#crgnstrk

@crgnstrk | PROMPT

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ LORD UNWIN PEAKE was naught if not an unfavourable creature, as lucerys quickly recognised during the hearing that was so fruitless, they may as well have skipped it entirely. but duty did not oft consider such details or even just determined what truly was necessary and what was not, and therefore it needed to be held, but he was rapidly growing tired of the lord's presence in a room that, even to the blood of the dragon, was quickly beginning to feel too heated.

there was no doubt at all about who the new king would choose to wed — lady rhaena of pentos, his betrothed since childhood, a prince and princess promised to one another since toddler age, fond of one another in more ways than the duty which had been bestowed upon them at the beginning of their lives, would become the queen to rule at his side. but, before official announcements were made, and a wedding was held, many a lord still attempted their luck suggesting their daughters as a potential bride, but none of those who had come before peake were as irritating as this one.

it was not the attempt to alter his decisions and sway him to wed his daughter which nigh sent queen rhaenyra's eldest living son into blind rage, but the subtle cruelties spoken against his mother and her fated reign by a tongue fuelled by the frustrations that came with refusal. he could hear the disdain in the lord's voice, understood what each word meant, though he was careful enough to disguise the insults as less disturbing criticism. peake's poor daughter, proposed to be a queen by a father who so greatly doubted the capabilities of a woman in such a position. may she find a suitable match elsewhere and be free of this father.

when rhaenyra's name fell at last, he moved to action, stepping towards the lord, hand, near on its own will, moving to the hilt of the blade at his side ( history later would wonder what would have happened if lucerys had not been stopped by the northman then and though the answer is one never to be determined, to be taken to the grave by a king eternally plagued with guilt for surviving against such poor odds when few others of his family had, for sitting the throne which had been destined for his mother and brother, it is a clear one; unwin peake may not have survived the day, or at the very least not with all his limbs intact, for lucerys was nothing if not somebody who saw done what he put his mind to once he did, as much sea as he was dragon, a force as unpredictable and destructible as tide and flame alike, though not necessarily one quick to anger, not for no good reason, so bringing him to this point alone said plenty about the lord's behaviour ), halted by the weight of a palm that settled upon his shoulder then.

“ do not— ” he warned coldly, but, for all his anger over the treatment of his mother even in death, he still had it in him to see reason in lord stark's gesture. he did this now, and he did it himself, his reign would acquire a reputation already before it had truly began, one which could not be afforded in the wake of all which had happened.

however, he could not let this stand either. he would not.

and so, albeit rather reluctantly, he halted, moving no further, gaze still resting upon the unpleasant lord before them, the flame burning within brown irises a cold one, something sinister to the lack of emotion that could be found in the dark hue whilst a storm brewed inside.

with a quiet exhale, lucerys straightened, hand still resting at his side, fingers vaguely brushing the dagger's hilt.

“ he fought under green banners and now he stands before his king, insulting the queen which came before him. “ he said, tone matching his expression. no mentions of the usurper, and none could be expected of him, not after what his uncle had done. he turned to face the lord of winterfell, “ lord stark, your council is a valued one. ” after all, his brother had trusted him, and he had marched for his mother, proven himself as an ally who stuck to his word in many ways. though lucerys may not be the most trusting of people, not in the wake of all that had happened, he could, at the very least, offer cregan stark that much faith and an open ear, “ what do you propose? ”

Dark tidings had arrived on black wings from Dragonstone. Jacaerys had just arrived in Winterfell when a letter had been promptly delivered to the prince. Vermax stirred restlessly as Jace read over the contents of the letter. All color had gone from his face till he was nearly as pale as the snow that collected around them. Luke was dead. His little brother. Luke, future lord of Driftmark. Dead. He gripped the parchment so tightly that it tore beneath his grip before being scattered on the wind. Jace shakily reached for Vermax who craned his neck to regard his prince. His cold flesh was warmed beneath his dragon's olive-green scales. But Jacaerys could feel nothing besides the anguish that started in his throat before bubbling out of his mouth into a sob. His despair was quickly replaced by molten hot anger, urging him to climb up and onto Vermax. Above them the sky swirled with angy grey clouds that threatened to snuff out the afternoon sun. "Sōvēs, Vermax!" Jace ordered, meeting some resistance before his dragon obeyed. It appeared that Vermax was no fan of the cold and was aware of the encroaching storm. Jace would fly to King's Landing and burn it to the ground. Aemond would pay for what he had done in fire and blood. Vermax, refusing to fly in such turbulent and frigid conditions, disobeyed his rider. Jacaerys cursed under his breath, "Daor! Sōves! Sōves!" He urged his dragon who was lowering itself into a clearing blanketed with snow. Jacaerys tugs up and on the dragon's reigns while hot tears stream from his cheeks. Realizing he couldn't make Vermax budge, Jace dismounts and sinks onto the floor beside him. His dragon lifts a wing in an attempt to shield his charge from the coming storm. So it was there, in the wilds surrounding Winterfell that Jacaerys wept for Lucerys. He wasn't sure how long he had sat in the snow, curled into himself and grieving. It wasn't until Vermax urged him up and onto his feet with his snout that the prince stood. His dragon was restless out in the open and must have been aware that Jace would surely perish if they remained. Vermax huffed a warm breath back at his rider before starting off and into the forest. Jace quickly followed, managing to climb up and onto Vermax. It was difficult to make out anything past his dragon within the furry of the storm, but in the distance he saw what he assumed was torchlight. He had to return to Winterfell, to explain his sudden disappearance and hope that Lord Stark hadn't seen it as a slight to his hospitality.

ꜱɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ'ꜱ ʟᴀᴘ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛꜱ [ x ] ᴏᴘᴇɴ / ᴀᴄᴄᴇᴘᴛɪɴɢ

@crgnstrk sent: why were you in the snow? you could have frozen. ( for little eggy )

he had not wandered far. those were the words that repeated within aegon's mind as he made his way through thick, fresh snowfall towards the large iron gate that would lead him back into winterfell's tall, secure walls, already half-suspecting that the very lord of winterfell would be waiting for him at that very gate, with a lecture at the ready to, admittedly, rightfully, reprimand him for the sheer recklessness that had led him into the dense trees, and even denser snow, of the nearby wolfswood. he had not meant to wander, to stray, at all, truly, but once the pyre within the courtyard had grown ever larger ( and, certainly, larger yet to aegon's apprehensive gaze that had kept it under close, nervous observation ever since the men had ignited the first thick pieces of dry wood and steadily added to the pile, than it truly had been ), and a burst of flames had separated from the smouldering, wooden logs and landed upon snow-coated stone amidst the crowd of men in a rain of red and golden sparks and crackling embers that, at once, were put out by the powdery snow, reduced to but a black splotch of damp ash, at which they had merely laughed whilst fear had seized his heart in a hold so firm he could feel it crumble beneath the pressure as his ribcage pounded and quivered with the intensity of it arduously coming back to life with a jolt of panic, he had ran, and ran, first to the godswood, past the large weirwood, then through the not yet closed off gap of hunter's gate, and into the trees, where, at last, footsteps had begun to slow, no less owed to the snow that had reached up to his knees and seemed to hold him back with every movement he'd made until he'd no longer been running, but rather wading, with some difficulty, through the frozen mass surrounding his legs. he had been of a mind to turn back soon after, before he could have strayed further into woodland where all looked the same, and he held little knowledge of, other than what he had seen on the few occasions where he had accompanied cregan on a hunt, before fresh snow falling from the sky would cover up his footsteps, as he had been warned time and time again it would, oft accompanied by a dire tale of people this had happened to before, and how they, oft years later when the snow melted away enough in one of the warmer summers the north would experience, would be found frozen in place, the horror they'd felt in their dying moments still painted across their faces, so far buried beneath the snow that they would not resurface or be spotted until much later, that cregan's men soon had learned were best not shared with someone like aegon, and he could have become lost. but, even so, there had been a certain trace of curiosity that had accompanied him on his way back, made him move a little slower than, perhaps, he should have as he had traced his steps back to the forest's edge from which he had entered the wolfswood, one that was only natural for a boy of but six and ten, even one as easily agitated and fearful as him, for, though he had come to loathe and fear the flames, the fire of the dragon still burned bright within him, flowed hot through his veins and marked him with the same ceaseless restlessness the targaryens were known for, even if their traits were nigh lost on him these days, even if he was better at concealing it, his tranquil nature, one scarce for those of his blood, doing well to block it from becoming too dangerous most days.

aegon could already see the trees opening to the snowy path that would lead him back to winterfell when he had heard it — the soft whimpering of something from the trees to his left, bringing him to a halt at once, heart hammering in his chest as he had listened for the sound, long moments passing by before it had broken through the silence surrounding him again. he should have left it alone, should have ran at once then, for he knew these woods were full of wolves whose threatening howls could be heard even through the warm, thick walls of winterfell at night, and despite the fact that every instinct had screamed at him to do just that, that he had wanted nothing more than to return to the safety of his room within the fortress already, he had moved closer to where the noise had come from, slowly, trying his hardest not to flinch at the too-loud crunching of his own feet flattening the snow beneath his boots. and then he had seen it. nigh indiscernible within the snow with its fur of a similar bright hue; a little wolf cub, tucked into the side of a tree, gazing up at him with eyes as blue as the clear waters of the hot springs of winterfell. and though it had nipped him when, finally, after long minutes of the two of them but staring at one another, one as frightful as the other, he had extended a hand towards it, its small, not yet fully grown, teeth just sharp enough to break skin and leave a long scratch along his ice cold forefinger, then another upon the back of his hand, he had, despite himself, unfastened the laces of his coat and picked it up into his arms, tucked it beneath the thick, fur-lined fabric and held it close in his arms, for he could not have brought himself to leave it there, not when it had appeared so helpless, so small, not when he had vowed to himself already upon dragonstone when the worst of the terror had worn off and he had acquired knowledge that his little brother, viserys, was lost, more than likely dead, that he never would abandon any living being ever again, that he never would be so weak again as to run in fear without turning back to spare another glance through his panic when he could help, when he could be stronger than that and make that crucial change. luke would have done the same, and cregan too, or at least he had told himself that as he'd made it the rest of the way out of the woods and towards winterfell with the wolf cub tucked protectively away beneath his coat.

as expected, cregan was waiting for him as soon as he set foot into the familiar fortress, his feet slowing to a halt before the warden of the north at once, gaze of lilac eyes averted towards the ground as teeth briefly scraped across his bottom lip, a nervous habit acquired already in childhood, one of many, none of which he ever quite managed to shake. “ i'm sorry, cregan. i did not go far. the fire, it — ” startled me, scared me, just as it had the day i abandoned my brother, left him for death, but luckily, he could afford trailing off before the notions became more prominent, more painful, and shameful admissions had to be made in order for the lord of winterfell to understand his hasty departure, for the wolf cub stirred within his arms then and promptly nipped his hand again, drawing blood this time, a thin rivulet of crimson dripping from his finger onto the white snow by his feet as aegon shifted his arms, letting the fabric of his coat fall away just enough to reveal the ball of white fur to the man before him, not looking at him as he spoke quietly, “ . . . i could not just leave it there . . . it is so small. ”

➴ @crgnstrk sent: sender’s muse kills someone to protect receiver’s muse. receiver approaches to gently calm them down.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ঔঌ  ·  · ‘𝐓𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒’ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄, perhaps less so for the blood that was spilled, and more so for the utterly foolish string of actions that had led to so violent of an outcome in the waning, bleak white sun of a rapidly ending, too-short afternoon of approaching northern winter. all too swiftly, all too easily, ever since that first night spent together in the lord's chambers upon winterfell, they both had fallen into the habit of chasing after moments like these, time and time again, no matter where in the north they found themselves — of putting distance between them and crackling, hot fires and the shameless, boisterous chatter of cregan's men surrounding them whenever they set up camp, of slipping away into the endless white and high, untouched snow of adjacent woodland under the pretence of many a necessity that needed to be carried out, more oft than not to hunt; and they did, at times, perhaps for the thrill of loosening arrows from great longbows fashioned of sleek, black ironwood that many a man would experience with a weapon placed in his hand, perhaps to evade the questioning glances that, no doubt, would come if they failed to return with game time and time again after hours spent in the dense wintry forests with the animals, though scarcely seen, but, more than anything, it was an excuse to be alone together, to seek a privacy that even the lord's tent did not provide at night, where it was not them that needed to put in the effort to be quiet as they lay pressed together beneath thick furs, swallowing down breaths and exchanging but muffled words that still carried a, albeit slim, risk of being overheard, but, rather, the woods that were silent around them, seemingly eating up every sound they made amidst the endless stretches of snow that made everything feel much more hushed in general and, at least it felt that way, erasing it from existence, as though none of it had ever happened.

and, jacaerys, foolishly, had grown comfortable with it in the weeks that had passed since they had set off from winterfell towards the wall after he'd expressed his desire to see it to the young lord early one morrow; many a times, they'd done this by now, and nothing had happened, evoking a false sense of security he should've known better than to trust, especially with how close to the wall they were by now, expected to reach it within two days’ time. but jace's time in the north had not exactly been marked by caution thus far, if falling into bed with the lord of winterfell and the fact that he still lingered here when he long should have set off back south aback his dragon after securing the alliance with the north were any indications — even so, he should not have been caught off guard like that, should never have let his guard down to begin with, never let himself be swayed by the light, thrumming feeling in his heart that had grown steadily over the past weeks spent with the lord, spent so far away from all the responsibilities of a prince, of an heir that made up his days at home and allowed for few moments of something like peace and the, perhaps, selfish seeking of enjoyment for himself, especially with war looming upon the horizon now, never, for a moment, should have believed that he and cregan were alone. perhaps then he would have sensed the threat lurking in the trees long before it burst through them in a flurry of kicked up, fresh snow and made a dash for him, crooked blade in hand, perhaps then he would've managed to unsheathe his sword, even slowed by the sluggishness of the freezing cold creeping into his limbs, numbing joints and making everything feel heavier, accompanied by an ache that he still had not managed to rid his body of since his arrival here, before it could reach him, before skin could be pricked and blood drawn that ran in hot rivulets down the side of his neck into the fur lining his collar. but skilled as he was, having squired and trained the majority of his life since he'd been a boy, a knighting near the end of his youth only bypassed, for the title of king he would, one day, carry would outweigh any other, he, too, lacked the experience — his skills had seen training grounds and the arms of seasoned knights that, though instructed not go easy, never would dare cause true harm to a prince they were sworn to, not battlefields and direct combat, not the blades of enemies wielded with the intent of causing nothing if not damage. vermax's unmistakable cry rang through the sky above the trees from a distance, and the notion that he would come had just passed through jace's mind, when the figure was hauled away from him, landing harshly in the snow and scrambling to turn on its back whilst the blade slashed at cold air, his back, for jace could see now, even through the thick layers of wolf fur that surrounded his head, that it was a man, struggling against cregan, then falling still at once when the sword pierced his chest, blood gushing where steel met flesh, painting the surrounding snow a deep red that emitted faint traces of steam into the cold air when it first met the frozen white blanket. and, perhaps, it said something about jace, too, how he watched it happen, watched someone die to the brutality of a blade and the riotous man wielding it, blank-faced, not roused in the slightest by the, up until then, unfamliar sight of so much blood streaming from a body at once, nor looking away as it splattered the snow, as more and more of it became coated with crimson, as the blade was pulled from the gaping cavity in his torso and driven in again.

he still was of a mind to draw his sword fully from the scabbard then, let dark eyes skim the treeline to see if any more threats lingered hidden in the snow, preparing to make their move, the vow he'd placed upon a thick, leather-bound copy of the seven-pointed star before his departure sounding distantly at the back of his mind. surely his mother could not have meant for him to resist defending himself in the face of danger when she had instructed him and his brother to not partake in any fighting. however, there was nothing. nothing but an endless stretch of white, between which snow-covered trees poked out like ivory pillars, and a silence that felt even more total than the one that had lingered before, that was nigh eerie, with the only sounds he could pick up being the vague crackling of snow melting from the heat of blood spilling from a quickly cooling body that had the life drained from it, and his and cregan's combined breathing.

the sword returned to the sheath with a clanging swipe of steel against leather, before he moved towards the northerner, boots wading through thick snow, leather gloves coming off in the same motion, frosty winds at once biting at pale fingertips already numbed from the cold in a way that sent shivers through the length of his body, a notable contrast to the warmth radiating from skin that followed as they settled, gently, over the lord's, brushing against the heavy hilt of the sword and guiding it to the side, becoming slick and crimson with the blood that had splatted up across steel and his lover's hands as his quiet voice, at last, broke the silence, “ the dead can not be anything more than dead. leave it. ” ( words that, perhaps, would not so easily pass over his lips if he knew yet of the fate that had befallen his brother far away, that, for moons to come, would have him wishing that it wasn't so, that luke was not truly gone, but still caught somewhere between worlds, that every breeze, every rustle of trees and every low growl of the heated walls of dragonstone meant he still was near, that jace wasn't alone. ) eyes shifted from the lifeless eyes of the stranger, the corpse, beneath, to the warden of the north, as a bared hand, now coated with the same glistening redness that smeared the hands he had reached for, and seeped still into the soft, fresh snow by their feet, came up, the pad of his thumb leaving a thick smudge of red along cregan's jawline as fingers cupped around it, “ . . . look at me, cregan. ”

there is nothing left but rage now; so much hatred and anger, the targaryen hardly knew where to put it all. and the winged mountain voiced her rider's emotions, where his own words were swallowed back into the void behind gleaming whites. nagini raged and snarled as she prowled the sky. ( nothing could ever compare to a dragon's fury )

❝ i will deal with the aftermath once everyone who followed the drunken usurper has been dealt with. ❞ they talk now, wise old men, who is to sit the iron throne next; would it be prince rhaegar targaryen, surviving son of the black king consort; rider of the largest living dragon.

he'd have their heads on a spike; the mere suggestion feels like blasphemy. the throne belongs to rhaenyra, the rightful queen of the seven kingdoms. rhaegar would have the hideous thing vacant for centuries to come. he'd melt the blades with the same fire that created them. ( he'd do much in order to avoid confronting the inevitable )

@crgnstrk liked for a starter.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ IF THERE WAS ONE THING he'd learned about cregan stark since joining his host to king's landing, currently back in the resurfaced usurper's hands, it was that rest never seemed to come easily to him either.

and so it came to be again that they were the last ones by the dwindling fire, its soft crackling accompanied only the subtle clanging of blade upon whetstone, by now sharpened to the point where lucerys could likely slice through bone with but a single strike. he decided then to break the lingering, though far from disconcerting, silence that had settled in the cold atmosphere around lord and crown prince, “ tell me about the direwolves.“

@crgnstrk continued from here [ x ]