternal, the sensitivity that Jacaerys harbored would have remained, and upsetting the king would surely not make for a good first impression. He may have known and loved Prince Jacaerys, but he knew little of King Jacaerys, and he intended to remain wary, till his confidant proved himself unchanged. His knee remained planted firmly to the hard marble floor, forever bent for his friend and the dynasty he represented. Jacaerys’s palm rested on his shoulder, soft, but not lacking in its power. He spoke fondly, and if he didn’t feel so discomforted by the southron rats that this court had been filled with, he would have graced his king with a smile. Perhaps later. 

At his king's command, he stood, and kept the amusement he felt to himself, immediately noting the lack of growth in His Grace’s stature. He felt relieved when Jacaerys dismissed his subjects, even his guards, leaving the king vulnerable with the wolf. When the last guard took his leave with a polite bow, he allowed himself to relax, shoulders loosening. Instead of returning to perch on his throne, the king stepped into his personal space, brushing his thumb over the silver pin fastened to his collar. A gift, more than an honor, one Cregan did not himself desire for, but he thought that Jacaerys would appreciate seeing it. “Aye, I did.” He uttered, keeping his tone low and only for his ears, despite them being alone. “...I thought you would like it.” He continued quietly, pulling his lips into a frown at the wetness rimming his dark brown eyes. On the verge of tears, but he still smiled at him, declared that he had missed him. He wondered what he did to deserve such a smile, but he was too selfishly desperate for his attention that he did not question.

"I like it very much." He says, rubbing the pin between thumb and forefinger gently. Jacaerys doesn't comment when he sees a flicker of amusement poke through Cregan's gruff exterior. He knows that the man is tickled pink with his lack of growth. Jace hadn't grown an inch since their time together, leaving him just as short as he had been when departing Winterfell. The only consolation was that his crown added an inch or two to his height. Jace wants to pull the man into a deep hug so he might smother himself against his furs and wrap his cloak around him. He resists, uncertain if there are any eyes currently upon them. King's Landing was a den of vipers, and Jacaerys knew that there were still supporters of Aegon lurking within her walls. Instead he simply offers Cregan a smile of reassurance so he might combat his frown. After traveling for weeks on end he deserved better than to feel guilty over circumstances out of his control. Jacaerys was there before him. Alive. Stressed, tired, and addled with a special sort of guilt, but very much alive.

I'm here now. You'll have me for as long as we both breathe, my lord. Jace thinks but doesn't say aloud. He doesn't want to overwhelm Cregan or throw himself upon his feet. Jace was a king now and had to have some decorum. That facade quickly crumbles when Cregan turns over his hand, revealing the scar that bonded their blood and souls together as one. Jace looks up from the scar to his beloved while the entire room begins to shimmer. Control yourself, Jacaerys. He thinks but can already feel tears coming on. His shoulders pushed themselves up and then fell heavily down as he began to cry.

Pity and embarrassment rooted the king before Cregan. Ever since arriving in King's Landing he hadn't allowed himself to grieve. Even when he held his younger brothers when they became mournful, he remained stoic and strong for them. In front of Cregan, whom he trusted more than anybody else in the world, he could cry freely. "--I'm sorry, Cregan." Jace chokes out softly, wiping at his eyes with a red and gold embroidered sleeve. "Seeing you has brought forth everything I've tried so hard to suppress these past weeks." He sniffles, casting his gaze away from the man whom he was afraid would judge him for his lack of decorum. Jacaerys was no longer a prince who could indulge in something as human as crying. He was a king now, one who had lost a majority of his family and felt as though he was still clinging to the wreckage of the gullet.

“I’m glad you like it.” He replied, soft and oddly gentle. Tilting his head enough to watch as the king rubbed the pin between his fingers, tenderly, as if his touch would stain it. Hesitantly, he raised his other hand up to rest it over Jacaerys’s, brushing his thumb over his knuckles, before squeezing his nimble fingers between his own. He watched as the king's lips twitched upwards, a small smile, one undoubtedly intended to be reassuring. It was not reassuring, not in the slightest, but he didn’t believe that Jacaerys was quite in the mood to hear of his doubt. He presented his hand to the king, exposing the long, pale scar across his palm. The truest symbol of their bond, their camaraderie, their affection. He had expected the sight to bring some sort of comfort to Jacaerys, somehow. Cregan had never been the most skilled with gauging emotions, even less skilled with working around them, but even he, in all his density, had been caught entirely off guard by the sudden onslaught of tears.

His lips parted, and though he wanted to speak, no words came out. He was unused to tears,  to crying, to comforting. He was not the comforting type of man, nor did he know any way to provide it. He even felt discomforted when his son cried, still as young as he was, the little pup was always susceptible to tears and screaming fits, but it was easier to be comforting to a toddler than it was to comfort a man, with a deeper perception of the realm. A deeper feeling to the weight and the crown that now crushed him beneath its weight. And yet, some sickened part of him thought that Jacaerys looked almost pretty, with his cheeks wet and his eyes rimmed red. He forced that part of him down as deeply as it could go, jaw working as he swallowed back his own disgust. He stood there like a fool whilst he cried, swiping at his glassy eyes with his finely made sleeve, babbling out his apologies as if Cregan could ever truly detest him for anything.

His strides were longer than Jacaerys’s, and the crunching of snow beneath his boots as he strode to catch up with him was quite amusing. He was less amused when Jacaerys shamelessly slid his arm through his own, gloved fingers prodding at the muscle of his bicep beneath his cloak. The inside of the Great Keep was less cold than the courtyard, the water from the hot springs that pulsed through the stony walls warmed everything, and still he could  feel every tremor that racked through his slight frame. Lord Manderly had done him a great favor by forewarning Cregan of Jacaerys and his little reign of terror, and he had made a wise decision of setting aside a better chamber than he deserved. It was a kind accommodation, spacious with wide windows that permitted a lot of sunlight. He was more than happy to allow Jacaerys to untangle the arms, watching as he observed the room with an eye that was too critical for a guest. The king picked up the goblet as if it was tainted, and it took a lot of his restraint to not roll his eyes at him.

“You will be well taken care of.” He reassured him, though his tone  was lacking in any friendliness. He already pitied the poor boy that he would have to appoint to the king's care. He ought to put aside some coin for the victim, as compensation, and an apology. He watched as his face shifted from one of displeasure, into one of disgust. He could at least attempt to enjoy the accommodation, and he ought to be more grateful. He was lucky that Cregan did not strike off his head the moment he laid his eyes on him. Jacaerys set the goblet down, seemingly displeased that the sheen of it did not sate his pompous appetites, and he had the gall to hold out his hand, as if he had been tainted. He had to remind himself that Jacaerys was a guest. Jacaerys’s safety here remained solely on luck. Lucky that Cregan was gracious enough to allow him to stay, lucky that he was willing to accommodate him and his dragon, lucky that Cregan held guest right close enough to his heart that he would not abdicate it. If only Jacaerys had come earlier, he would have gladly laid his sword across his lap for all to see.

He glowered down at Jacaerys as he wiped his hand along the edge of his cloak, seemingly wiping off whatever grime stained his precious hands. He found some amusing irony in Jacaerys’s words, commenting that his boy was a pup, and useless to him. Jacaerys was little more than a pup himself, not just that, but an unruly one as well. It was becoming clear to Cregan that Jacaerys had never had an ounce of discipline, not once in his life. He had been spoiled and catered too, and the product of that upbringing resulted in an arrogant, self assured boy, prancing about on his dragon and demanding anyone and everyone that he stumbled upon bend their knee to him. Jacaerys was certainly not a king that Cregan wanted to kneel for.

Perhaps it could. Cregan knew nothing of dragons except for the danger they posed. Jacaerys’s voice was silky and soft, but the words were poisonous. Threatening, angered. It was becoming clear to Cregan that he was one of the few who remained loyal to the Queen, and any amount of men he could scrape together would be fickle against this boy king and whatever host he now possessed. But he was not a turncloak. If he abandoned what he held true to his heart at the first signs of a struggle, he would not stand as Warden of the North. His lip curled, exposing the sharpened points of his canines as he tore his head free of Jacaerys’s repulsive touch, huffing and rubbing his palm over his jaw as if to rub the lingering touch away. “But I am not Lord Manderly or Lady Arryn, am I?” He said, and though perhaps it was said with the air of question, it was not one. He was no Lady Arryn, nor was he Lord Manderly, and what they did meant nothing to Cregan. Pressure was an inutile weapon against Cregan, one he had hardened himself against long ago.

He had been so appalled by Jacaerys’s audacity, and even more  consumed by his anger, that he had failed to notice that the boy had seemed to lose control over his hands. His fingers undid the strap, leather rubbing against the metal buckles, loosening it enough for the sword to  fall. Ice was not a heavy sword, despite its appearance, but when it leaned against the sword before falling to the floor with a loud thunk, it made a muscle in the lord's jaw twitch. A subtle, familiar weight had been lifted from his back, but in its place an even more surmounting one had been placed upon his shoulders, a weight that he could not part from no matter how much he may want to. The weight stood before him, goading and mocking him, and he would desire nothing more than to rid himself of it. The lulling words that slipped past his lips made Cregan’s skin crawl uncomfortably beneath his clothing, and he wondered bitterly what he would be forced to do to get those lips to seal and remain as such. “You will get used to denial.” He remarked flatly, anger beginning to swell up inside him again as Jacaerys swept his fingers over his jaw. 

It was a gentle touch, like the touch of a lover, but Cregan certainly did not feel love, but only anger. And yet, to him, anger and love sometimes felt one in the same. He felt them both so intensely, and both were all consuming. Love and anger consumed like a frenzied hound, and he worried to think of which one may finish him off first. Once again, his lips twitched, sliding up enough to flash the hard ivory of his teeth, but Jacaerys was hardly deterred. He spoke so casually of allowing his dragon to taste his northern flesh, but the threat did not burn quite so badly as how he spoke of his son. As if he were merely disposable, a pawn of his to be used when he desired. Rickon was hardly more than a babe, and something like guilt coiled itself around his heart when he thought of his boy, of how frightened he must be. In that moment, he recognized that Jacaerys truly did have the advantage against him. Cregan, though loyal to the oath his own father had sworn, was no glory hungry fool, willing to go out in a blaze and greatness just so someone may remember his name in a few hundred years. His heart would remain true to the north, to his people, before it could remain to any monarch. He had been loyal, he always would be. So loyal that it would damn him, force him to submit to a tyrant.

Jacaerys slid his palms back to settle against his chest, tapping at the direwolf pin that remained fastened then. His touch burned, lit a flame within him, but Cregan was not so foolish as to let it burn. Every word Jacaerys spoke forked into another meaning, and it irritated him. Jacaerys was no dragon, he was merely a snake. Even less than that, a lizard. His words were a dual-edged sword, slicing him open no matter how he approached them. His brows furrowed, icy grey eyes narrowing into an expression of distrust. Reward was the last thing he had expected, especially not from a man like Jacaerys. “Reward.” He repeated, unimpressed, tone flat as he shifted against the leg slotted between his thighs. He was not even sure what he had been expecting. In truth, he had expected to be meeting his end, despite Jacaerys himself recognizing that he proved much more useful  alive, and a foolish part of him hoped that the reward would be Jacaerys taking his absence, but no, the pretty, light eyed mink thought himself as the reward.