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They've always said that battle changes a man. Sara knows it firsthand- that the tales told of men coming back different, changed for better or worse. It is all true. She knows it so because of her brother. Her dear, sweet elder brother, Cregan. She knows him better than most, always having a place in Winterfell at his side.
She had been there as a spectator through it all. She'd watched him train, watched him fall and hurt himself. She had been also there when they had both grieved their father's death. Both were young and it had been all too easy for their Uncle Bennard took control of their home as Regent.
When it had come to battle, at only ten and eight, Cregan had fought to take back what was always meant for him. She distantly recalled the crows and bannerman that had gathered for him so young. She had only been ten and four at that time. When he declared himself Warden, announcing the imprisonment of their blood, she had seen the shift in him. The death of the boy she knew and the birth of the man that was Lord of Winterfell.
Some would say he was cold, his eyes were as grey as a winter's storm. Others simply insisted he was stern and a man that shouldered the weight of his blood, shouldered the weight of duty.
The cracks in his armor had only shone through when he was surrounded by the ones he cared about most. With her, with Rickon- even with Arra for a time, she had seen him melt and seen his smile in those rare times. After Arra passed, she had assumed she would seldom see a smile. It had been proven true many times over. But, she had seen a shift in him the moment the Dragon Prince had landed in Winterfell.
Day by day, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease and more often than not, she could spot him cracking a smile in the direction of the pretty prince. She thought perhaps he was pleased to have a brother finally after mourning the one they barely knew. They dined together, every night, Prince Jacaerys had a spot right next to the Lord. She had also seen them go on hunts together- Jacaerys has even introduced Cregan to his dragon.
Everyone whispered of them being brothers.
Sara was joyous for her brother, to see him smile- to see him melt under the fire of the dragon boy, it was a delightful sight, one she had teased him for in the times they broke their fast without him. Cregan never truly spoke in depth of it, but some light shone in his usual cold stormcloud grey eyes when he spoke of Jacaerys. Perhaps that was when she should have realized that it was something more- something much more than a brotherly bond.
She had been in retreat from Rickon's chambers after putting him to bed one night. It had been perhaps a fortnight or longer since the Prince had arrived and he had been practically knitted to Cregan's side from the beginning. After supper that night, Cregan had assured Sara that him and the Prince were to discuss the matters of the brewing war, details he had kept vague and far from Sara's ears. She took no offense with it, simply nodded and escorted her nephew to bed before Cregan could send for a nursemaid.
Now, as she walked down the familiar corridor, the familiar wing of Cregan's solar and chambers connected to Rickon's, she hears something afoot. She couldn't stop herself from stilling mid-step. Footsteps echo through the heavy door of Cregan's solar. The sound of laughter and squeals of delight echo in the silence of the night. "Shh, shh, will you? The hour is late, my Prince," she immediately made out the sound of her brother's voice, familiar with the baritone and cadence. Soon to follow was a dull thunk against the thick door and another drunken giggle.
"Forgive me, my lord, my sides are ticklish," Jacaerys spoke, his voice almost muffled. Sara's eyes widened before she could help it and she immediately flattened herself against the stone wall, slipping closer to the door, to listen further. It was something the Septas would scold her for, for snooping and listening in on conversations not meant for her ears. But, she had always been a curious girl.
A low laugh fell from Cregan's lips and soon the wet sound of lips smacking together filled her ears. It had been two years since Arra's death and there had been little word of Cregan even entertaining the idea of another. Had that changed the moment he laid eyes on the Prince?
Sara believed it so when the noises shifted, when they became moans of desire- something certainly not meant for her to hear.
Through the rest of Jacaerys' visit, she wondered if the subject would come about.
It doesn't.
Jacaerys became well acquainted with the ways of the North, closely knitted to Cregan as he had been since the first day of arrival. Though after that night, Sara looked upon the two of them with a new set of eyes. It felt like she was truly seeing the truth of the two of them. There were glances exchanged when they thought no one was paying attention. Jacaerys, a boy younger than Cregan and her both looks upon the Lord with admiration and affection shining in his warm, umber eyes.
And in the final days before Jace was set to depart, she couldn't help but notice the two of them having their hands wrapped in a light linen, sealing a wound. She hadn't thought much of it before, in that moment, she hadn't allowed herself to look at it for too long.
But when the two of them say their final goodbyes, Sara had an inkling of understanding of what it could mean. Of what had come of the relationship between Cregan and the Prince.
It was perhaps why she couldn't find a protest at ready when Cregan insisted he had to travel South, that he intended to finish the war. The decision was a quick made one, after the raven announcing Prince Jacaerys' death in the Gullet. Her heart ached in truth, seeing a piece of Cregan shatter and harden into something worse, something more jagged.
Word spread in the months following Cregan's arrival to the South. Cregan himself had even written to them in the months after.
The Hour of the Wolf, they called it.
Most assumed it was the Stark honour that fueled Cregan, that it was the reason he had decided to finally travel South with his main army. But Sara knew otherwise, she knew her brother didn't care for a Southron war and matters of the crown. He had simply cared for the Southron Prince he had promised his blood to.
When he returned North, he was more grizzled- his beard had grown out and the exhaustion was written plain across his face. But yet, he still embraced Sara- embraced Rickon with a sigh of relief. And his return had brought his second wife.
Alysanne Blackwood.
She was a fiery Southron lady, one that had adjusted well to the ways of the North. It hadn't taken long for her to become round with child after the wedding that was held in the Godswood. Cregan repeated his vowels with a familiarity like it was history repeating itself. But gone is the young Lord that had married a girl he had known since he was a child, gone was the brother that Sara had known so well. Cregan's stare was distant, his eyes traced over the bone white oak of the weirwood tree with a sense of melancholy. Something that most would not notice perhaps. But Sara did.
Perhaps even Alysanne had noticed as she stood across from him. Blood red sap seeped out of the bark, as if shedding the tears that Cregan could not on that day. And at the dinner afterwards, Sara couldn't help but notice the way he rubbed his hands together almost impatiently, the way he pressed into the faded scar adorning his palm.
It was a day meant for celebration and yet- Cregan mourned.
And now, even after children, she still notices the lack of satisfaction, the light that rarely shines in his eyes. It is not as if he doesn't love the kids. He loves each and every single one of them. Sara knows that without a singular doubt. But, since the Dance of the Dragons, it is clear that a part of her brother had been lost the moment he had read that dreadful raven.
Sometimes she wonders if the ghost of Jacaerys haunts her brother. She often found him in the Godswood, looking at something- at nothing, murmuring to himself. She thinks he is simply praying. But when he gains that distant, hazy look in his eye, staring at nothing more often- she thinks otherwise.
He doesn't speak of it. He does not allow others to speak of it either.
It is a striking reminder of Cregan mourning his mother when they were young. Even when she had simply been trying to comfort, he had still spat venom, cursed and ordered she never speak her name again. Sara can't help but fear the same will happen now if she tries to speak to him of the Dragon Prince.
The only time she can find the will to speak of it, the boldness is in the open space of the Godswood. The children are in their lessons or with their nursemaid or mother when she finds him. It is High Noon and the clouds that have come over the Keep signal a storm is to come. Snow falls steadily around her, dusting her furs white before melting quickly. The snow crunches under her boots and she thinks it should be a signal for her brother.
He doesn't acknowledge it. He has his eyes squeezed shut tight and a couple of sniffles echo in the silence. His palms press into the white bark of the Weirwood, pressing into the roots he kneels at, where the blood red sap gathers. "With death comes peace," he speaks aloud to no one in particular. Sara holds her breath, heart hammering in her chest uncontrollably. "I know it so. And yet… I fear it has not found him," he continues, voice raw and cracking at the edges. "Jacaerys, my Prince, your blood is mine, when we joined together underneath this Heart Tree. Is that why I hear you at every turn? Is it why I feel you are still with me, reminding me of what was lost?" He questions aloud. Sara's brows furrow and she tilts her head in curiosity. It is not how they address the Gods, even when riddled with grief or the weight of sin. And yet, here he addresses Jacaerys directly with the eyes and ears of their Gods upon him
"You and I were not made in the eyes of the Southron new gods, you told me as much… The moment I felt your blood mix with mine, the flames of the fourteen flames took a hold of my soul. And now… all that is left is cinders, blood and ash, the last remnants I have- that I have of you," he breathes, voice catching at the end. Sara unconsciously steps forward, the next crunch of snow under her boots echoing louder.
It snaps Cregan out of whatever daze he may be in. He turns to look over his shoulder and when he sees his sister, his features do not relax, if anything, his face hardens in a scowl. "It is not proper to snoop, Sara," he says in a deadpan. "The Septas taught you as much when we were children," he reminds. Sara for a second flushes under the words, feeling like a child for a moment with her brother scolding her like one. "That was not my intention, Cregan," she says quickly.
From this angle, she can see the hard set of his jaw as he stands and before he slips on his gloves, she notes the bloody slit across his right palm. Her breath catches in her throat, immediately recognizing it as the same hand that carried the faded scar of the pact- or whatever it was to be called.
"Cregan-" she starts.
He turns to her fully at his full height and she forces herself to stand steady, to not waver under that hard gaze that had made many men cower.
"It- it is okay to miss him- to miss Jace-" she starts and an animal like snarl escapes him. "Quiet," he orders, as sharp as any Valyrian steel. Sara has learned through her years to stay quiet, to not make a spectacle- to simply blend in. But, this- this, unsettles her, makes her wonder what could be afoot with the way her brother bleeds so readily at their heart tree, speaking to Jacaerys as if he is one of the gods himself. Perhaps he is only praying to the Gods for guidance, wishing for solace in his grief. Sara's head spins with any attempt to understand.
"You know Father warned us, to be careful what we say when the Gods are watching here!" She protests, feeling far too petulant even when she tries to stand her ground. Never has she been faced with this- she has followed her brother so willingly since they had been children. But this… this, she is uncertain of.
"I know what Father told us," Cregan says, teeth gritting together, his head ducking down, staring at his boots. "I was- simply speaking to the Gods, it is none of your concern," he tells her dismissively. "Yet you bleed upon the Weirwood, you speak as if Jacaerys himself is here himself. Or perhaps you wish he did speak to you in death? I cannot say, but whatever it is, brother…" She finds herself trailing off before she can continue, softening at the sight of the heartbreak written plain across her brother's face. Her breath escapes her shakily and she bows her head. "We can mourn him, brother, but we must watch our tongue here in the Godswood, we must let the dead rest, we must not tempt fate when we know what rests over the wall," she explains gently, voice lowering.
Cregan's hands curl into fists at his sides and he is silent for a moment. "Do not speak of him- do not speak of this to anyone else, sister," is all he can say before he steps around her and quickly exits the Godswood before he can hear another word from her.
Sara is left feeling helpless, her eyes burn with tears and she wishes she could swallow back the nauseating feeling that overcomes her.
Battles change men, she must remind herself.
She reminds herself that each time she finds Cregan pressing upon the scar on his right palm. And each time she sees him looking at a spot or corner of the hall that is empty, she must remind herself that battle has changed him- that love has changed him. When Alysanne and Lynara both wonder and doubt his love for her as they grow older, Sara find herself there, simply explaining to them that the Dance of the Dragon changed all of Westeros- even her brother had not been exempt from it. She says it each time even when acid burns in the back of her throat with the half lie.
She cannot find it in herself to tell the ladies of Winterfell that even with the children they give her brother: none could quite compete with the ghost of the Dragon Prince.
She outlives her brother- she thinks perhaps it will only be by a few moons when he passes. He is older and comes down with a fever. He speaks in riddles in the throes of a fever, speaking of the fourteen flames coming to consume him. He is old, grizzled- greying. He's outlived Rickon- outlived both his spouses even. And yet, he whispers the name he had forbade everyone from speaking.
"My Prince," he rasps out as sweat beaded his brow and Sara stands aside, washing the servants care for him.
And the last name he breathes out is not his heir's, not his sister's, but the Prince.
"Jacaerys, my prince," he grunts out in a low rumble to himself as he drifts off. Perhaps it is the Gods finally repaying him, blessing him for his patience and the long life he has lived. They are granting him the chance to pass peacefully, to find peace and to finally smile once more with the boy he had always loved.