It was angering, almost. Jacaerys did him as easily as if he were unwinding a thread from a spool of wool, and it warred Cregan's thoughts. Perhaps it was purposeful. Royals liked to play their games, and no matter how desperately he may like to think otherwise, love had not brought Jacaerys to the North. War had brought him here, and Cregan and his men merely served as a step for the Queen to tread upon so she may reach her throne. A large step, but a step nonetheless. It caused a strange twinge within his chest whenever he thought of it in that light. Had the Usurper not seized the throne, Cregan would have never seen Jacaerys’s face. That made him uncomfortable, that perhaps the relationship he had cultivated may not have even existed, had things been just slightly different. And yet a strangely hopeful side of him wondered if, just maybe, this behavior that Jacaerys presented to him was not so purposeful. Perhaps it was real. It felt real. Felt so real, that Cregan could reach out to touch him and he was assured that he would not pull away. He hoped he would not pull away. Cregan did not dream often, and yet lately, his were filled with visions of soft touches and murmurs of things he could not hear, but comforted him nonetheless. Some nights, he thought he may be dreaming of Arra, but most nights he was positive it was Jacaerys he dreamt of. No woman nor man he knew had eyes so gentle nor hair so dark, and damn his gentle eyes. Damn him, and whatever game he played, if any at all. 

“I would like to see that ferocity.” He heard himself saying, his voice a low, cool husk. His grip tightened, squeezing Jacaerys’s fingers harder than intended. His eyes drag down the litheness of his body, settling on his feet, and how he has to stand on the tips of his toes to be able to reach his face. He had not noticed the stark height differences between them, and yet it made his throat go dry and his belly feel as if someone had lit a fire inside of him. He watched with a hungering intensity as Jacaerys ran the muscle of his tongue over the points of his canines, licking over his lips. If Jacaerys had tried such a daring move even a mere few weeks before, the outcome would have been led down a much different, more defensive path. But Cregan could not find it within himself to act that way. Maybe the man he thought he had been was gone, burned up to a cinder in the prince’s heat. His body moved without accord, tilting his head downward in a manner that made the muscles in his neck sore, but the soreness was a mere afterthought. Their noses touched, just barely, before they were rudely interrupted. He felt his face swelter with heat as he pulled back his head, shoving Jacaerys’s hand down his chest, feeling a tremor run up his spine as his fingers just hardly grazed the firmness of his stomach beneath the layers of his clothing. 

For once, Cregan was grateful for Jacaerys’s ever-running mouth, as all Cregan could do was gape and flush like a maid. For a man that Cregan deemed one of his closest friends, Cerwyn surely had hellish timing, something he would brood over for the rest of the night, to the lord's displeasure. He forced his face into a stern mask, furrowing his brows at the suspiciously cheeky smile that Jacaerys dared to give him whilst he trailed behind Cerwyn as they descended back down the stairs. For a moment, all Cregan could do was stand in the hallway and process the madness of what had just happened, before roughly dragging a hand over his flushed face and trailing behind them. Jacaerys seemed to like to tease him, as he dragged him into a torturously handsy dance, and even whilst he danced with a woman for a short moment, fair of face as she may have been, he traitorously felt nothing. Not even a stirring, as other men may have felt. It frightened him, but he would not allow himself to be frightened of a foolish thing such as feelings. 

If only Jacaerys could know how deeply and terribly he undid him. Cregan’s resolve was little more than a spool of yarn, and every night and every day was another thread pulled loose, more of his restraint pulled impossibly thin. So thin, it had begun to fray and twist at its edges. Cregan had, for the better part of his life, been surrounded by other men. Men his age, men his seniors and men his juniors. Maesters and soldiers, bannermen who were once sworn to his father, now sworn to him. He had known many men in his life, yet none had made him feel quite so soft and taken aback as Jacaerys did. At first, he had blamed the tenderness on their friendship. On the camaraderie that he had not wished for, but the prince and his constant company had caused anyways. He had thought that he had allowed himself to soften, that the close contact of one he called friend had stiffed Lord Stark and instead brought out the man beneath the lordly facade. In the beginning, perhaps that had been the case. Yet Cregan had never thought of any friends in the light he thought of Jacaerys. He had never once pondered about the softness of their skin, if his sun-kissed flesh bruised as easily as he may have hoped. If he would blush and shy from him like a delicate maid, or if he would look him in the eye like a man might. Cregan had never looked upon his friends and desired to make any of them his lady. Perhaps the solitude had finally begun to fray and rot his typically steady mind. Perhaps he missed his dear Arra more than he allowed himself to admit. He did miss her, in certain aspects. And yet, what was the mere ghost of a girl in comparison to a living man who could see through the lord to the man beneath?

Nothing. He tried to think, his self-reassurance feeling as weak and flimsy as straw. It is nothing. Perhaps before. Once, it had been nothing. But he did not feel nothing anymore, he felt everything. Jacaerys continued to stroke his thumb against his wrist, his touch bordering on intimate. His fingers were warm, but Cregan felt nothing but heat. Heat that spread across his cheeks like a splatter of blood, that tinged the tips of his ears and seeped all the way to his Adam’s apple. Perhaps if Cregan was less composed, if a few tankards of ale had loosened him up, he would have gripped the back of Jacaerys’s neck. He would have liked to scruff his neck as if he were some misbehaving pup, he would like to see the look of astonishment on his face. Perhaps he would nick at his throat with the point of his canine tooth, or perhaps he would just smash their lips together to see if his lips were as soft as they appeared. The fantasy made his breath catch, and the hitch in his throat made his fingers twitch. Without hardly looking or feeling, his index finger shifted, scarcely brushing their fingers together. The touch was as gentle and fleeting as a summer snow, but it burned all the same. “It would be impolite to cast out a prince.” He reasoned gruffly, though his heart was once again set ablaze with every word he spoke.

Jace's own fingers twitch, compelled to take the hand that was so close to holding his own. How much large would Cregan's hand be than his own? Everything about the wolf was absolutely singular. He towered over the crown prince in terms of stature, and could command a legion of wolves with a booming voice. Jace had heard Cregan issue orders in that northern accent in a way that made him weak in the knees. He was blushing now. Jace could feel the pink color staining his cheeks and flushing all the way to his ears. He hoped it wouldn't be noticeable in the candlelit glow of the inn.

 He lets out a huff, " I've a feeling you wouldn't put up with bratty princes. How fortunate are you that I am nothing of the sort. " Jace responds, mouth going dry as Cregan tips his head down at him. Gods. He was handsome. If Jace had been taller he might have been able to meet Cregan's gaze head on . Instead he had to crane his neck upward to marvel at the winter wolf. The act was humiliating in the best of ways. One day he would rule the entirety of the seven kingdoms, yet the gods had decided to make him so slight. Cregan had the build that a proper king should have. Tall, muscular, and sure of himself. Jace had the build of a Targaryen, and that should have been enough. He was much prettier than Alicent's brood and couldn't deny that his body was perfect in its own right.

It was angering, almost. Jacaerys did him as easily as if he were unwinding a thread from a spool of wool, and it warred Cregan's thoughts. Perhaps it was purposeful. Royals liked to play their games, and no matter how desperately he may like to think otherwise, love had not brought Jacaerys to the North. War had brought him here, and Cregan and his men merely served as a step for the Queen to tread upon so she may reach her throne. A large step, but a step nonetheless. It caused a strange twinge within his chest whenever he thought of it in that light. Had the Usurper not seized the throne, Cregan would have never seen Jacaerys’s face. That made him uncomfortable, that perhaps the relationship he had cultivated may not have even existed, had things been just slightly different. And yet a strangely hopeful side of him wondered if, just maybe, this behavior that Jacaerys presented to him was not so purposeful. Perhaps it was real. It felt real. Felt so real, that Cregan could reach out to touch him and he was assured that he would not pull away. He hoped he would not pull away. Cregan did not dream often, and yet lately, his were filled with visions of soft touches and murmurs of things he could not hear, but comforted him nonetheless. Some nights, he thought he may be dreaming of Arra, but most nights he was positive it was Jacaerys he dreamt of. No woman nor man he knew had eyes so gentle nor hair so dark, and damn his gentle eyes. Damn him, and whatever game he played, if any at all. 

Their friendship was unlikely, but that made it no less strong. The North was well known as being a reserved region. The South could play its games and have its scandals, for Cregan always believed the North was best when it held its own. Jacaerys was, admittedly, not the type of man Cregan would normally seek companionship in. When he had first come to his gates, sliding from the back of his dragon with all the grace of a cat, he had almost immediately decided that their meetings would be curt. He had no interest in whatever wars were fought over a chair, and he had held even less care for whatever pampered, perfumed princes that were sent to woo him. These people knew nothing of him. Of his people, his religion, his mere way of life. He could not fathom why good men should march off and die for dragonlords, why any man should. He had half a mind to scruff the back of Jacaerys’s neck and send him sprawling in the snow, to send him back to Dragonstone, or whatever sweltering hellhole he had come from. Cregan was intelligent to know what consequences would come from laying his hands upon a prince, but he was now haunted by the wish to lay his hands upon Jacaerys in other ways.

Other ways he would not acknowledge. Could not acknowledge. He could not, and neither could Jacaerys. If Cregan recalled correctly, his prince was already betrothed. Promised to another. The simple string of words grated on his nerves, made his jaw clench so tightly it was a wonder his teeth had not cracked from the pressure. Promised to another. As if a man could truly hold any promise, no matter how dire it may be. Another, and oh how that word truly grinded away at his resolve. Jacaerys seemed to be enjoying himself here in the North. As far as Cregan could see, anyhow. He had never been a man easily versed in the art of reading people, but he could hold hope that Jacaerys had found some delight in a place he no doubt thought of as an icy, barren wasteland. He liked it enough to stay as long as he had thus far, why not stay? Cregan would not be displeased by seeing him day-to-day, by having him always in arms reach. By having him closer than arms reach, if the gods were truly willing. The crypts beneath Winterfell were warm enough, and he held enough affection for Jacaerys that he would not even mind his ever-miserable dragon remaining in his crypts. Let the beast stay beneath Winterfell, Cregan thought. Whenever Vermax and his rider were reunited, Jacaerys never stayed on the ground for long. He seemed to prefer his dragon to horse, for Cregan could not blame him for, but that did not disparage the feelings of irritation whenever Jacaerys was not within his direct line of sight.

Jacaerys seemed to give his smiles to Cregan with ease, and he found himself grasping at the thought of what other facial expressions his mere presence could bring to his face. Grasping, but he would never hold onto it. He was once again forced to think if Cregan was alone in his feelings, or if perhaps Jacaerys felt them too. If he kept them as tightly to himself as Cregan did, or if he felt nothing at all. If he merely thought of Cregan as a steppingstone, a savage man who would live and die for his mother leagues away from here. He would be delighted to show Jacaerys how savage he could truly be, but he was less delighted at the idea that Jacaerys may see him as nothing at all. Cregan easily took up a room, demanding respect and attention without having to utter a word, and even Jacaerys’s imagined disrespect was enough to bring about a sourness in the back of his throat. It sat there like bile, but he dared not wretch it up yet. Not here, where eyes and ears were everywhere all at once. Jacaerys spoke, but he hardly heard whatever words came off his tongue, instead he was too busy peering at his face. A delightful lad, truly. He would like to touch his hair, to thread his fingers through his thick, dark locks and feel the softness of them beneath his skin. It would be so easy to manuever and force his head any which way, but he was curious if Jacaerys would get cross with him if he did such a thing. Cregan would like to see him displeased, and whatever attitude that came with his displeasure would be dealt with as well.

If only Jacaerys could know how deeply and terribly he undid him. Cregan’s resolve was little more than a spool of yarn, and every night and every day was another thread pulled loose, more of his restraint pulled impossibly thin. So thin, it had begun to fray and twist at its edges. Cregan had, for the better part of his life, been surrounded by other men. Men his age, men his seniors and men his juniors. Maesters and soldiers, bannermen who were once sworn to his father, now sworn to him. He had known many men in his life, yet none had made him feel quite so soft and taken aback as Jacaerys did. At first, he had blamed the tenderness on their friendship. On the camaraderie that he had not wished for, but the prince and his constant company had caused anyways. He had thought that he had allowed himself to soften, that the close contact of one he called friend had stiffed Lord Stark and instead brought out the man beneath the lordly facade. In the beginning, perhaps that had been the case. Yet Cregan had never thought of any friends in the light he thought of Jacaerys. He had never once pondered about the softness of their skin, if his sun-kissed flesh bruised as easily as he may have hoped. If he would blush and shy from him like a delicate maid, or if he would look him in the eye like a man might. Cregan had never looked upon his friends and desired to make any of them his lady. Perhaps the solitude had finally begun to fray and rot his typically steady mind. Perhaps he missed his dear Arra more than he allowed himself to admit. He did miss her, in certain aspects. And yet, what was the mere ghost of a girl in comparison to a living man who could see through the lord to the man beneath?

Nothing. He tried to think, his self-reassurance feeling as weak and flimsy as straw. It is nothing. Perhaps before. Once, it had been nothing. But he did not feel nothing anymore, he felt everything. Jacaerys continued to stroke his thumb against his wrist, his touch bordering on intimate. His fingers were warm, but Cregan felt nothing but heat. Heat that spread across his cheeks like a splatter of blood, that tinged the tips of his ears and seeped all the way to his Adam’s apple. Perhaps if Cregan was less composed, if a few tankards of ale had loosened him up, he would have gripped the back of Jacaerys’s neck. He would have liked to scruff his neck as if he were some misbehaving pup, he would like to see the look of astonishment on his face. Perhaps he would nick at his throat with the point of his canine tooth, or perhaps he would just smash their lips together to see if his lips were as soft as they appeared. The fantasy made his breath catch, and the hitch in his throat made his fingers twitch. Without hardly looking or feeling, his index finger shifted, scarcely brushing their fingers together. The touch was as gentle and fleeting as a summer snow, but it burned all the same. “It would be impolite to cast out a prince.” He reasoned gruffly, though his heart was once again set ablaze with every word he spoke.

The unbidden thought made his eyebrow twitch, the tension in his jaw and his shoulders mounting before being washed away. Washed away once more by Jacaerys and his delicate face and light, airy tone. Teasing him, it seemed, yet Cregan found himself feeling amused rather than insulted. However light, there was a deeper truth to Jacaerys’s words as well, and none recognized it better than Cregan did. Jacaerys was more clever than he allowed people to think, but he could see the flickering of a glint in his eye, or the gentle curl of his lips that made him appear more smug than pleased. So different they were, yet they got along as if they had known each other for years. Cregan was never the type to make friends quickly and easily, and yet it took a mere handful of weeks for the prince to squirm into his chest and settle heavily in his heart, a constant weight upon him. A pleasant weight, perhaps, but a weight nonetheless. Perhaps it truly was their differences that brought them closer together. That was the only answer Cregan was willing to verbally acknowledge. “Perhaps,” he replied tersely, the word lonesome and simple on his tongue, yet it weighed heavily, like a thick cloak yet to be unshed.

Cregan swore that he must have aged about 10 years whilst riding back to Wintertown. His men had many questions about what lay beyond the Neck, and Jacaerys seemed utterly delighted to answer any and every question thrown at him. Jacaerys seemed to enjoy talking, especially about things that concerned him, whilst Cregan was perfectly content with simply listening. His men battered the prince with questions throughout their trip, and he had never before seen a group of men talk so much. They asked Jacaerys about living in the South, about dragons and Kings Landing, of Dragonstone, and more bolder men questioned him about the Targaryen’s themselves. Cregan was pleased to not be the only one subjected to the prince’s rambling, and Jacaerys could, when prompted, ramble like no other. In any case, he was certainly pleased to hear the prince talk and not have him complain about the cold. The consistent questioning seemed to preoccupy him so much that he forgot about the chill, yet there was still a slight tremble to his shoulders. A subtle quiver of his body despite the layers of Northern attire he adorned, and Cregan swore he could hear his teeth chittering against each other from behind his lips if he strained his ears enough. 

   For the entirety of their trip to Wintertown, Jace had filled the air with Valyrian legends, the history of dragons and the most exciting Targaryen adventures. Cregan's men had an unending reservoir of questions, and all listened keenly to their prince. While he spoke he would glance at the direwolf beside him, hoping that he was listening. If Cregan had been he had given no indication. Jace had trouble reading the northern lord and found himself vying for his attention. Every story, every history lesson, every joke was accompanied with a second long look of longing. It didn't happen often, but when Cregan actually permitted him a glance the prince found himself utterly enchanted. In these short exchanges Jace cherished the feeling of those stormy gray eyes upon him.

   After days of traveling and hours spent talking, Jace wanted nothing more to collapse in bed for the entire evening. While it wasn't as comfortable as his bed in Dragonstone, it was much softer than the bedroll he had found himself upon during their travels. He had been given one that belonged to Cregan, making it impossibly large in comparison. Jace found that it had smelled like Cregan and this brought him a great comfort. On the cold hard earth of his own tent, Jace often imagined somebody crawling in beside him. Jace assumed his mind had conjured Baela up in a bid to bring him comfort. He was so far away from home, separated from Vermax, and utterly alone. His entire family was waiting for him at home, and he had yet to complete his objective. Luke must have finished his own mission by now. While nervous, Luke had all the markings of a fine lord. If Borros Baratheon was as smart as he thought himself to be, he would bend the knee to his mother so that he might be on the winning side of the upcoming war.

   Rhaenyra must have squeezed Luke tight when he returned home with the promise of victory. She would kiss each one of his cheeks, and run a hand through his thick brown hair. It was childish of Jace to hope that his mother would greet him in the same fashion, but he wasn't a boy any longer. He was heir to the Iron Throne and exempt from such comforts. Another pang of loneliness. Another night Jace spent conjuring up a stranger to hold him through the night. Only that stranger wasn't his betrothed. When Jace imagined them they were much more substantial, towering over the prince with ease. Their hands were calloused, eyes brewing with a winter storm, and eager to hold him. They would lay down on top of him, capturing his face with a large paw. Their long dark hair would fall like a curtain around his face, making it impossible to focus on anything else. Jace would shut his eyes then, imagining their lips inching closer and closer to his own. His very first kiss. One made special by intrigue and suspense. Jace wanted to give it to him.

Their friendship was unlikely, but that made it no less strong. The North was well known as being a reserved region. The South could play its games and have its scandals, for Cregan always believed the North was best when it held its own. Jacaerys was, admittedly, not the type of man Cregan would normally seek companionship in. When he had first come to his gates, sliding from the back of his dragon with all the grace of a cat, he had almost immediately decided that their meetings would be curt. He had no interest in whatever wars were fought over a chair, and he had held even less care for whatever pampered, perfumed princes that were sent to woo him. These people knew nothing of him. Of his people, his religion, his mere way of life. He could not fathom why good men should march off and die for dragonlords, why any man should. He had half a mind to scruff the back of Jacaerys’s neck and send him sprawling in the snow, to send him back to Dragonstone, or whatever sweltering hellhole he had come from. Cregan was intelligent to know what consequences would come from laying his hands upon a prince, but he was now haunted by the wish to lay his hands upon Jacaerys in other ways.

Other ways he would not acknowledge. Could not acknowledge. He could not, and neither could Jacaerys. If Cregan recalled correctly, his prince was already betrothed. Promised to another. The simple string of words grated on his nerves, made his jaw clench so tightly it was a wonder his teeth had not cracked from the pressure. Promised to another. As if a man could truly hold any promise, no matter how dire it may be. Another, and oh how that word truly grinded away at his resolve. Jacaerys seemed to be enjoying himself here in the North. As far as Cregan could see, anyhow. He had never been a man easily versed in the art of reading people, but he could hold hope that Jacaerys had found some delight in a place he no doubt thought of as an icy, barren wasteland. He liked it enough to stay as long as he had thus far, why not stay? Cregan would not be displeased by seeing him day-to-day, by having him always in arms reach. By having him closer than arms reach, if the gods were truly willing. The crypts beneath Winterfell were warm enough, and he held enough affection for Jacaerys that he would not even mind his ever-miserable dragon remaining in his crypts. Let the beast stay beneath Winterfell, Cregan thought. Whenever Vermax and his rider were reunited, Jacaerys never stayed on the ground for long. He seemed to prefer his dragon to horse, for Cregan could not blame him for, but that did not disparage the feelings of irritation whenever Jacaerys was not within his direct line of sight.

Jacaerys seemed to give his smiles to Cregan with ease, and he found himself grasping at the thought of what other facial expressions his mere presence could bring to his face. Grasping, but he would never hold onto it. He was once again forced to think if Cregan was alone in his feelings, or if perhaps Jacaerys felt them too. If he kept them as tightly to himself as Cregan did, or if he felt nothing at all. If he merely thought of Cregan as a steppingstone, a savage man who would live and die for his mother leagues away from here. He would be delighted to show Jacaerys how savage he could truly be, but he was less delighted at the idea that Jacaerys may see him as nothing at all. Cregan easily took up a room, demanding respect and attention without having to utter a word, and even Jacaerys’s imagined disrespect was enough to bring about a sourness in the back of his throat. It sat there like bile, but he dared not wretch it up yet. Not here, where eyes and ears were everywhere all at once. Jacaerys spoke, but he hardly heard whatever words came off his tongue, instead he was too busy peering at his face. A delightful lad, truly. He would like to touch his hair, to thread his fingers through his thick, dark locks and feel the softness of them beneath his skin. It would be so easy to manuever and force his head any which way, but he was curious if Jacaerys would get cross with him if he did such a thing. Cregan would like to see him displeased, and whatever attitude that came with his displeasure would be dealt with as well.

Cregan had sworn that oath to himself, and it was the only one he could not keep. It was an unfortunate, almost cruel twist of irony that not even Cregan could fail to see. It was all he saw, truly, and he felt increasingly disturbed to think that he may be the only one to harbor such affections. Harboring such affections for someone of the same sex, no less. It was a strange prison, one of his own making, and one of his own undoing. As Jacaerys haunted his thoughts come morning and come night, Cregan could not truly tell what he felt. If this was mere friendship misinterpreted, or if his emotions held weight. Some nights, it was anger that dug its nails into him, and he would tell himself that, come morning, he would send the prince away. Tell him to fetch the dragon that found a home within the crypts beneath his castle and command that he not bring promises of war to his gates and act as though he or his mother had any rights to claim his host. Those words of anger were never spoken, instead to be tucked away in a shadowy crevice of his mind to be dwelled upon, but never spoken of or acknowledged.

It would displease Cregan to send Jacaerys away. He would not admit it, not even to himself, but it would sadden him as well. More scarcely would he admit to himself that he wished for Jacaerys to stay longer. He would even allow Vermax to make his lair in his crypts, if it meant Jacaerys could stay. A silly hope, fleeting as it may be. He was once again forced to remember the reason for Jacaerys’s arrival, and he would have groaned at the recollection had Jacaerys not been by his side. His expression reflected his troubled brooding, a distinct tension in the line of his jaw, a slight furrow to his brows and careful narrowing to his icy grey eyes. Cregan had allowed himself to be more tender before Jacaerys, but the formidable lord many knew him as still resided in him. He was interrupted from his brooding by the familiarity in Jacaerys’s light, airy voice, though his words had a delicate and teasing edge to them. His pinky brushed his hand, and his shoulders stiffened immediately, though his face remained impassive. The touch was curt, hardly there with even less unspoken words behind it, but it set his blood ablaze and heart thumping frantically inside his chest regardless. His face felt hot the moment their fingers touched, and he would revert to the Faith of the Seven if it meant the heat in his skin would go unnoticed.

“I find great pleasure in denying you.” He responded brusquely, and a man who was any less acquainted with Cregan would certainly fail to notice the humor in his dry, gruff words. His additional words, however, brought not even a trace of a smile to his face. More than anything, it brought forth a frown. Jacaerys merely meant to tease, Cregan was not so thick in the skull as to not see that, but the teasing only inflamed his irritation. He did not dislike him, surely the opposite, but he would soon rather open up his own belly upon the blade of his sword than admit to that, no matter how true it may be. “I do not dislike you, my prince.” He stated, his tone as unyielding as the Wall they still walked upon. He spoke as if he was still unsure of the prince, speaking as bluntly and gruffly as he had when Jacaerys had first come to Winterfell. The next emotion that rose in his chest could only be described as awkwardness, one that was so unlike Cregan that it felt foreign. His words disappeared in the wind, and he observed out of the corner of his eye as Jacaerys tucked his arms within the confines of his cloak, making himself appear even slimmer than he already was. Cregan was unused to the presence of lithe, pretty-faced men. Fleetingly, he wondered if Jacaerys was perhaps a flat-chested girl who merely cut off her hair. The heat in his face and the warmth in his belly would be easier to explain had Jacaerys been a maid, not a man.

   En route to Wintertown, Jace maintained conversation with Cregan's entourage while riding beside Cregan. They had plenty of questions about Targaryens, Dragons, and King's Landing. Most of these men had never left the North, leaving Jace as their only point of reference for the world beyond. He was happy to fill the air with answers and conversation. Jace was also certain that Cregan was relieved to not be the subject of the prince's constant rambling. When they finally arrived at Wintertown, Jace was all too eager to escape from the cold. The Smoking Log welcomed the prince, Cregan, and their party with open arms. The proprietress of the Inn was excited to have Jace back, and promised him a banquet and dance in his honor. He had assured the woman that the gesture was entirely unnecessary, but gave into her wishes when his stomach started rumbling. Jace found himself excited to rub elbows with the people of Wintertown who flocked from all over. Cregan had told him that come winter the town would be completely transformed, filled with people and their livestock. Jace was thankful he wouldn't have to contend with a crowd of that proportion.

The unbidden thought made his eyebrow twitch, the tension in his jaw and his shoulders mounting before being washed away. Washed away once more by Jacaerys and his delicate face and light, airy tone. Teasing him, it seemed, yet Cregan found himself feeling amused rather than insulted. However light, there was a deeper truth to Jacaerys’s words as well, and none recognized it better than Cregan did. Jacaerys was more clever than he allowed people to think, but he could see the flickering of a glint in his eye, or the gentle curl of his lips that made him appear more smug than pleased. So different they were, yet they got along as if they had known each other for years. Cregan was never the type to make friends quickly and easily, and yet it took a mere handful of weeks for the prince to squirm into his chest and settle heavily in his heart, a constant weight upon him. A pleasant weight, perhaps, but a weight nonetheless. Perhaps it truly was their differences that brought them closer together. That was the only answer Cregan was willing to verbally acknowledge. “Perhaps,” he replied tersely, the word lonesome and simple on his tongue, yet it weighed heavily, like a thick cloak yet to be unshed.

Cregan swore that he must have aged about 10 years whilst riding back to Wintertown. His men had many questions about what lay beyond the Neck, and Jacaerys seemed utterly delighted to answer any and every question thrown at him. Jacaerys seemed to enjoy talking, especially about things that concerned him, whilst Cregan was perfectly content with simply listening. His men battered the prince with questions throughout their trip, and he had never before seen a group of men talk so much. They asked Jacaerys about living in the South, about dragons and Kings Landing, of Dragonstone, and more bolder men questioned him about the Targaryen’s themselves. Cregan was pleased to not be the only one subjected to the prince’s rambling, and Jacaerys could, when prompted, ramble like no other. In any case, he was certainly pleased to hear the prince talk and not have him complain about the cold. The consistent questioning seemed to preoccupy him so much that he forgot about the chill, yet there was still a slight tremble to his shoulders. A subtle quiver of his body despite the layers of Northern attire he adorned, and Cregan swore he could hear his teeth chittering against each other from behind his lips if he strained his ears enough. 

   Yet, he still needed an answer. The Greens had considerable force on their side which Jace hoped would crumble beneath their web of corruption. One day the realm would see that Aegon had always been undeserving of the crown and curse his very name. With the entirety of the North behind them, Jace was certain that they could win. They would overtake King's Landing like a swarm of locusts, purging supporters of the usurper like a plague. That thought alone was enough to inspire Jace to persist in his work. He wouldn't leave Winterfell until he was certain that Cregan would uphold his oath. He couldn't fail his mother.

   Walking side by side Cregan and Jace couldn't have been more different. Harwin Strong had been formidable, towering over ordinary men in both terms of height and stature. Unfortunately neither Jace or Luke had inherited these genes. Jace had always been short, slender, and his features made beautiful thanks to his Targaryen heritage. If only he had inherited the violet colored eyes and silver hair attributed to his ancestors. There would be no question of his lineage then. Jace doubted that it mattered very little to Cregan who had treated him as a prince without needing to be prevailed upon.

   Jace had been impressed with Cregan in every facet so far. He had proven himself to be a capable leader despite his young age, and had made the North prosperous beneath his rule. Jace had seen his skills as a warrior and huntsman first hand, the former of which brought a blush to his cheeks. Cregan wielded Ice with so much ease that he made it appear as if the broadsword weighted nothing at all. How easy would it be for Cregan to pick him up he wondered? The stray thought makes his cheeks burn. Jace quickly wills the image of those strong arms scooping him up and off of the ground away before they can take hold.

   Cregan's voice and a chilling breeze snap him out of his reverie. Jace makes a face, "You're playing a dangerous game, my lord. Denying a prince time and time again." He says in jest, "I might think you actually dislike me." Jace teases while his pinky brushes the man's much larger hand accidentally. It is a fleeting moment of contact, one that Jace quickly corrects. Before Cregan might even realize it Jace had already pulled away, hiding both of his arms beneath the thick cape he had been given in Winterfell. Jace had seen enough of the wall, and longed to return to Vermax who would be even more cautious of Cregan now more than ever.

"I do not mean to rush you, my lord. But if our business is settled here I would like to return to Winterfell. Your servants shouldn't have to put up with Vermax for so long." He knows that Vermax hasn't left the comfort of the crypt. It probably reminded the dragon of the caves beneath Dragonstone or the Dragonpit of King's Landing. "And I would very much like to visit Wintertown again on the way back. They promised me a night of song and dance if I ever did return, and I would hate to squander the opportunity." Vermax would have to go without his rider for a few weeks longer, but at least he would be comforted by the fact that Jace would be protected. He had northerners who had seen more combat than the guards of Dragonstone and had the finest swordsman in the realm at his side.

Cregan had sworn that oath to himself, and it was the only one he could not keep. It was an unfortunate, almost cruel twist of irony that not even Cregan could fail to see. It was all he saw, truly, and he felt increasingly disturbed to think that he may be the only one to harbor such affections. Harboring such affections for someone of the same sex, no less. It was a strange prison, one of his own making, and one of his own undoing. As Jacaerys haunted his thoughts come morning and come night, Cregan could not truly tell what he felt. If this was mere friendship misinterpreted, or if his emotions held weight. Some nights, it was anger that dug its nails into him, and he would tell himself that, come morning, he would send the prince away. Tell him to fetch the dragon that found a home within the crypts beneath his castle and command that he not bring promises of war to his gates and act as though he or his mother had any rights to claim his host. Those words of anger were never spoken, instead to be tucked away in a shadowy crevice of his mind to be dwelled upon, but never spoken of or acknowledged.

It would displease Cregan to send Jacaerys away. He would not admit it, not even to himself, but it would sadden him as well. More scarcely would he admit to himself that he wished for Jacaerys to stay longer. He would even allow Vermax to make his lair in his crypts, if it meant Jacaerys could stay. A silly hope, fleeting as it may be. He was once again forced to remember the reason for Jacaerys’s arrival, and he would have groaned at the recollection had Jacaerys not been by his side. His expression reflected his troubled brooding, a distinct tension in the line of his jaw, a slight furrow to his brows and careful narrowing to his icy grey eyes. Cregan had allowed himself to be more tender before Jacaerys, but the formidable lord many knew him as still resided in him. He was interrupted from his brooding by the familiarity in Jacaerys’s light, airy voice, though his words had a delicate and teasing edge to them. His pinky brushed his hand, and his shoulders stiffened immediately, though his face remained impassive. The touch was curt, hardly there with even less unspoken words behind it, but it set his blood ablaze and heart thumping frantically inside his chest regardless. His face felt hot the moment their fingers touched, and he would revert to the Faith of the Seven if it meant the heat in his skin would go unnoticed.

“I find great pleasure in denying you.” He responded brusquely, and a man who was any less acquainted with Cregan would certainly fail to notice the humor in his dry, gruff words. His additional words, however, brought not even a trace of a smile to his face. More than anything, it brought forth a frown. Jacaerys merely meant to tease, Cregan was not so thick in the skull as to not see that, but the teasing only inflamed his irritation. He did not dislike him, surely the opposite, but he would soon rather open up his own belly upon the blade of his sword than admit to that, no matter how true it may be. “I do not dislike you, my prince.” He stated, his tone as unyielding as the Wall they still walked upon. He spoke as if he was still unsure of the prince, speaking as bluntly and gruffly as he had when Jacaerys had first come to Winterfell. The next emotion that rose in his chest could only be described as awkwardness, one that was so unlike Cregan that it felt foreign. His words disappeared in the wind, and he observed out of the corner of his eye as Jacaerys tucked his arms within the confines of his cloak, making himself appear even slimmer than he already was. Cregan was unused to the presence of lithe, pretty-faced men. Fleetingly, he wondered if Jacaerys was perhaps a flat-chested girl who merely cut off her hair. The heat in his face and the warmth in his belly would be easier to explain had Jacaerys been a maid, not a man.

Jacaerys had been a surprising, but not unwelcome presence in the North. It was to be expected, to his vexation. Cregan was uninterested in the South and whatever ridiculousness it harbored, but even the distant North had heard tales of unhappy dragons stirring, a stirring he had no taste in intruding, yet had been brought forth to the gates of his castle regardless. War has little care for the men it affects, be they common or noble-born. Jacaerys had been somewhat of a thorn pricking at his side, but not for the reasons most would believe. A begrudging respect and even more begrudging friendship had begun to bud, though not yet fully flower. In the throes of his youth and insistent on flexing his worth, Cregan had, in the beginning, remained politely distant from the prince. He had never been quick to make friends, and Jacaerys had not been intended to be the exception. And yet, the dragon did what it did best and exuded its flames. Exuded them so insistently and so hotly that they had melted the icy crust around his resolve and his heart alike, curtailing his restraint and working his way into his heart. There, that bud of fondness sprouted its branches and left the North's typically stoney-faced Lord feeling uncharacteristically… light. Cregan could not name the emotions that swirled in his chest and overtook his thoughts, he had always been a man with a slow and heavy tongue, yet he knew for certain that he felt them to such a degree it nearly took away his very breath. 

Despite the iced wind gnashing its teeth against his flesh, Cregan felt those light and warm thoughts even now. Northmen had thick blood and thicker skin, used to the winter and all the iciness she brought with her, yet even Cregan felt her frigid embrace. Stood beside the prince, he observed Jacaerys quietly. The whips of wind had rustled his hair and nipped the apples of his cheeks till they were pink and flush, fresh snowfall flecking in the dark locks of his hair like stars may dot a night sky. Cregan was furthermore reminded that Jacaerys was entirely out of his element, a prince kissed by fire in a land that was seldom anything more than a place gripped by snow and wracked with famines brought on by the harshness of it. Jacaerys looked on the North not with distaste or scorn, but with an unfamiliar captivation that Cregan found a strange relief in. He could not tell if he felt only relief, or if the relief was another bud on the branch of fondness sprouting in his heart for his prince. He did not enjoy thinking of such things, it brought forth an unwelcome warmth to his skin that did not befit a lord that was described as formidable.

   Arriving in Winterfell had made Jace long for home. Vermax had disagreed with the frigid climate at once, having to be coaxed into landing with the promise that they wouldn't be there long. That had been three weeks ago, and Vermax was still very unhappy about the predicament. Jace was certain that if he lingered longer than necessary that Vermax might just abandon him. He sensed his dragon's discomfort, even now while standing at the height of the Wall Jace could feel it. There was a growing comfort in that uncertainty, one brought on by his close proximity to Cregan Stark. It was a silly, fleeting, and unfamiliar sensation that Jace couldn't place. He had never felt anything like it, and the complexity of it drove the prince mad. Jace would confide in Luke once he returned to Dragonstone or even Vermax once he visited him in the crypts of Winterfell. He could already imagine his dragon curling around him like a large dog. Jace would rest against his olive-green scales, telling Vermax of his journey to the Wall and of Cregan Stark. Vermax would feign interest, listening to Jace as if he could understand his unrefined Valyrian. Luke, at least, would ask questions and tease him over these budding feelings. Perhaps his dragon was the better choice as his confidante.    "Aye." Jace had expected such a reply from Cregan who had proven to be a man of little words. This didn't bother Jace as there was comfort in silence. So often he was surrounded by courtiers and his own family that he seldom had time to think. Cregan allowed Jace to exist beside him without the constant need for conversation. When the Northerner did speak he did so with an unwavering certainty in that thick accent of his. Even that singular "Aye" had been dripping with it, and it made Jace swoon, for a lack of better words. Before those flowers can blossom within his chest he stamps them out with a metaphorical boot. He doesn't know what this sensation is, but he is familiar enough with fondness to know that this is something familiar. Jace has already been promised to another. Baela Targaryen would one day be his queen and they would have many children together. This felt different. Not born out of duty and having to be cultivated. Jace averts his gaze from Cregan who stood as tall and mighty as the Wall itself. His fingers curl around the railing while he gathers his thoughts.

It caused Cregan a great deal of discomfort to know that Jacaerys had not truly come to the North for him. The prince desired for his men and whatever army he could scrounge up for his cause in the dead of winter. Westeros was a land of power and politics, not emotions and tender hearts. Cregan, out of all, should know this better than any, yet he could not quite grasp why the reality bothered him so. He tormented over it late into the night when he would retire into his bedchamber, staring at the moonlight whenever it streaked through the windows. More often than not he wondered if Jacaerys had similar thoughts, or if the prince held normal thoughts within the confines of his mind, holding a mere platonic fondness for his lord. Cregan held no great care for any gods, but he wished damnation upon them for creating and sending him a prince with such amusing petulance and a delicate face. Delicate in the face as a maid, and the prince often brought on thoughts and feels as a delicate maid might. 

The wind continued to whip at his skin, sending his hair lashing about around his shoulders like dark wisps of fog. The wind was as sharp edged as a blade, and Cregan had to turn his head to the side so it may not bite his cheeks till they were raw. Cregan watched as Jacaerys turned away from the railing, separating any man from a long and unfortunate fall. For a moment, Cregan was forced to stare at the back of Jacaerys’s head, gazing upon the dark, thick curls of hair that were not particularly Targaryen. It mattered little to Cregan, had the prince been one of pale hair or dark, but the whispered rumors of the prince’s parentage reached far, even into the typically uninterested North. Cregan cared even less for rumors, and he cared nothing for the truth of them. Jacaerys had come to him on a dragon, not by horse or ship. That was all the convincing Cregan had required. “After you, my lord,” Jacaerys had said, and that was enough to spur Cregan into motion, and he was quick to fall into step beside him, as quiet as the Wall itself. 

𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 : open / accepting ⟢

   The Wall had been as captivating as it had been intimidating. It stood as a testament to the might of the North and as a bulwark from everything that lingered on the other side of it. Jace had accompanied Cregan Stark to The Wall, traveling for three weeks all the way from Winterfell to the imposing structure. Aegon had stood at this very same spot once, looking over the vast expanse that had made Jace's breath hitch in his throat. Had the Conqueror felt that same sense of wonder and trepidation, he wondered? Jace wanted to speak but felt as though no words were necessary.    Standing there beside Cregan, his cheeks rosy and their gloved hands nearly touching, Jace didn't want to ruin the moment. They had built a quick friendship together, finding they had many similarities despite being vastly different. Jace was often petulant while Cregan was as firm and aloof as Winter herself. Cregan had brought out traits in Jace that he had yet to discover, among them were new feelings still unfamiliar to the prince. He mistook them for fondness for the wolf.    "Tis' hard to believe that death is abundant beyond the Wall. It's breathtaking." He says, breaking the lingering silence between them. Jace takes a step forward, hands resting on the railing that separated the prince from a long fall. He looks back at Cregan, beckoning him forward without a word so that they might admire the savage beauty of the wilds together.

Jacaerys had been a surprising, but not unwelcome presence in the North. It was to be expected, to his vexation. Cregan was uninterested in the South and whatever ridiculousness it harbored, but even the distant North had heard tales of unhappy dragons stirring, a stirring he had no taste in intruding, yet had been brought forth to the gates of his castle regardless. War has little care for the men it affects, be they common or noble-born. Jacaerys had been somewhat of a thorn pricking at his side, but not for the reasons most would believe. A begrudging respect and even more begrudging friendship had begun to bud, though not yet fully flower. In the throes of his youth and insistent on flexing his worth, Cregan had, in the beginning, remained politely distant from the prince. He had never been quick to make friends, and Jacaerys had not been intended to be the exception. And yet, the dragon did what it did best and exuded its flames. Exuded them so insistently and so hotly that they had melted the icy crust around his resolve and his heart alike, curtailing his restraint and working his way into his heart. There, that bud of fondness sprouted its branches and left the North's typically stoney-faced Lord feeling uncharacteristically… light. Cregan could not name the emotions that swirled in his chest and overtook his thoughts, he had always been a man with a slow and heavy tongue, yet he knew for certain that he felt them to such a degree it nearly took away his very breath. 

Despite the iced wind gnashing its teeth against his flesh, Cregan felt those light and warm thoughts even now. Northmen had thick blood and thicker skin, used to the winter and all the iciness she brought with her, yet even Cregan felt her frigid embrace. Stood beside the prince, he observed Jacaerys quietly. The whips of wind had rustled his hair and nipped the apples of his cheeks till they were pink and flush, fresh snowfall flecking in the dark locks of his hair like stars may dot a night sky. Cregan was furthermore reminded that Jacaerys was entirely out of his element, a prince kissed by fire in a land that was seldom anything more than a place gripped by snow and wracked with famines brought on by the harshness of it. Jacaerys looked on the North not with distaste or scorn, but with an unfamiliar captivation that Cregan found a strange relief in. He could not tell if he felt only relief, or if the relief was another bud on the branch of fondness sprouting in his heart for his prince. He did not enjoy thinking of such things, it brought forth an unwelcome warmth to his skin that did not befit a lord that was described as formidable.