𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝙰𝚃 𝗦𝗘𝗔

“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. 

@jacaeryse asked: May I have the honor of wearing your favor today, my lady?

Lyanna  blinked  once,  clearly  not  expecting  the  question.  For  a  moment  she  simply  stared  at  him,  as  though  deciding  whether  he  was  teasing  her.  Then  the  corner  of  her  mouth  twitched  upward.  "A  favor?"  she  repeated.  The  tournament  grounds  were  full  of  knights  boasting  about  victories  they  had  not  yet  won  and  ladies  pretending  not  to  enjoy  the  attention.  Lyanna  had  never  cared  much  for  either  game.  Still,  hearing  the  request  from  Prince  Jaecerys  himself  left  her  oddly  aware  of  the  ribbon  tied  around  her  wrist.  She  untied  it  with  quick  fingers  and  held  it  out  between  them.

  "If  you  wear  it,  Your  Grace,  then  you  had  better  make  certain  it  returns  to  me."  There  was  challenge  in  her  voice,  not  hesitation.  The  same  look  settled  in  her  grey  eyes  whenever  she  mounted  a  horse  too  spirited  for  anyone  else's  liking.  "I  would  hate  to  think  a  prince  of  House  Targaryen  could  lose  something  entrusted  to  him."  The  smile  she  gave  him  widened  slightly  before  she  pressed  the  ribbon  into  his  hand.  "And  if  you  mean  to  win  today,  then  I  suppose  I'd  rather  have  my  favor  carried  by  the  victor  than  left  in  my  pocket."

It wasn't everyday that the Heir to the Throne took part in a tourney. Jacaerys had decided upon arriving that he wouldn't just sit beside his mother. He wanted to prove himself, and to show the public that he was no delicate princeling. And while he was much more comfortable on dragonback, he could just as easily handle a horse. Rhaenya wasn't thrilled with the prospect of her eldest son, one already subjected to vicious rumors enlisting in the tournament. If he failed it would become yet another barb that could be used against him. Jace was determined to win the entire thing to prove himself to his future subjects, and to silence his detractors. By even volunteering he had earned the adoration of the crowd. No matter what they whispered about his dark hair and dark eyes, there was no denying his targaryen beauty.

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒.

All of these sentences are mostly taking by my own mind and i'm not joking. It was hard finding material quotes regarding tournaments in historical or fantasy setting. Some are from shows or media but eighty percent is all from my own mind, please give credit if use these. Change pronouns, names, locations as you see fit. All of these involve the medieval event of a tournament and what happens around them.

I fear I am already bending far too many rules just by taking you, my young princess.

Show me your hands, you will have blisters soon.

Lady Eglantine doesn’t believe in love, only lust.

In the world of competition, only the strongest shall prevail.

A true champion is not defined by their victories, but by the obstacles they've overcome.

Victory is sweetest when it's earned through sweat, hard work, and determination.

Will you not participate in the tourney, my lord? 

May I have the honor of wearing your favor today, my lady?

Good luck to you, my Prince.

The tournament is not just a test of skill, but a test of character as well.

Is it always this bloody? Will those poor men die? Someone must see them.

I want him to wear my favor.  Only him. 

If he wins, the knight has the right to name his Queen of Love and Beauty. And at the feast, they shall dance.

Be careful. A tourney is a grand place for courtly love, but also, for blood to rise and affairs to appear.

Call me what you like, say I'm without honor, I don't care. I'm not getting on any more horses to whack you people with a stick.

Kings may be chosen by God, but they still make the mistakes of men.

When even those who rule can sink this low, it is not possible to change anything.

It's my lucky charm, be sure to bring it back to me.

My favorite blue ribbon. Take it.

It will bring you good fortune and you will return from joust unharmed.

I was hoping to ask for the Princess's favor.

How about a kiss, for luck?

Courtly love was the culture around the performance of love at court.

And now, rather than admit these feelings, you're dancing around one another with this mind-numbing and frankly boorish mating ritual.

The knights take on the duties of shadows with pride.

Whoever wins the tournament, shall become the prince/princess’ new betrothed.

You want to marry my daughter? Prove yourself worthy.

Petyr survived only because I begged Brandon not to kill him.

When Petyr heard of my engagement, he challenged Brandon to a duel. 

You do qualify to marry my daughter.

What matters most is who she will give her favor to. 

Her face is one that can create dynasties or crumble empires.

I was hoping for a word before you rode on the tourney, my Prince. 

My brother is the one competing against you, please be gentle with him.

The games are done for the day, please, feast and drink as you wish. 

You have been staring all day, my lord. I was beginning to wonder if I had something in my face.

Any damsel that's in distress - she'll be out of that dress when she meets Jim West.

Great men do not seek power... they have power thrust upon them.

My daughter seems. . .infatuated with you. I have yet to see why.

The princess is naive and thinks any man who is kind means well. A tournament will only show her the reality of life.

You honor the arena with your combat. May your swords and shield preserve the peace.

In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining.

I will be brave for Princess Pea.

As a squire, your first duty is to your knight’s armor. Your knight’s armor is more important than your own life. 

You will be knighted and you will have earned your knighthood.

You are hurt. At least let me tend to your wound.

The men laugh and fight and the ladies search for husbands.

Nothing like a good tournament to find a husband, or a companion for the night. 

Rumors are always spread with ease in these.

Can I have your daughter for the rest of my life?

You say I'll never get your blessing till the day I die.

We're married now, but we still haven't told your dad. This is the right time.

Are you promised to someone?

My sister's getting married. It's a love match. A rare thing. I’m not so lucky. My husband is to be chosen by who can hold a sword the longer.

Why can’t women participate in the games?

There are games for the ladies, Your Grace. But they are less. . .gruesome. And of course, the dancing.

Princes and Princess all over the realm and across the sea are coming for this event. You must shine brighter.

Let me help you with your armor. It appears loose.

As I promised, I return your favor to you, my lady. 

The Prince never loses a joust. He will crown his queen and then all will be well.

I do not understand the appeal of this. 

I spend days making these favors, let me stay a little longer.

My lady, I do not need your favor to win, but perhaps, a kiss of good faith. 

I do not care who wins these games, your hand is already arranged for another.

Men are scoundrel, specially when blood runs hot after a good battle, stray away from them.

These games are done in honor of the king’s heir.

The lord’s daughter is said to have bloomed, and the man chooses to announce it like this. 

A tournament is for men to boost their strength, fathers sell their daughters like mares and for affairs to happen.

I saw you on the stands today, my lord. But you did not participate on the games.

My brother wishes to dance with you, my lady. He is all too shy to ask himself.

You were injured. Have you allowed someone to heal them or are you too stubborn to let them?

Princess, you must not stray too far away. 

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. 

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.

Baela shrinks back into herself after that. Her smile is gone and she's back to just nodding to everything. It's easier that way. She seems like she's part of the moment and is active. Meanwhile her mind can relax for once. Nothing to fix, no one to help. She's going to be okay.

Jace asks if she's okay and it surprises Baela. Of course he cares he's a sweet young man. She's reminded of that often. Of how lucky she is. She loves Jace and she even thinks she's in love with him. The only problem is the title. Could she be a queen? Was she worthy of such a task? Did she even want it?

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.