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The cold of the North was unlike anything Jacaerys Velaryon had ever known.
It was not the damp cold of Dragonstone, the kind that seeped into your bones like a thin blade and left you as soon as you had a good hearth fire and a wool blanket. It was not the dry cold of the thin air Vermax faced when he climbed too high, above the clouds, where the sun burned even as the wind froze the tears at the corners of your eyes. The cold of the North was something else entirely. It was an ancient, patient cold, one that asked no leave and offered no truce. A cold that seemed to have existed before men, before dragons, before gods. A cold that lived not only in the air, but in the earth, in the stones, in the twisted trunks of the leafless trees that dotted the landscape like the skeletons of forgotten creatures.
Jace gripped the reins tighter, feeling the stiff leather bite into the palms of his gloved hands. Vermax roared beneath him, a sound that reverberated through the dragon's flesh and traveled up the prince's legs like distant thunder. The emerald green of the scales gleamed against the grey of the sky, the only vivid color in the whole stretch of the horizon. Down below, the white vastness spread as far as the eye could see, gentle hills blanketed in snow, frozen rivers winding like veins of silver beneath the skin of the earth. And at the center of that immensity, rising from the plains like a slumbering beast, stood Winterfell.
The castle was nothing like the fortresses Jace knew. It did not have the elegant towers of King's Landing, nor the proud, curving walls of Driftmark, nor the stark beauty of Dragonstone with its gargoyles and its bridges of sea-washed stone. Winterfell was solid, earthen, built to endure. Its granite walls, the color of grey, seemed to have grown straight from the soil, as if the castle had not been raised by human hands but carved by time and wind. Squat towers jutted out at angles that sought not elegance, but solidity. The smoke rising from dozens of chimneys mingled with the low mist, creating a pale halo that enveloped the entire stronghold.
Vermax tilted toward the ground, and Jace felt the biting wind lash at his face, pulling tears that dried before they could reach his chin. The prince could not say whether it was emotion or the cold that made his eyes sting. Perhaps both. He had been flying for two months, from castle to castle, from lord to lord, carrying his mother's cause like a banner that grew heavier with every stop. Storm's End had received him with courteous coldness. The Vale, with the warmth of family, but also with the political hesitation that had demanded more weeks than he could spare. And now the North, the last and most uncertain of the alliances, the most distant, the strangest. If he failed here, he would return to Dragonstone with half the realm against his mother and the other half shrugging their shoulders.
The dragon landed in the open field before the castle gates with a boom that sent the snow up in waves, the flakes dancing in the air like a swarm of pale insects. Jace remained mounted for a moment, feeling Vermax's heat pulse against his thighs, the dragon's breath rising in clouds of steam that mingled with the mist. He ran a gloved hand over the warm scales of the creature's neck, a gesture of farewell and gratitude that no one but him and Vermax would ever understand.
To dismount was an act of will. His legs were stiff from the flight, the muscles of his thighs throbbing with the familiar ache that accompanied long journeys in the saddle. His boots sank into the snow up to his ankles, and the cold immediately seeped through the leather, biting at his feet like tiny teeth of ice. He adjusted the cloak over his shoulders, black and red, the colors of his mother, the colors of his house, and lifted his chin with the posture he had learned from the cradle, the posture of a crown prince who could not show weariness or uncertainty.
The gates of Winterfell opened.
And it was there, framed by the arch of grey granite, with the steam of his own breath rising like incense around his face, that Jacaerys Velaryon saw Cregan Stark for the first time.
The Lord of Winterfell was younger than Jace had expected. The stories that ran through the South spoke of a man hardened by war, a wolf who had taken command of the pack with his hands still stained with blood, after the death of his father and elder brother. Jace expected a warrior prematurely aged, someone whose face bore the marks of tragedy. And there were marks, yes, something in the grey eyes, something in the line of his tight jaw, but Cregan Stark was not old. He was a man in his prime, perhaps only a few years older than Jace himself. His brown hair fell to his shoulders, wavy and thick, held back only by a strip of leather at the nape of his neck. His beard was short and well-trimmed, darkening his strong jaw. His shoulders were broad under the wolfskin cloak, his hands large and calloused, the bearing of a man accustomed to gripping a sword as much as to ruling.
But it was his eyes that held Jace in place.
They were grey like the northern sky, like the smoke rising from the chimneys, like the steel of a newly forged blade. Eyes that looked directly, without the courtly dance of glancing away and insinuating. Eyes that saw. Jace felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold, an electric current that ran down his spine and settled at the base of his skull. He had been watched by lords and kings, by enemies and allies. But he had never been seen like this, as if Cregan Stark were reading something beneath his skin, something Jace himself did not know was there.
The moment lasted only a second. Perhaps two.
"Prince Jacaerys." Cregan's voice was deep, with a rough timbre that seemed to carry the echo of forests and mountains. He took a step forward, the snow crunching under his boots, and bent his head in a bow that was respectful without being subservient. "Winterfell welcomes you. The North welcomes you."
Jace returned the gesture with the inclination of his head that he had learned from his mother, the precise bow of an heir to the throne. But his voice, when it came out, was slightly hoarse from the flight, or from something else. "Lord Stark. I thank you for your hospitality. My mother, Queen Rhaenyra, sends her greetings and her wish that the North remain a loyal friend to the crown."
Cregan smiled. It was a brief smile, just a lift of the right corner of his lips, but it transformed his face of steel into something warmer, closer, more human. "Your mother will have more than greetings. But that can wait. You must be frozen and famished." He made a broad gesture toward the castle. "Come. The fire is lit, and the meat is nearly done. We will talk after you have recovered your strength."
Jace opened his mouth to protest, to say that he could begin the negotiations immediately, that time was short and the war would not wait. But the wind blew again, cutting through his clothes as if they were made of paper, and he closed his mouth. The North had no haste. The North did not bend to the urgency of dragons. And there was something in that grey castle, in that man with smoke-colored eyes, that stirred a curiosity in Jace he did not know how to name.
He nodded.
*****
The great hall of Winterfell was warm.
Not the oppressive heat of the halls of King's Landing, where torches burned on every pillar and sweat dripped down the backs of the guests even in winter. It was a different kind of warmth, a warmth that came from below, from the hot springs that ran beneath the castle and heated the stones like blood running through the veins of a sleeping body. The granite walls, which from the outside seemed cold and impenetrable, here inside gave off a welcoming tepidity. Tapestries with giant wolves embroidered in silver thread covered the most exposed surfaces, and tallow candles spread an orange light that danced in the shadows.
Jace sat to the right of Cregan, at the high table, the place of honor reserved for important visitors. The hall was full, but not crowded, men of the North, minor lords and warriors, all with their wolfskins and their close-cropped beards, all with those eyes that assessed in silence. The prince felt the weight of those stares as if they were pointed arrows. They were not hostile, but neither were they gentle. They were appraising. The South had always been a strange land to the North, and a Targaryen prince mounted on a dragon was the personification of everything they did not understand, and did not trust.
But Cregan seemed oblivious to it all. Or rather, he seemed aware, but untroubled, like a wolf who knows the other wolves are watching and simply does not care. He ate with appetite, tearing the dark bread with his hands and dipping it into the thick broth of the meat soup. He drank ale from a pewter tankard, and when he laughed, which he did often, a short, rough laugh that came from deep in his chest, his head fell slightly back, exposing his throat.
"Tell me of the war, my prince." Cregan rested his elbow on the table, his chin on his hand, his body leaning toward Jace as if they were the only two in the hall. "I have heard that your brother Lucerys was sent to Storm's End. I am certain Borros Baratheon welcomed a messenger mounted on a dragon."
Luke's name hit Jace like a stitch between his ribs. He missed his brother with an intensity he had not expected, the absence of Luke was a hole in the exact shape of his smile, of his voice, still high, of his fragile courage that tried to imitate that of his elders. "Luke is strong," Jace said, and his voice came out more defensive than he intended. "He will know how to deal with Lord Borros."
"I am sure he will." Cregan took a gulp of ale, and when he lowered his tankard, his eyes found Jace's with a quiet intensity. "And you? How have you been faring?"
The question was simple, but disarming. No one asked Jace how he was faring. They asked about strategy, about alliances, about the number of dragons available, about his mother's health. But no one asked about him. He shifted his gaze to his plate, to the piece of bread he was crumbling between his fingers without realizing it. "I do what must be done. What my mother needs. What the realm needs."
"That does not answer what I asked."
Silence. Jace raised his eyes. Cregan was watching him with the same expression as before, the one that seemed to read beneath his skin, but now there was something more, a genuine curiosity, an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. The fire from the hearth reflected in his grey eyes, turning them to liquid silver.
"No one has ever asked me that before," Jace admitted, and as soon as the words were out, he felt heat climb up his neck.
"Then I am the first." Cregan raised his tankard as if toasting to it. "You are exhausted, Prince Jacaerys. It shows in the lines of your face, in the tension of your shoulders. But do not worry." He lowered his voice, leaning in a little closer, and Jace caught his scent, burnt wood, snow, something musky that must have been the oil used to soften the leather of his cloak. "The North teaches patience. And Winterfell, at times, teaches a man to rest."
Jace felt his ear burn. He hated blushing. It was a curse from his mother, or perhaps from whoever his father was, the fair skin that betrayed every emotion before he could hide it. He turned his face away and lifted the tankard to his lips, taking a longer gulp of ale than was necessary, feeling the bitter liquid slide down his throat.
"Speaking of rest," Cregan continued, as if he had not noticed the blush, "on the morrow we shall ride out for a hunt. The forest is full of stags at this time of year. It will do you good to see something beyond castles and maps."
"I did not come to the North to hunt, Lord Stark."
"No. You came to secure the North's support." Cregan smiled, the same brief smile from before. "And I assure you, you already have it. I will support your mother with all the North can offer."
Jace blinked. "Just... like that?"
"Just like that." Cregan seemed amused by his surprise. "You came all this way mounted on a dragon, Prince Jacaerys. That already speaks more for your cause than any speech. Your mother is the rightful heir. The oath was sworn. And I am not a man who breaks his oaths."
It was too simple. Too quick. Jace felt a wave of relief mixed with something he did not know how to name, a kind of disappointment, perhaps, because if the negotiations were over, then there was no reason to stay. He could leave on the morrow. He should leave on the morrow. Luke was returning from Storm's End, his mother needed him on Dragonstone, and the war would not wait.
But Cregan went on, as if he could read his thoughts. "Still, the journey here is a long one. Your dragon needs to rest. You need to rest. Stay a week. Two. As long as you need." He tilted his head, and the smile shifted into something softer, more personal. "The North is cold, but it is generous to those who know how to accept its hospitality."
Jace knew he should refuse. He knew that every day away from Dragonstone was a risk. But the words died in his throat, and he heard himself saying, "A week, then. For Vermax to recover his strength."
Cregan raised his tankard. "To Vermax's rest."
Jace raised his own, feeling the corner of his mouth curve into an involuntary smile. "To Vermax's rest." And when their tankards touched with a muffled clink, Jace felt he had just made a pact he did not fully understand.
*****
The forest beyond Winterfell was a sacred and wild place. Jace had never seen trees so ancient. They were sentinels, pines and firs that rose like the columns of a roofless cathedral, with trunks so wide that three men could not have wrapped their arms around them. The snow covered the ground like an immaculate mantle, dotted here and there by the tracks of foxes and hares, and the air smelled of resin and frozen earth.
Cregan walked ahead, with long, sure strides, his feet finding the path as if the forest were an extension of his own body. He carried a yew bow on his back and a short axe at his belt, and his wolfskin cloak rippled in the wind as if it were still alive. Behind him, Jace tried to keep up, but his legs were shorter, his steps less practiced in the deep snow. He stumbled every few yards, and with each stumble he let out a muffled curse that made Cregan laugh.
"Do you hunt much in the South, prince?" Cregan's voice sounded up ahead, without him turning around.
"Not in frozen forests." The answer came out harsher than Jace intended, as he grabbed at a low branch to keep from falling to his knees in the snow.
"I thought not." Cregan finally turned, waiting for Jace to catch up. "You are holding that bow as if it were a snake about to bite."
Jace looked down at the bow in his hands and then up at Cregan, feeling that wretched blush rise again. "It is different from the bow I use at home."
"Let me see." Cregan came closer, and before Jace could protest, he was behind him, his arms wrapping around the prince's shoulders, his calloused hands adjusting the position of his fingers on the string. "Like this. Your thumb needs to be higher. And your elbow..." He touched Jace's elbow, lifting it. "More aligned with your shoulder. Otherwise the arrow flies crooked and you hit a tree instead of a stag."
Jace was not paying attention to the words. He was paying attention to the warmth of Cregan's body against his back, to the hot breath grazing his ear, to the scent of leather and musk that seemed to wrap around him like the wolfskin cloak. His heart was beating with an urgency that had nothing to do with the effort of the walk. He tried to focus on the bow, on the arrow, on his stance, but all he could feel was the nearness, the heat, that deep voice reverberating against his spine.
"There." Cregan stepped back, and Jace felt the absence like a gust of freezing wind. "Now try."
The arrow flew straight and lodged in the trunk of a pine twenty paces away, trembling with the impact. It was not a remarkable shot, but it was better than all his previous ones. Jace lowered his bow and turned to Cregan, expecting mockery. Instead, he found a smile. Not the short, ironic smile from the feast, but something fuller, warmer, that lit up the grey eyes like the sun breaking through clouds.
"Not bad for a southern boy," Cregan said.
"I had a good teacher."
The words were out before Jace could filter them, and he immediately felt his ears catch fire. But Cregan did not mock. He just held his gaze for a moment longer than was necessary, and then turned to resume the walk.
"Come. The stag should be up ahead."
They hunted until the sun began to sink. They caught no stag, Jace scared off the only one that appeared, with a false step that broke a dry branch, but Cregan brought down two hares with an aim that seemed supernatural. As they gathered the carcasses, the twilight painted the sky in purple and orange, and the temperature dropped fast.
"We need to light a fire," Cregan announced, kneeling in a clearing surrounded by tall pines. "The night in the North does not forgive."
Jace helped gather wood. His fingers were numb, even with gloves, and he felt the cold seep through every layer of clothing as if it were gauze. But there was something invigorating about it, in the simplicity of manual labor, in the absence of servants and courtiers and formalities. He was not a prince out there. He was just a man gathering sticks so he would not freeze to death. When the fire finally crackled, high and hot, Cregan skewered the hares on branches and set them over the flames. They sat side by side on a fallen log, their shoulders almost touching, the heat of the fire forming a bubble of light in the vast darkness of the forest.
"Do you ever miss it?" Cregan asked suddenly, his eyes fixed on the flames.
"Miss what?"
"Home. Your family. Being just... you."
Jace hesitated. The easy answer was yes. But there was something in the stillness of the forest, in the intimacy of the fire, that demanded more than the easy answer. "I do not know who I am outside of this," he confessed, and the honesty of the words surprised him. "Outside of being a prince. Outside of being my mother's son. Outside of this war." He turned a stick between his fingers, watching the tip burn slowly. "Sometimes, I think there is no 'me' outside of it. That I am just... this."
Cregan did not answer right away. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands hanging between his legs. The firelight danced on his face, carving shadows under his eyes and along his jaw.
"My father died when I was thirteen," he said, his voice low. "My elder brother, a year later. All of a sudden, I was the Lord of Winterfell. I did not know how to rule. I did not know how to lead. I just knew I had to do it, because there was no one else." He turned his face to Jace, and there was something fragile in his eyes, something that did not match the strong jaw and the broad shoulders. "Maybe we never know who we are. Maybe we just... do. And one day, when the war is over and everything settles down, we find out."
"Do you believe that?"
Cregan smiled, but it was a different smile, sadder, more intimate. "I want to believe it."
The fire popped, sending sparks into the sky. One of them rose, dancing in the darkness, and vanished among the stars that were beginning to dot the northern sky. Jace had never seen so many stars. In King's Landing, the lights of the city and the torches on the walls blotted everything out. Here, there was nothing but the darkness and the fire and the man beside him.
"Cregan," he said, and it was the first time he had used the name without the title.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For bringing me here. For... listening."
Cregan did not answer with words. He just reached out and touched Jace's shoulder, a brief, light touch, one that could have been mere comradeship, mere kindness. But his fingers stayed there a second longer, pressing into the leather of the cloak, and Jace felt the warmth of that hand spread down his arm, through his chest, taking over his entire body.
*****
The following night, lying in his chambers in Winterfell, Jace could not sleep. He stared up at the stone ceiling, his eyes open in the darkness, feeling the pounding of a heart that would not calm. He thought of Cregan's hand on his shoulder, of that deep voice against his spine, of the smile lit by the fire. He thought of the confession he had made, of the words he had spoken and the ones he had not.
And he thought, most of all, about what it would be like if Cregan had not pulled his hand away.
Jace turned onto his side, pulled the wolf furs up to his chin, and shut his eyes tight. He was a prince. He was the heir to the Iron Throne. He was betrothed to Baela. He could not feel what he was feeling. But his body did not obey reason. His body still felt the warmth of that hand.
*****
The next morning dawned with a pale sun that seemed more like a memory of light than true light itself. Jace went out to the training yard with the excuse that he needed to keep his form, a crown prince could not afford to grow rusty, he told himself as he pulled on his leather gloves. But the truth, the one he would not confess even to the ceiling of his chambers in the dead of night, was that he had heard the sound of steel on steel coming from the yard and had known, before he even reached the window, that it was Cregan training.
He approached slowly, watching from a distance, leaning against the stone jamb of the arch that opened onto the inner yard. Cregan was shirtless, despite the cold. His torso was a geography of muscle and scars, some fine and silver, others more recent, still pink at the edges. Sweat glistened on his skin like dew on granite, and steam rose from his shoulders, dancing in the icy air. He was wielding a longsword with both hands, his movements wide and precise, his bare feet planted in the snow as if the cold were merely a suggestion.
His opponent was a Northman, big as a bear, but slow. Cregan disarmed him with a sharp blow, the blade flying away to bury itself in the snow with a muffled hiss. The bear grumbled something about trickery, and Cregan laughed, that short, rough laugh Jace had already learned to seek out in the silence of the castle.
"Prince Jacaerys." Cregan had spotted him. He leaned on his sword as if it were a cane, his chest still heaving with his rapid breath. "Have you come to train, or just to admire the scenery?"
Jace felt his face burn and prayed the cold would justify the redness. "I came to train. If you do not mind being beaten by a southerner."
"Is that a challenge?" The grey eyes shone.
"It is a fact."
The northern bear walked off, grumbling, and Cregan tossed Jace a training sword, heavier than the ones he used at Dragonstone, with a worn grip and a blunt blade full of nicks. Jace caught it in the air and felt the weight pull his wrist down.
"It is heavier than it looks," Cregan said, already taking his stance. "But you are a dragon. You ought to manage."
Jace lunged first. His blows were quick, technical, the kind the master-at-arms in King's Landing taught in marble halls. But Cregan did not fight like the knights of the South. He did not dance. He advanced like an avalanche, every blow loaded with brute force, every step closing the distance until Jace was falling back, back, back, his back nearly hitting the stone wall.
"You fight well," Cregan said, his voice ragged with effort, yet still taunting. "But you fight like a man with an audience. Too much elegance. Not enough intent."
"My intent is to win."
"Then do your best."
Jace snarled and lunged with a fury that surprised him. He forgot the technique, forgot the elegance, forgot the imaginary audience. He let his body act, let the frustration of the last days, the confusion, the sleeplessness, Cregan's hand on his shoulder, the smile by the fire, explode in every blow. Steel sang against steel, sparks flew, and for a moment he saw an opening in Cregan's guard.
His sword stopped a finger's breadth from the throat of the Lord of Winterfell.
The two of them stood frozen, panting. The steam of their breath mingled in the icy air. Jace felt his heart hammering against his ribs, felt sweat running down his temple, felt the muscles in his arms trembling with the full effort. But what he felt most was the nearness, Cregan's bare chest inches away, the drops of sweat glistening on his collarbone, the smell of salt and leather and something else, something Jace could not name but recognized deep in his stomach. He felt within him a strange urge to lick that sweat away, as if it were a nectar offered by the gods. Jace fought against it... He could not understand where these feelings, these emotions and desires, were coming from.
Cregan lowered his sword slowly. His eyes met Jace's, and there was something in them, surprise, perhaps, or respect, or something darker and hotter that Jace did not dare to name. "Good lad," he murmured, so low it might have been just the wind.
But it was not the wind.
Jace lowered his sword and took a step back. He needed distance. He needed air. He needed to stop looking at the drop of sweat sliding down Cregan's chest and disappearing into the line of his waist. He needed to stop wanting that... Feeling that... He just needed space to become himself again, to become the heir to the throne once more. "I think I won," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended.
"I think you did." Cregan smiled, that crooked smile Jace was beginning to know, and thrust his sword into the snow. "Let us go get something to drink. You have earned it."
*****
That night, the main hall of Winterfell was more alive than ever. It was not a formal feast, it was an impromptu celebration, the kind the North held when the cold tightened its grip and the only defense was to drink until you forgot the temperature. Men crowded onto the wooden benches, tankards of ale knocked against one another, and a lute player was plucking out a lively melody that spoke of wolves and full moons.
Jace was drunk. Not completely, he could still form coherent sentences and walk a straight line, but enough that the world seemed warmer, softer, more possible. He was laughing at something Cregan had said, a joke about a bear and a septon that he could no longer remember, but the laughter came easily, freely, as if it had never learned to be held back.
"Another," Cregan said, filling Jace's tankard before he could refuse.
"You are trying to get me drunk, Lord Stark."
"I am trying to see you smile, my prince. Drink is merely the fastest way."
Jace felt his blush rise, that wretched blush that always betrayed him, and he lifted his tankard to his lips to hide his face. Northern ale was darker and more bitter than the wines he drank at Dragonstone, but he was beginning to like it. He was beginning to like a great many things. The way the wood of the tables felt rough under his fingers. The way the fire from the hearth tinted everything an amber hue. The way Cregan laughed, his head tipping back, his throat exposed, the lines of his neck stretching until they disappeared beneath his fur collar.
The lute player changed the tune. It was a slower song now, a northern ballad, with chords that rose and fell like the snowy hills. Some men stood to dance, a strange dance, nothing like the courtly dances of the South. People paired off, took hands, spun in circles that ebbed and flowed like the tides. It was rustic, chaotic, free. He sang of a lady of House Stark, in love with a wildling. They met by night, but by day they were sworn enemies.
"Dance with me." Cregan held out his hand.
Jace stared at the hand as if it were a serpent. "I cannot dance with you. Two men do not dance together..."
"That is southern nonsense," Cregan replied, still offering his hand to Jace.
"But I do not know how to dance any of this."
"I will teach you. Just like the bow the other day."
"I will make a fool of myself."
"Probably." Cregan smiled. "But no one here will care. And if anyone laughs, I will take his head off."
That pulled a laugh from Jace, and before he could think better of it, he placed his hand in Cregan's. The lord's palm was rough, calloused from sword and rein and hunt, but his touch was strangely gentle. Cregan pulled him into the middle of the hall, and Jace felt the stares of the northern men on them, but they were different stares from the ones he got in King's Landing, there was no malice, only curiosity, or perhaps a silent approval. The dragon prince was dancing with the wolf of the North, and somehow it felt right.
"First, the hands," Cregan said, positioning himself in front of Jace. He took hold of the prince's two hands, raising them to shoulder height. "Now, follow my steps. Left, right, left, turn."
Jace tried to follow. He stumbled on the first try, stepped on Cregan's foot on the second, and on the third he simply let himself be carried, spinning and twirling as the world became a blur of candlelight and laughter. Cregan led with a firm hand, his palm on Jace's back guiding each movement, and there was something in that dance that was more intimate than anything Jace had ever known. It was not just the physical closeness. It was the trust. It was the surrender. It was letting someone else decide where you went and knowing you would not fall.
The song ended. They stopped, panting, still holding hands. The whole hall applauded, but Jace did not hear it. He only heard his own breath, and Cregan's, and the blood pounding in his ears.
"You are a terrible dancer," Cregan said, but his voice was gentle.
"You are an even worse teacher."
Cregan laughed and let go of his hands, but he took a second too long to do it. A second where his fingers slid away slowly, as if they did not wish to part.
After the dance, they drank more. Much more. Jace lost count of the tankards, lost track of time, lost the ability to worry about the war or his duty or what it meant the way his heart raced whenever Cregan brushed his shoulder against his. At some point, he realized he was laughing so hard that tears were running down his face, and he no longer knew what he was laughing at, he just knew he was happy. So happy it ached.
"You are very drunk, prince," Cregan said, his voice slurred, his eyes slightly glazed.
"You are as well, Lord Stark."
"Aye. But I am bigger. I can hold it better."
"Shall we wager on it?"
Cregan laughed and tried to stand, but he swayed, and Jace grabbed him by the arm. Or perhaps it was Cregan who grabbed Jace. They looked at each other, their faces very close, and for an instant Jace thought something was going to happen, something that would change everything. But Cregan just smiled, that crooked, warm smile, and threw his arm over Jace's shoulders. "Come. I will see you to your chambers."
"I will see you to yours."
They ended up seeing each other to both, stumbling through the corridors of Winterfell, laughing like boys, shadows dancing on the stone walls. Jace felt the weight of Cregan against his body, the heat that radiated from him even through his clothes, the smell of ale and smoke in his hair. And as they walked, stumbled, Jace wished the corridor would never end. When they reached the chambers, Cregan helped him into bed. He pulled off his boots, laid a wolfskin over his body, and stood there for a moment, looking down at him with an expression Jace could not decipher.
"Good night, Jace," Cregan murmured, and it was the first time he used the pet name, the name without titles, without formalities. Just Jace.
"Good night, Cregan," Jace whispered, but Cregan had already turned, and the door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Jace lay staring at the stone ceiling, his heart beating heavy, his head spinning. He thought of Baela, of his mother, of Luke. He thought of duty, of the war, of the Iron Throne. But it all seemed so far away, as if it belonged to another life, to another man. That night, drunk and warmed by the wolf furs, with the ghost of Cregan's touch still on his shoulders, he allowed himself a single, silent confession, one he would tell no one, one he barely dared to think.
I want to stay.
*****
Three days passed. Three days of hunts and training and shared meals. Three days of glances that lasted a second too long, of hands that brushed as they reached for the bread, of silences that said more than words. Three days where Jace woke thinking of Cregan and fell asleep dreaming of him, and spent the whole day trying not to look at his lips.
On the afternoon of the third day, Cregan invited him to see the godswood.
The heart tree of Winterfell was unlike anything Jace had ever seen. It was not like the garden of Dragonstone, with its statues of dragons and its beds of fragrant herbs. It was not like the parks of King's Landing, artificial and tamed. It was an ancient place, older than the castle, older than the Starks, older than the First Men. The trees grew in a reverent silence, their twisted trunks covered in moss, their leaves rustling with a sound that seemed to whisper secrets in a forgotten tongue. At the center of it all, the white weirwood rose like a slumbering god, its branches stretching toward the grey sky, the red leaves like blood dripping into the snow. The face carved in the trunk watched them with sap-filled eyes, ancient and impassive.
Jace stopped before the tree, feeling the cold seep through his clothes, but also feeling something more, a presence, a weight, an expectation. He did not know what to expect. Cregan walked beside him, in silence, their steps muffled by the snow. The late afternoon light filtered through the red leaves, dyeing everything a rosy hue, as if the grove were suspended in an eternal twilight.
"Do you believe in the old gods?" Cregan asked, his voice sounding strangely intimate in the stillness of the grove.
"I do not know." Jace looked at the face in the trunk, at the sap-filled eyes that seemed to look back at him. "I am Valyrian, but I was raised in the Faith of the Seven. Yet here... here it feels like there is something. Something ancient."
"The old gods need no priests or temples. They are in the trees, in the stones, in the earth. They see all." Cregan took a step forward, and his hand touched the trunk of the weirwood, his fingers tracing the sap that ran like tears. "It is said an oath sworn before a heart tree cannot be broken. That the gods witness it and seal it."
Jace did not answer. He did not know what to say. There was something in Cregan's tone, in the way his fingers stroked the rough bark, that told him this was not just a lesson about religion. It was a prelude.
Cregan turned. His grey eyes met Jace's, and there was a quiet determination in them, a certainty that asked no permission. He advanced, each step deliberate, and Jace backed away instinctively, one step, two, three, until his back hit the trunk of the weirwood. The bark was cold and rough against his spine, but Cregan's body before him was warm, radiating heat even through his heavy clothes.
"Cregan..." Jace began, but he did not know what he was going to say. Stop? Keep going? What are you doing?
"Jace." The name came out like a breath, a prayer, a surrender. "Do you know why I brought you here?"
"No..."
"Yes, you do." Cregan's hand came up, his calloused fingers touching Jace's face with a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the firmness of his voice. His thumb traced the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek, and Jace felt his skin burn where he touched it. "You have known since the first day. Since you climbed down from that dragon and looked at me as if I were the only thing that made any sense in all this cold."
Jace tried to speak. He tried to say that this was madness, that he was a prince, the heir to the Iron Throne, promised to Baela, that he had a duty to his mother and to the realm and to the war. But the words would not come. Because Cregan was so close he could feel his breath on his mouth, so close he could see the flecks of gold in his grey eyes, so close that the world shrank down to just this, the bark of the weirwood, the heat of another body, his heart beating so hard it seemed to want to escape his chest.
And then Cregan kissed him.
The first touch was soft, almost hesitant, as if the Lord of Winterfell, who never hesitated, was giving Jace a chance to flee. But fleeing was the last thing Jace wanted. His eyes closed, his hands, which had been frozen at his sides, came up to grip the wolfskin cloak, and he returned the kiss with a hunger he did not know he possessed. Cregan's mouth was hot, insistent, and tasted of mint and something else, something Jace could only describe as hunger. Their lips moved against each other in a rhythm that was at once urgent and careful, as if Cregan wanted to devour him, but was holding himself back. His hand slid from Jace's face to the nape of his neck, his fingers tangling in his brown hair, tugging lightly to tilt his head and deepen the kiss.
This is wrong, a voice whispered in Jace's mind. You are a prince. You are the heir. You are betrothed. This could destroy everything.
But that voice was so distant, so small, compared to the thunder roaring in his chest. Because Cregan was kissing him as if he were the only source of heat in the winter, as if his lips were the last thing keeping him alive. And Jace, who had spent his whole life being the obedient son, the perfect heir, the prince who carried the weight of the crown before he even wore it, Jace wanted to be just this. Just a man being kissed by another man in the shadow of one of the old gods. He groaned against Cregan's mouth, a sound he did not recognize as his own, and the kiss transformed. Tenderness gave way to passion, and passion to urgency. Cregan pressed him against the trunk, his body covering Jace's, his hands sliding down his shoulders, his ribs, until they found the hem of his tunic. Cold fingers touched the hot skin of his waist, and Jace shuddered, not from the cold, but from the electric shock that touch sent through him.
"I want you," Cregan murmured against his lips, his voice rough and broken, as if the confession cost him something. "From the moment you climbed down from that damned dragon, I have wanted you.
Jace opened his eyes. Cregan's face was so close he could see every lash, every pore, every micro-expression. There was desire there, yes, but also something more, vulnerability, perhaps, or fear, or the same confusion Jace felt. Cregan Stark, the wolf of the North, was not just taking. He was offering himself. And Jace, who had always been so careful, so measured, so bound to what was expected of him, took.
His hands came up to Cregan's face, his thumbs tracing his cheekbones, the short beard scratching his palms. He pulled Cregan into another kiss, fiercer this time, hungrier, teeth scraping his lower lip, his tongue finding Cregan's in a dance that needed no music. Cregan grunted his approval, and his hands kept exploring, running up Jace's back, scratching lightly, finding every vertebra as if he were reading a map. The clothes began to fall away. Jace's tunic was pulled over his head, and the cold air bit at his bare skin, but Cregan's body was there to warm him, covering him, shielding him. The wolfskin cloak fell into the snow, followed by the lord's wool tunic. Chest to chest, heart against heart, the difference in temperature between them created a fine mist that rose from their entwined bodies.
Cregan kissed his neck, his collarbone, trailing his lips down to the center of his chest. Jace threw his head back against the trunk of the weirwood, feeling the rough bark scrape his back, but not caring. Cregan's mouth was a miracle, hot and wet and insistent, and every touch of his lips lit a spark that spread through his whole body.
"Cregan..." The name came out as a plea.
"I know," Cregan murmured against his skin. "Me too."
The Wolf of the North knelt in the snow. Jace looked down, seeing the Lord of Winterfell at his feet, and the sight was so absurd, so sacred, that he almost forgot to breathe. Cregan's fingers untied Jace's breeches with a patience that contrasted with his earlier urgency, and when his mouth took him in, Jace let out a moan that echoed through the grove, waking echoes in the ancient trees. The heat. The pressure. The tongue tracing nameless patterns, patterns that only existed there, in that moment, under the impassive gaze of the weirwood. Jace gripped Cregan's hair, feeling the brown waves slip through his fingers, and surrendered. Surrender was not a luxury a prince could afford. But there, with the snow under his feet and the man he had not known he needed kneeling before him, Jace surrendered completely.
The pleasure rose like a tide, surging from his belly, spreading through his thighs, his spine, his chest. He tried to warn him, tried to pull Cregan up, but Cregan just held him tighter and took him to the end, until the world exploded in white light and Jace cried out something that was half a prayer, half a curse, half the name of an old god he did not know he knew. When he came back to himself, Cregan was on his feet again, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, his grey eyes shining with a primal satisfaction. Jace pulled him into a kiss, tasting himself in the other man's mouth, and that was more intimate than anything he had ever known.
"My turn," he murmured against Cregan's lips, and his hands slid down to untie the lord's breeches.
What followed was a discovery. Jace had never touched another man like this, had never had permission, had never dared to desire it. But his body knew what to do, guided by an instinct older than reason. His hands, his lips, his tongue explored Cregan with a reverence that bordered on worship, learning every curve, every scar, every moan he drew out. When he finally took him into his mouth, feeling the weight and the heat and the taste, Jace knew he would never be the same.
Cregan groaned, his hands gripping Jace's hair harder than he meant to, and his body trembled like a tree in the wind. He tried to pull Jace up, tried to warn him, but Jace held him tight and took him to the end, just as Cregan had done for him. The taste flooded his mouth, salty, bitter, alive, and he swallowed every drop, as if it were a sacrament.
Afterwards, they knelt in the snow, facing one another, panting, their foreheads touching, their hands intertwined. The snow melted around their knees, forming small pools that reflected the darkening sky. The leaves of the weirwood rustled softly, as if the old gods were whispering among themselves.
"What was that?" Jace whispered, his voice shaking.
"That," Cregan answered, his lips brushing Jace's forehead in a kiss as light as a blessing, "was what should always have been."
They dressed in silence, helping each other with their clothes, their fingers still trembling, their gazes laden with all that could not be spoken. When they left the grove, the moon was already rising on the horizon, silvering the walls of Winterfell. Neither of them looked back. But Jace felt, in that space between his ribs, that something had changed forever. That the weirwood had witnessed something. That the old gods had sealed an oath he still did not dare to name.
*****
After that afternoon, everything changed at Winterfell. And, strangely, nothing did.
The men of the North still treated Jace with the same cautious respect as before. The servants still brought firewood to his chambers and filled his basin with hot water. The meals were still served in the main hall, with the same dark soup and the same rye bread. But there was something in the air, a lightness, a silent complicity that Jace did not fully understand. It was Cregan who explained it, days later, laughing with that rough laugh Jace already loved. "They think you are visiting Sara Snow."
"Who is Sara Snow?"
"My bastard half-sister." Cregan shrugged. "She exists, but she is in the winter town, caring for a sick aunt. No one has seen her for weeks. It is the perfect excuse."
Jace felt his face burn, but he also felt a wave of relief. So that was it. Every time he said he was going to see Sara Snow, the guards exchanged knowing glances and let him pass. Every time he disappeared for hours and came back with his hair mussed and his clothes rumpled, no one asked any questions. The Prince of Dragonstone had a bastard lover, and it was so normal, so expected, that it served as the most effective disguise he could have wished for.
"And what do they think of you?" Jace asked. "Do you visit your sister too?"
"I escort you to her." Cregan smiled, that crooked smile. "I am a very devoted brother. They think I want to make her your queen."
From then on, "visiting Sara Snow" became the code. Jace used the excuse nearly every night, and every night he met Cregan somewhere, in the lord's chambers, in the godswood, in an abandoned tower, in the hot springs beneath the castle. Every encounter was a discovery. They explored each other with the patience of men who knew time was short, but pretended it was not. They learned the spots that drew moans, the caresses that caused shivers, the words that did not need to be spoken.
But it was not only sex.
It was Cregan lying beside him after lovemaking, his fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, telling stories of his childhood, of the older brother who had taught him to hunt, of the father who had died in his arms, of the weight of inheriting a title when he was still a boy. It was Jace confessing his fears, the fear of not being enough for his mother, the fear of failing Luke and Joffrey, the fear that the war would take everything he loved. They shared silences before the hearth, their bodies tangled under the wolf furs, their breathing synchronized, the outside world reduced to nothing.
"How did you know?" Jace asked one night, his head resting on Cregan's chest, listening to the beat of his heart.
"Know what?"
"That I... that I wanted this. That I wanted you."
Cregan was silent for a moment, his hand stroking Jace's hair. "I did not know," he said finally. "I hoped. I prayed. But I did not know."
"And if I had refused? If I had pushed you away and left?"
"Then I would have lived with the shame and the frustration. But at least I would have tried. It is better to speak and get no answer than to die having said nothing." He tilted his head and kissed Jace's forehead. "You are the heir to the Iron Throne, Jace. You are a dragon. You could have anyone in the realm. But I looked at you that first day and I thought: this man is carrying the world on his shoulders and no one is helping him. I wanted to be the one to help. The rest... the rest came after."
Jace closed his eyes, feeling his throat tighten. No one had ever said anything like that to him. His whole life, he had been the son, the heir, the prince. Supporting his mother was his duty, not a burden someone offered to share. But here, in the arms of a wolf of the North, he felt like just Jace. Just a man. Just loved.
"I do not want to leave," he whispered.
"Then stay."
"I cannot."
"I know." Cregan's hand squeezed his shoulder. "But you can stay tonight. And tomorrow. And the day after. Until you truly have to go."
*****
The days turned into weeks. Jace lost count of how many times he told himself he would leave tomorrow. Tomorrow, after one more hunt. Tomorrow, after one more night beneath the wolf furs. Tomorrow, after seeing Cregan smile one more time. Tomorrow never came. The war seemed far away, a nightmare happening in another world, in another life. Had Luke returned from Storm's End? Was his mother well? He did not know. News was slow to reach the North, and Jace made no point of asking. Every letter that did not come was one more day of peace. One more day with Cregan.
But the shadow was there, always present.
He felt it when he woke in the small hours and saw Cregan sleeping beside him, his face relaxed, his brown hair spread across the pillow. He felt it when he laughed at something Cregan said and then remembered there was a realm at war and a younger brother who needed him. He felt it when he looked at his hands and thought about how much longer he could hold those hands before duty tore them away.
"You are thinking too much again." Cregan's voice brought him back. They were lying in the hot springs beneath the castle, the warm water bubbling around their bodies, the steam rising in clouds that condensed on the stone walls.
"I am always thinking."
"Then stop." Cregan moved closer, the water rippling around him, and kissed Jace's shoulder. "You think too much. You will get wrinkles and ruin that pretty face of yours."
Jace smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "Cregan, how long do you think we can carry on like this?"
"As long as we want."
"No. Truly."
Cregan sighed and pulled back a little, the water streaming down his chest. "Do you want me to tell you the truth?"
"Always."
"The truth is that you will have to leave. And I cannot go with you, not yet, not until I gather my men and march south. The truth is this war will part us, perhaps for months, perhaps for more." He took Jace's face in both hands, his thumbs stroking his cheekbones. "But the truth is also that what we have here, now, is real. And no distance, no war, no duty will change that."
"Do you promise?"
Cregan kissed him. It was a soft, sweet kiss, different from the hungry kisses in the grove. A kiss that said I am here, I will be here, I will always be here. "I promise," he murmured against his lips.
That night, they made love with a different intensity, slower, deeper, as if each touch were a farewell. And when Jace finally fell asleep in Cregan's arms, his head nestled in the curve of his shoulder, he dreamed of a white weirwood and sap-filled eyes that wept red tears.
In the dream, the tears turned to blood.
And the blood formed a name.
Lucerys.
*****
The afternoon sun painted the walls of Winterfell in hues of copper and amber, a warm light that belied the biting cold of the wind. Jace walked beside Cregan along the battlements, their boots sinking into the thin layer of snow that had gathered overnight. Down below, the castle yard was teeming with the day's work, blacksmiths hammering iron, servants hauling firewood, dogs barking and darting between men's legs. But up here, atop the walls, the world seemed suspended. Silent. Just the two of them.
Jace was talking without stopping. He did not know why, perhaps it was nerves, perhaps it was the happiness bubbling in his chest like the hot springs beneath the castle, perhaps it was the fear that if he stopped talking, the silence would bring forth everything he was trying to ignore. He spoke of the books he had read as a child, of the mischief he had caused with Luke and Joffrey in the corridors of Dragonstone, of the first time he had mounted Vermax, of how the dragon had nearly thrown him into the sea and his mother had screamed from the shore with a mix of terror and fury. He spoke and gestured, his hands drawing shapes in the cold air, his breath forming small clouds that dissolved as quickly as his words.
Cregan listened with an expression Jace had learned to recognize, his head tilted slightly, his lips curved in a soft smile, his grey eyes fixed on him as if the rest of the world did not exist. It was an expression of pure admiration, of enchantment, of a man who never tired of watching. Jace felt the heat climb his neck under that gaze and finally stopped talking, suddenly aware that he was babbling like a boy.
"Why did you stop?" Cregan asked, and his voice carried a tone of genuine disappointment.
"Because you are looking at me strangely."
"It is not strange." Cregan took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "It is just... admiration."
Jace felt his face burn. How many weeks had passed? How many nights? And still, every one of Cregan's compliments struck him like the first, a well-aimed arrow he did not know how to dodge. "Admiration for what? For my ability to speak without drawing breath?"
"For everything." Cregan raised his hand and touched Jace's face, his calloused fingers grazing the cold skin. He brushed away a snowflake that had gathered on the prince's brow, the gesture as natural as breathing. "Winter suits you, my prince. I don't know how, but it made you even more beautiful."
Those words. My prince. It was not the first time Cregan had said them, but every time they left his lips, Jace felt something within him come undone, the defenses, the masks, the countless layers of duty and expectation. He smiled, a smile that was born from a very deep place, a place he had not even known existed before Winterfell.
"You are always beautiful, Lord Stark."
Cregan's smile widened, and there was something golden in it, something that caught the light of the setting sun and turned it into warmth. He drew closer, his hand still on Jace's face, and the world around them, the walls, the castle, the men below, the war, the realm, simply ceased to be. Jace held his breath, anticipating the kiss, feeling his heart race with a familiarity that still surprised him.
And then, the footsteps.
Hurried, clumsy footsteps, the sound of boots crunching in the snow, of ragged, uneven breathing. The moment shattered like thin ice under a careless foot. Jace pulled back on instinct, and Cregan turned toward the sound, his expression shifting from tenderness to alertness in an instant.
It was the maester of Winterfell. An old man, bent by years and winters, his grey robes stained with ink and grease, his chain clinking with every tottering step. He was climbing the stairs to the battlements with an urgency his frail body could barely sustain, his face red from the effort, his breath coming in gasps that formed dense clouds in the cold air. He looked pathetic, yes, but also desperate, like a messenger bearing the weight of news he did not wish to give.
"My prince... My lord..." The maester stopped before them, bending over to catch his breath, a trembling hand braced on his knee. "A letter... From Queen Rhaenyra."
The world collapsed.
Jace felt his stomach clench, a sudden cold that had nothing to do with the northern wind. He reached out his hand, and his fingers were strangely calm, the calm that comes before disaster, the calm of a body that has not yet understood what is about to happen. The maester placed the envelope in his palm with a trembling bow.
It was a simple scroll, sealed with the red wax of the three-headed dragon. The seal of his mother. The seal of his house. Jace broke it with his thumb and unfolded the letter. Rhaenyra's handwriting was elegant and firm, but there was something wavering in the curves of the letters, as if the hand that had written them had been shaking.
He read the first words and the air vanished from his lungs.
My son, my dear son...
His vision blurred. The words danced before his eyes, refusing to make sense. He blinked, tried again. He read of Aemond and Vhagar. He read of the storm. He read of a body that would never be recovered, a dragon that had fallen from the sky, a brother who would not be coming home.
Lucerys.
Luke.
The boy who had run through the corridors of Dragonstone with his brown hair mussed by the wind. The boy who had laughed at Jace's japes even when he did not understand them. The boy who had looked at him with those eyes full of trust and said, "You will be the finest king Westeros has ever seen, Jace." The boy he had promised to protect. The boy he had let go alone to Storm's End while he stayed at Winterfell, laughing and dancing and losing himself in the arms of a wolf, while his brother fell from the sky in flames.
The letter slipped from his fingers.
The tears came before he could hold them back. They were not tears of grief, or not only. They were tears of hatred. Hatred for Aemond, for the Greens, for the war that stole everything. But most of all, hatred for himself. A hatred so deep, so corrosive, it burned like acid in his veins.
I was here. I was happy. And now Luke is dead.
"Jace." Cregan's voice came from very far away, muffled, as if he were speaking through water. "Jace, what is it?"
He could not answer. His throat was closed off, sealed by an invisible hand. He just pointed at the letter lying in the snow, his words swallowed by a dry sob. Cregan crouched down, picked up the parchment, read it in silence. Jace saw when his eyes reached the line that mattered, his shoulders stiffened, his jaw tightened, his fingers crumpled the edge of the paper.
"Jace..." Cregan dropped the letter in the snow and stepped closer. He wrapped the prince in an embrace, his strong arms pulling Jace against his chest, and Jace let himself be pulled. Let himself be held. Let himself fall apart.
"I should have been there," he sobbed against Cregan's chest, the words coming out broken, wet with tears and snot and guilt. "I should have gone with him. I should have come back sooner. I... I stayed here, Cregan. I stayed here out of selfishness, out of wanting you, out of not wanting to go back, and Luke died alone. My little brother died alone."
Cregan's hands tightened on his back, pulling him even closer. "It was not your fault."
"It was. You do not understand. I could have protected him. I am the older brother. I always protected him."
"You could not have foreseen this. No one could."
"I could have gone with him." Jace squeezed his eyes shut, but the tears kept falling, hot against the cold of his face, dripping onto Cregan's wolfskin cloak. "Why did I not go with him? Why did I let him go alone?"
Cregan did not answer. Perhaps there was no answer. He just held Jace tighter, one hand on his back, the other on the nape of his neck, his fingers tangled in his hair. He held him the way one holds a drowning man, with firmness, with desperation, with the certainty that if he let go, Jace would sink for good.
The wind blew around them, carrying snowflakes that clung to their hair and their clothes. Down below, the yard went on indifferent, the blacksmiths hammering iron, the dogs barking, the servants hauling firewood. The world did not stop. The world never stopped. But on the walls of Winterfell, time had suspended itself in a bubble of grief.
After a long moment, Jace pulled away. His eyes were swollen, his face stained with tears, his expression hollow. "I have to go," he said, and his voice was no longer his own. It was the voice of a prince. The voice of an heir. The voice of someone who had buried the man he was to don the armor of duty. "I have to go home and face this war head on. I have to honor my brother's memory."
Cregan nodded slowly. His grey eyes were glistening, Jace had never seen them like that before, but he did not weep. The Lord of Winterfell did not allow himself to weep. Instead, he cupped Jace's face with both hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears that still fell, and he kissed his brow. A long, firm kiss, one that said everything words could not.
"My men and I will begin our march south," Cregan said. "I will see you on the battlefield, my prince."
Jace felt a weak smile touch his lips, just for a moment. "Do you promise?"
"I swear it. By the old gods and the new. Before the weirwood and the dragon." Cregan squeezed his hands. "And when the war is over, you will come back to Winterfell. We will spend the winter together. The hot springs, the nights beneath the wolf furs, all of it. We will have time. All the time in the world."
Jace wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe it so much it hurt. But there was something deep in his chest, a small, dark voice, that whispered life did not work that way. That war took everything. That love was a luxury princes could not afford.
He silenced that voice.
"I will miss you," Jace murmured, and the words were so insufficient, so ridiculously small for what he felt. But they were all he had.
"And I you." Cregan lifted Jace's hand to his lips and kissed his fingers. "Every day. Every hour. Until we meet again."
Jace wanted to kiss him. He wanted to throw himself into his arms and say I am not going, I am staying, let the war wait. But he was the heir to the Iron Throne. He was Rhaenyra Targaryen's son. And his brother was dead. He had no right to stay.
He let go of Cregan's hands and started toward the castle gates.
Vermax beat his wings as Jace climbed into his saddle. The snow surged up in waves, blinding those who stood near, and the dragon rose, higher, higher, until Winterfell became a toy of stone in the white vastness. Jace did not look back. He could not. If he looked back, he would not have the strength to go on.
Cregan stood in the yard, the snow settling around him, his eyes fixed on the spot where the dragon had vanished into the horizon. He stood there for a long time, even after the other men had gone back inside. Even after the wind began to blow harder and the cold became unbearable. "Until we meet again, Jace," he whispered to the wind. "Until we meet again."
*****
Decades passed.
The winter came and went, and came again, and again, as it always did in the North. Winterfell still stood, as it always had, as it always would. The grey granite walls withstood the storms and the wars and the time. The hot springs still bubbled beneath the castle, warming the stones with their ancient heat. The weirwood still stood in the godswood, its red leaves dripping into the snow like blood, its sap-filled eyes watching over everything.
But the true winter, the one that had taken root inside Cregan Stark's heart, never left. It never thawed. His only reprieve came in the fleeting springs that bloomed whenever he thought of the handful of moons he had spent beside Jace. The memory of the prince's face resting on his chest. The ghost of a soft touch on his skin. The warmth he had felt when he was inside him, a heat no northern hot spring could ever match. But a bitter taste always followed, reminding him that he had never told his prince he loved him. He had never heard the words returned. Not that words mattered in the North, where deeds spoke louder than vows, where a man proved himself with actions, not declarations. But they mattered to Cregan. And they would have mattered to Jace too.
Cregan Stark was never the same.
He married, as was expected of a lord. He had children, as was expected of a Stark. He fought in wars, ruled with justice, became a legend in the North, the Wolf who survived it all, the Lord who faced the winter and emerged victorious. The Hour of the Wolf became a song the bards sang in the taverns, what he had done for Rhaenyra and her children would be written into the history of Westeros. But there was something in his grey eyes that never faded. A sadness that came not from age, nor from battle, nor from the losses every man suffers over the course of his life. A sadness that came from a deeper place, an older place, a more secret place.
Sometimes, when the wind blew from the South, he would climb up onto the walls of Winterfell and gaze out at the horizon. His eyes could not see as well as they once did, but he could still make out the snowy hills and the grey sky. And if he closed his eyes, he could see an emerald green dragon descending from the sky, and a brown-haired prince dismounting with a smile that lit up the world.
"No one ever knew," he confessed one night, old and weary, sitting before the hearth in the great hall. The fire crackled, casting shadows on the stone walls. His eldest son, Rickon, sat beside him, a grown man, with the same grey eyes and the same strong jaw. "No one ever knew what he was to me."
"Knew what, Father?" Rickon asked, his voice gentle, as if he were speaking to a frightened child.
Cregan did not answer. He only stared into the fire, and the flames danced in his eyes as they had danced on that night, so many years ago, when he had carried a drunken prince to his bed and wished the corridor would never end.
"It is always winter," he murmured, the words escaping him like a breath meant only for himself, "without you."
Rickon furrowed his brow, uncomprehending. "What, Father?"
But Cregan was already far away. He was in the hot springs, feeling the steam rise around their bodies. He was in the godswood, kneeling in the snow, his brow touching his prince's brow. He was on the battlements, holding Jace's face in his hands, about to kiss him, before the maester arrived with the letter that had ruined everything. He was in the yard, watching a dragon vanish into the horizon, believing they would meet again.
But they never did.
Jacaerys Velaryon died at the Battle of the Gullet, his dragon falling from the sky in flames, just as Lucerys had before him. Cregan learned the news weeks later, when the ravens came to Winterfell. He read the letter in silence, in the very spot where he had read the other letter from the queen. Afterwards, he went to the godswood and knelt before the weirwood. He did not pray, for he no longer knew how to pray to such cruel gods. He just stayed there, kneeling in the snow, his hands resting on the white trunk, his tears falling silently.
"It is always winter without you," he whispered, and the tears ran down the eyes of the old wolf, tracing silver paths through his wrinkled skin.
He tried to think of something else. He tried to think of his children, his grandchildren, the wars he had won, the life he had built. But his mind always went back to the same place. The same face. The same smile.
You look so beautiful today, my prince.
You are always beautiful, Lord Stark.
Until we meet again, Jace.
The last ember died out in the hearth, and the darkness closed in around him. Outside, the snow kept falling over Winterfell, covering the walls, the yard, the godswood, the weirwood. Covering everything with its silent, white mantle.
As if the whole world were in mourning.
As if the winter would never end.