Chapter Text
LORD CREGAN STARK
"Winter is coming."
"As is the dragon prince."
Lord Cregan Stark ignores his castellan's response as he buckles an oiled leather strap to the skirt of his saddle, securing an extra quiver of arrows to his destrier. He would not normally need such a reserve, as he's a fair shot with a bow, but it's too late in the season to risk running low if the winds pick up and make the hunt difficult.
"My lord?"
Cregan grunts acknowledgment, leaving Robb to look towards the lord's bastard half-sister for support. On the other side of the stable, Sara keeps her eyes on Rickon as if she can't hear the conversation, though Cregan knows she's listening. She's smarter than most—hearkens to far more than she lets on. She's also a right judge of character, can sense a man's disposition and mood from leagues away, and is well aware of Cregan's displeasure at being forced to entertain a royal guest when they should be focused on preparing for winter.
The Lord of Winterfell may be young, but he's not so young that he's forgotten the oath his father, the late Rickon Stark, traveled south to take. His son's namesake bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen herself when she was a princess, just as Torrhen Stark did for Aegon Targaryen during the Conquest. Just as Cregan Stark will do, should the son she sent north demand it of him.
But he should not have to, for Cregan would fall upon his sword before betraying the oath his father made in the name of House Stark. Yet southern lords are fickle, and the dragon queen presumes the same of northern ones—an insulting assumption. The sort of insult that makes Cregan consider taking his time gathering the autumnal harvest, thus taking his time with assembling the soldiers that rumors claim she is seeking.
Honor is honor, and Cregan will secure swords with or without a dragonrider threatening him into compliance—but the haste in which he quickens south will be determined by the lord, not the monarch ordering him about. She may hold his loyalty, but she has done nothing to earn the heart, nor swift feet, of the fierce northern warriors under his command.
"My lord," Robb tries again. "The raven said he's to arrive this morning. It would be proper to receive him with a feast in the Great Hall."
"Aye," Cregan finally grunts. He pats Smoke's hindquarters, moving around the sixteen-hand stallion to where his castellan, Robb Cassel, is standing in the doorway of the stable, bundled in thick furs. "After the hunt."
Cregan would rather face a tide of living dead men than entertain the rich southron prince at a time like this. Honor compels him so, but duty has her own efforce; Cregan must provide for his men before the winter winds blow through the land and thwart his ability to do so, and the prince's arrival will only slow him down. Yet by prioritizing one over the other, Cregan is hoping the prince will take heed and make his stay a short one.
"My lord, the prince might arrive while you're away." He glances towards Sara again. "Perhaps if you delay an hour…"
"The gales have stilled, and the hounds are ready. It would be foolish to remain at the keep. I will not wait on the boy prince." Not now, not ever. "The queen's heir may settle into his chambers until we return from the hunt," Cregan decides, to Robb's audible frustration.
"It sounds as though you wish us to take Prince Jacaerys prisoner upon his arrival," Sara chimes in, proving Cregan right. She was listening.
She always is.
Yet he minds her words, loathsome as they are, for she is more oft right than she is wrong. "Others take the both of you," Cregan growls. "Prince Jacaerys may do whatever it is that young dragon princes do to pass the time, wherever he pleases to pass it." He moves closer to Sara, to his son, Rickon. "We will return this eve with a fresh kill for supper, to honor His Grace with a feast."
Rickon drops a wooden direwolf from his tiny palm when he notices Cregan's presence and holds his arms up. "Pa-pa," he giggles happily.
Cregan swoops his boy up. "You're getting big, Rickon," he says, pressing a kiss to his son's temple. "Won't be long now before you're leading your own hunting party into the wood, acting as the man of the keep."
"Pa-pa," Rickon agrees. He tangles his little fingers into Cregan's dark beard and tugs, giggling when Cregan growls, imitating a wolf in response.
"Behave for your Aunt Sara," he instructs his boy, though he knows Rickon is much too young to understand the words. "Be nice to the dragon prince when he arrives, or she'll have your snout." He boops his son on the nose, as if the lad can understand, and Rickon erupts into more high-pitched giggles, grasping at Cregan's finger and holding it with both hands while he gurgles and coos in a language all his own.
Cregan's heart softens.
There was a time, a shameful time, when it was too difficult to look into the green eyes of his son, the ones that mirror those of his late wife, Lady Arra Norrey. Alas, time has been a balm to the wound of loss, and although he mourns her yet, it no longer saddens him to see Arra in their son's gaze—and he's grateful for that, for it has allowed him to bond with the boy as a proper father should.
Now, Cregan has come to love his son more than anything in this world, and were honor and duty not a stronghold in his life, he would be happy to play with Rickon all day long. He'd retire to the family solar and spend his seasons watching the boy grow into a man, counting every tuft of dark hair as it sprouted from his son's head, taking it upon himself to be the one to teach Rickon their histories, traditions, and the stories passed down by their ancestors. He would regale his boy with tales and prophecy, with songs sang by northern bards—ones of maidens and knights, of lords and ladies, of victors and victims. Odes to triumph, most certainly, but he would share the others with Rickon as well. The songs haunted by warning; lyrics that beg the Kings of Winter to maintain their dominion until the end of time, for there are shadows that skulk above the realm, nightmares that belong to the north that are far worse than anything a soft prince could possibly dream up atop the silk-bound featherbeds nestled in their cozy southron castles.
It's why his priorities must remain on the north. Blood may be welling up to spill across southron lands, but winter is coming—and while Cregan may be young, he's also a lord. The Warden of the North. His titles, ones he nearly lost to kin and became a prison warden to regain, are not of folly. He has a duty to his people and he will not fail them. Will not fail to maintain order in the wildest region of Westeros, to act as the fist of justice above the Neck, to insulate as many men, women, and children against the cruel winters as possible—and to remain sharp, should those shadows of lore ever come skulking.
There are others, Sara included, who will tend to Rickon so that he may learn all he must before taking his father's place at Winterfell. There has never been a lord of the keep who needed to remain behind to tend to his sons and daughters, and Cregan will not break that tradition now, for that is simply not how things are done in the North.
"Pa-pa…hunt." Rickon's tone is curious, now, and Cregan's heart swells with pride as his son brings him back into the moment by gurgling one of the few words he knows.
"Very good," Cregan praises. He presses another kiss to Rickon's forehead, taking care to rub the coarse hair of his beard across his lad's soft skin, which triggers another eruption of high-pitched laughter from his son.
"My apologies," an unfamiliar voice chokes out. "I didn't realize— I can— I'll wait outside."
Cregan turns, but the doorway is empty. He raises a brow. "Was that him?" He sounded…well, unlike how Cregan presumed a man who rides a fire-breathing beast would.
Sara grins. "Aye."
***
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON
Winterfell is cold.
Freezing, actually, though Lord Manderly wrongly claimed that the weather would be kind if he left before sunrise. The flight from White Harbor to the capital of the north was short and direct, but if it weren't for the White Knife providing a path to follow, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon isn't sure that he and Vermax would have found the keep through the blizzard raging around them. Dragonstone is known for its storms, but Jace has never been in weather that freezes a man down to the bone as this has.
Vermax lands quietly outside the curtain wall of the keep, as if he's too cold to make a grumble, and Jacaerys hesitates to dismount the fire-breathing beast. He's wrapped in layers of leathers, and there is heat between his legs that is tempting to remain near, but the chill has reached his marrow elsewhere; a full-bodied cold that makes him desperate to find relief. It's the promise of a blazing hearth, the idea of settling into a hot bath with a journal in one hand and a steaming mug of broth in the other, that lures him into dismounting.
The moment he does, his limbs lock up and he falls to his knees—directly into a snowbank.
Not a great start.
"Shit," he mutters, dragging himself upright, dusting the powder from his body even as it slips into the crevices between his leathers and his skin. It's cold enough, the snowflakes don't even melt as they land. They simply stick to his flesh. It's an unwelcome development.
Vermax swings his great maw around to look, as if judging Jacaerys' not-so-graceful arrival. He snorts, blowing heat into the air as the prince pulls his saddlebags off. Jace works quickly, and once the bags are hitched over his shoulders, he pats the great beast on the neck.
"We made it, boy," he murmurs. "Get yourself something to eat."
Jacaerys approaches the gates of Winterfell with his spine straight and his mind focused. He has one duty: to win his mother the loyalty and bannermen of Lord Cregan Stark.
Unfortunately, he has nothing but his tongue to convince the lord to remain on their side—to make haste in joining the war to come. The prince used his last bargaining hand in White Harbor when he agreed to wed his youngest brother to Lord Manderly's youngest daughter in exchange for the man's fleet and support. Jacaerys' other two brothers, his mother's sons by Daemon, are not at his disposal to betroth. Should Lord Stark require such a deal, a pact sealed with a marriage, Jace is unsure of how he might provide, for he's not a sibling left to spare.
Thus, his duty in Winterfell will rely on more than bargaining. He will need to win Lord Stark over with actions, convince him that their cause is worth fighting for—and he's determined to find a way. He will not return south without the man's loyalty, for his mother is relying on him…and as the heir to her legacy, he would sooner die than disappoint her.
The guards at the gate welcome Jacaerys easily enough, and as he's escorted into the busy courtyard, a dark-haired woman dressed in furs greets him. "Prince Jacaerys Velaryon?"
He nods. "I'm here to treat with Lord Cregan Stark."
"Aye." She relieves Jacaerys of his belongings. "I'll take these to your chambers, my prince. You'll be staying in the Great Keep, sharing a solar with the Starks. A right place of honor." She turns away, but Jace stops her with his palm. She looks down at it, confused. "Something else I may help you with, my prince?"
"Would you—" he flushes, abashed at needing to make the request but reminds himself that it's been some time since the north has seen royalty, and that it's not disingenuous to remind a serving hand of propriety. He clears his throat. "Would you introduce me?"
The woman quirks her head to the side, hitching his bags up over her shoulder a bit higher. "Introduce you?" Her eyes rove over his body, and he can't help but feel as though she's declaring something without words, perhaps noticing the snow stuck to his boots and leathers.
Still, Jacaerys nods, gesturing at the courtyard, where men and women are moving about as if there isn't a storm raging overhead, as if snow isn't falling down in sheets thicker and heavier than the rain atop the Dragonmont during a summer squall. As if a prince of the realm has not just landed atop his fire-breathing dragon to treat with the Warden of the North and remind the man of the vow his ancestor swore to the Targaryen conquerors—that his own father swore to Jacaerys' late grandsire, the King Viserys.
At last, she nods. "Of course." Then she turns, and announces him to the courtyard. "Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, of House Targaryen."
"Heir to the Iron Throne," Jacaerys murmurs. "And Prince of Dragonstone."
The woman furrows her brow, but finishes the introduction without protest. A few people look up, but for the most part, the bustle of the courtyard continues on, unperturbed. After a moment, the woman turns back to Jace and gestures to his bags slung over her shoulder. "May I?"
Throat tight and face burning at the lack of regard from the people in the yard, Jace nods. "Of course."
She departs at once, leaving Jacaerys standing alone, feeling slightly humbled.
The bitter chill of the weather nips at his body through his thin leathers, but the boy prince remains still as he waits for the Warden of the North to appear. He's been taught what is proper, and the cold doesn't change that sort of thing. It wouldn't be polite to encroach without first having been officially received by the lord, or at least given leave to do so, for he is not a king. Not yet…but he's also not entirely sure of how, exactly, to proceed, now that he's been announced and ignored.
Jacaerys turns in a circle, growing more flustered by the moment, searching for someone that looks like a lord, perhaps someone who carries themselves with grace and an air of formality…but fails. Everyone is concentrating on various chores meant to keep a castle the size of Winterfell running smoothly, ignoring him with an efficiency that is quite unnerving.
"Oi, watch it," a spindly man pushing a cart full of firewood says, nearly plowing straight through him.
Jacaerys jumps out of the way. "Apologies!"
As the man continues past him, the prince follows. "Hello, I'm Prince Jacaerys Velaryon."
"Aye. Heard you was coming today."
"Yes." Jacaerys walks faster to keep pace. "Would you happen to know where Lord Cregan Stark is located?"
"Preparing for the hunt." The man nods towards the other end of the yard but doesn't stop moving, perhaps so he doesn't get stuck in the slush. "The stable, I'd reckon."
"Thank you." Relief tempers his nerves. Jacaerys hurries along through the courtyard, a bit more relaxed now that he's learned of the hunt. Of course, he hadn't expected the Lord of Winterfell to be so kind as to plan a hunting party, seeing as Jace has arrived without much notice, but it's a grander gesture than those who received him at the Eyrie, Sisterton, and White Harbor. The other houses threw feasts in his honor, but none went so far as to plan an event…and so while Jacaerys yearns for a hot bath, he knows it can wait. He can enjoy one in a few days' time, upon their return. It's a good sign that Lord Stark is receiving him thus, and it would be rude to pretend otherwise. Perhaps the carriage will be filled with furs, as it was whenever his own family hunted in the kingswood.
Those were always a highlight during his youth. They'd spend a few days at a time in the kingswood, camping in tents and telling stories by the fire after long hours on horseback. Jacaerys was always begging to ride to and from the kingswood by horse, but his mother always made him stay in the carriage for safety—at least until they were out of the city. It's been some time since he's gone hunting, as there's nowhere to hunt on the craggy cliffs of Dragonstone, but the prince is comforted by the idea of something familiar up here in the unfamiliar northern lands.
Though for once, Jacaerys doesn't think he'll be begging for his own courser to ride out with the rest of the men. He chuckles to himself and shuffles into the stable the man in the yard had gestured to, relieved to be out of the snow for a moment—then freezes, because standing before him is none other than Ser Harwin Strong.
Jace's heart seizes in his chest, and the air flees his lungs.
"Impossible," he breathes to himself.
Jacaerys Velaryon is no fool. He understands he's made a mistake, and yet, it's equally as impossible to deny that the man before him is almost a ghost of the one he lost as a boy; a tall, gruff man with an imposing build and a deep, rasping voice. Long, dark hair falls around his broad shoulders, with half of it pulled into a knot at the back of his head. He's grinning through his facial hair, rubbing his beard affectionately against the cheek of the dark-haired child giggling in his arms, and Jace…feels light-headed at the sight, at the sound.
At the memories that come rushing back like dragonflame; searing through the vault they've been locked behind for over a decade to force themselves into the forefront of his mind.
It's been ten years since he learned of the fire at Harrenhal, but the grief hits him so hard, it feels as though it's been only a day.
A woman with soft curves and a kind face is holding the boy that Cregan is nuzzling. As air returns to his lungs, propriety whips through the prince like a knife, and he flushes, realizing that he's just intruded on something intimate.
"My apologies," Jace chokes out. "I didn't realize— I can— I'll wait outside." He ducks out of the stable before he can make a further fool of himself. "Stupid," he mutters, putting his head in his frigid palms for a moment. "Get it together."
It's been an age since he's thought about his true father, and though the wound has healed, the scar will always remain. He knows he'll forever mourn the loss of the man who was a constant presence for the first ten years of life, but it's a mourning typically collared and controlled. It's unnerving that seeing the Lord of Winterfell with his own young, dark-haired son has dragged forth such an emotional reaction from Jacaerys, and he tries his best to regain his focus.
"Prince Jacaerys?"
Jacaerys lowers his hands. He's here to win over men, not be taken by nostalgic grief like a fool. Were Daemon near, such a thing would be ridiculed; for he is a prince of the realm, and should act as such. So, Jace locks his memories back into the vault where they belong, straightens his spine—and turns, coming face-to-face with Lord Cregan Stark.
The man is enormous, clad in thick layers of leather and fur, and his presence is beyond imposing, like one angry touch could shatter the bones of his foes. Well aware of his much smaller frame, the prince forces his chin upwards, determined to appear uncowed by their difference in size. Yet when he makes eye contact with the lord, he's struck with the reminder that although he himself is a dragon prince, the Lord of Winterfell is not of the mundane, either.
He's a Stark. A great house with roots that extend back to the First Men. A great house with a direwolf sigil, for just as the Targaryens have forged connections with beasts of flame throughout history, the Starks have done so with beasts of fang and fur. And here, standing with eyes of steel and a stern expression in lieu of a babe, Lord Stark seems exactly that; a beast—larger, and more formidable, than he seemed in the stable.
"Envoy for your mother?"
"Yes, Lord Stark," Jacaerys confirms, but the man frowns. An uneasy feeling, like perhaps he's offended the lord already, creeps up Jace's spine. He bites his tongue to force back a self-flagellating reprimand.
Unfortunately, it raises its head in mind, if not tongue. Had Daemon been the one sent to Winterfell, he would've taken control of the situation without even leaving the stable. Would've asserted his dominance and already claimed men, more than likely. Jace's neck burns in shame at the thought, at the reminder that he is not near as powerful as he wishes he were.
Lord Stark's eyes rake over Jacaerys' body, and although he wishes to stand tall, the prince shrinks unwillingly beneath the silver gaze. The northern lord exudes power and strength without saying a word, a revelation that sheds light on why Jace's request to be announced struck so poorly. He doubts that the Warden of the North need announcing anywhere he may go, for his presence is one in itself.
Jacaerys is suddenly mortified at the ceremony he'd been expecting, the propriety that met him in the Vale, in White Harbor, and Sisterton. Here in the cold, it all seems…excessive. "And you don't— I mean, the bowing." He shakes his head, clasping his hands together behind his back to prevent himself from fidgeting. "It's an unnecessary formality."
"Aye," Lord Stark says, with an expression Jacaerys can't decipher. "Welcome to the North."
"I was already in the North," the prince corrects without thinking—another foolish slip of his tongue, one that causes Jacaerys to reach for an explanation so as to not insult the lord he needs to beg fealty from. "White Harbor, actually. South of here." He flushes when he hears the words fall from his lips. 'South' of here. If he can't blame the image of his father's ghost standing before him, then surely snow has frozen his mind, for he has not been this much of a loose-lipped dullard in years.
"Aye," the man repeats, his gaze stern, but not unfriendly. "Apologies, Your Grace. Welcome to Winterfell."
"Oh," Jacaerys says, laughing awkwardly. "I'm not 'Your Grace', yet. I'm—" he rubs the back of his neck. "It's 'my Jace'." He shakes his head, cheeks burning so hot that the snowflakes falling from the sky melt before touching his skin. "No, apologies, it's 'my prince'." And somehow, the formality sounds idiotic, even to his ears—
"Welcome to Winterfell, my Jace." Lord Stark grins, his lips quirking upward in an impossibly nostalgic expression, throwing the dragon prince off-balance all over again.
"Or Jacaerys," he adds.
Suddenly, Vermax screeches overhead, and the people in the yard glance up—some taking cover, some falling into the snow as the dragon soars across the sky, apparently having decried his earlier vow of silence in favor of announcing himself to Winterfell.
Jacaerys glances upwards, comforted by his beast's presence. Vermax is a reminder that he, too, is a formidable man. The prince doesn't have hands big enough to palm a dragon egg from top to bottom, but he's smart and quick and has many useful traits. He straightens his spine and looks back to the Warden of the North, expecting him to be watching Vermax with the rest of the yard, but finds Lord Stark watching him curiously instead.
"Vermax," Jacaerys says, gesturing up. "My dragon."
"Aye, my Jacaerys," the Lord of Winterfell responds, eyes crinkling with humor as he tries the boy's full name on his tongue—and this time, Jace knows he's teasing, yet before the prince can respond, the rugged, attractive man has snapped to attention, and is focused on someone behind Jace. He holds up a hand. "The kitchens. And let Ned know we'll be leaving shortly." He looks to the prince once more. "We're in the midst of preparing for the coming winter," he explains. "Hunting."
"Oh, yes," the boy agrees, happy to cling to something truly familiar amid the confusion of his mind. "I've been told. I'm honored, Lord Stark."
"Cregan will do," he says, raising his eyebrows. "You're honored?"
"Yes, well, truth be told, I was hoping for a hot bath, but a hunt sounds much more enjoyable." The words sound feeble, even to his own ears, but they're out before Jacaerys can stop his foolish tongue, and so he continues in the same vein. "Where is the carriage?"
"Carriage?" Cregan glances behind Jacaerys. "In snow?" He looks puzzled. The snow in Winterfell's inner castle yard isn't nearly as high as it is outside of the walls, but it's still present—though muddied by wet dirt. "You ride a dragon. Is a horse so difficult?"
Jace's neck heats. Of course they can't use carriages in weather like this. "I can ride," he confirms.
A dark-haired man steps out of the stable, leading a horse on either side of his body, and he pauses a short distance away. "Your Grace," he greets, bowing.
"It's 'my prince'," Cregan corrects, without looking over. "And he'll be joining us, Robb. Have Gareth saddle another."
Robb raises his eyebrows. "Of course, my lord." He passes the lead of the big, nearly black destrier off to Cregan and then assesses Jacaerys' leathers. "Would you like to borrow furs, my prince? It may be a long day without something warmer."
"A day?" The hunts that Jacaerys went on in the kingswood generally lasted a week. They were a full celebration, a proper celebration.
"Aye," Cregan responds. "Unless you wish to sleep with the wolves this eve."
Robb glances at the sky. "The snows aren't bad. A light dusting. They'll be tempered by high noon. We should be back before dark." He holds out a lead to Jacaerys. "Last time the skies held like this, the deer came out into the meadows. We were back from the wood before dusk, but you never know."
Last time? The advice Lord Manderly gave before sending him off echoes through his mind; Preparing the North for winter takes more work than fifty Golden Weddings held all at once. You'll be lucky to catch a single moment of peace to treat with Lord Stark. My advice is to get it over with and get out of their way, lad.
"Apologies, I thought perhaps—" well, he's not going to admit that he thought they planned a hunt as a celebration for his arrival. He's here to win the favor of Lord Stark, not embarrass himself even more than he already has. Jace clears his throat. "More furs would be appreciated. My thanks."
"Aye," Robb nods. "I'll return shortly." He's still holding the lead to the chestnut gelding out, and so Jacaerys reaches for it—
The horse rears up, throwing his entire body backwards, away from the prince, stunning he and Cregan both as Robb is dragged a few feet through the snow and mud and slush, attempting to calm the skittish gelding.
Everyone in the courtyard turns to look.
It seems that both dragons and horses rate higher than a prince here in Winterfell.
Jacaerys wonders if it's too late to go back to the snowbank he dismounted into, to curl up beneath the white powder and hide until his dignity returns.
"He smells your dragon," Cregan muses, watching Robb fight with the gelding for a moment longer. "Here," the lord decides, holding out the reins of his own stallion. "We'll switch."
Jace accepts the offer, grateful when the horse doesn't rear backwards. But when he looks up to thank the lord, his voice catches in his throat.
Cregan Stark looms over him, body thick with attractive muscle, face ruggedly handsome. He's so close, that when the prince inhales, the scent of tobacco and a spicy autumn musk fills his nostrils—and gods, does it draw Jace in like the warmth of a flame.
"Smoke doesn't seem to mind you," the lord tacks on, his voice a low rasp that exudes a quiet, alluring sort of confidence.
Jace snaps his gaze upwards—realizes he's being watched. The corner of the man's lips are turned up, and the heat floods the prince's cheeks, because he knows he's just been caught staring.
Yet Cregan says naught. Instead, he drags his own gaze over the prince's much smaller, much thinner form. But he can't possibly be looking upon Jacaerys the same way that Jacaerys was looking upon him a mere heartbeat prior.
Men do not lay with men, it's not proper.
The words are loud in the back of his mind, a reminder that his name-father's actions were a disgrace in the eyes of his peoples' Faith, and so Jacaerys heeds them, reluctantly forcing away the first flicker of heat he's encountered in the snows, for it must be a false one.
After a moment, Cregan meets his gaze again and nods, but when Jace turns towards Smoke, the action is halted by a hand the size of his face wrapping around his arm. "Here," the lord murmurs, peeling the leather gloves from his hands. "You'll freeze out there without more layers."
Jacaerys accepts the gloves. "Thank you, my lord." Despite his efforts to the contrary, the warmth of the leather and the brush of Cregan's fingertips have Jace once again considering the other ways that men in the north remain warm. A flash of bare skin atop a nest of furs appears in the prince's mind, but he quickly shakes the dangerous thought away. He hopes his expression has not revealed his thinking for a second time, for if there's one thing he cannot do in the north, it's act on the same impulses that destroyed his own family.
Unfortunately for Jacaerys, the longing of another man's touch is nothing new. He's never experienced such a thing, but cannot deny that he's spent time…looking. At squires and knights, at men with strong muscles cording their arms and deep, boisterous laughter that rings of a masculinity he's always desired, but fears he will never possess, for he is a Targaryen and that is not the way their blood flows. And yet, Jace does not need to be told outright to know that there would be great risk in seeking the company of other men during a time like this, with war on the horizon.
Such an act might be insulting, and Jacaerys cannot risk his wandering eye compelling the northern forces to side with his usurper of an uncle rather than his mother's rightful cause. His pleasure is nothing when held up to the needs of the realm.
It would do for him to remember that.
He must remember that.
"What is wrong with you?" Jacaerys snaps at himself under his breath—but then he freezes, remembering his company.
Yet when he looks up, Lord Stark has already turned away.
"Robb!" Cregan calls, heading towards the skittish gelding that had refused to approach Jacaerys. "I'll be switching with the prince." He takes the horse from Robb, and mounts the beast with ease, reining the gelding in when he starts to toss about. The horse appeared a normal size beside Robb, but with Lord Stark riding him, looks more like a pony.
Jacaerys wonders if Cregan has that effect on everything—animal, man, keep. Wonders, too, if it's the lord's actual size or if it's his presence…if Lord Stark would be just as intimidating were he no taller than the prince's youngest brother. The answer is one he's envious of…but also one that makes Jace realize he must get ahold of himself, for the vault that holds memories of lewd tales between knights and their squires is even less secure than that which holds memories of Ser Harwin.
Cregan speaks to the chestnut courser between his thighs in a low, soothing tone, saying words that Jacaerys can't quite discern over the howl of the blizzard. Once the horse has stopped dancing beneath him, Lord Stark looks to Jacaerys.
There's a huff of hot air on Jace's neck, and he flinches. Smoke is smelling him curiously. Jace turns, stroking his palm along the stallion's neck. "Ready to go hunting, friend?"
"Winter is coming," Cregan says, spurring his own chestnut forward. "We're all ready to hunt."
***
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON
The first few days of Jacaerys' time in Winterfell pass in a whirlwind.
Life in the north is quite different than what he's used to, and though Lord Stark is a gracious host, Lord Manderly was correct—Cregan doesn't pause his preparations for a single moment.
Jacaerys tries to keep his thoughts under control and to stay out of the way, but the woman from the stable—Lord Stark's bastard half-sister, Sara—insists he join the man. "It's good to learn about the land over which you'll one day rule," she says with a sparkle in her eye and baby Rickon on her hip. It's as if she can read his true desires, because Jace feels that way—but is so cowed over by her half-brother's presence, that he never would have admitted it.
And so, at her urging, Jacaerys abandons the cozy furs in the bedchamber he's been given to tail the lord through the winter chill.
Together, they hunt in the wolfswood and train in the yard. They oversee the packing of the cellars and storage of grain that has been brought into the keep by way of a sled—not a carriage—and even venture into winter town, taking stock of the place that Cregan says is rapidly swelling in size. "The stalls will fill up," he tells Jacaerys when they ride through. "Each one will soon be occupied, and the town will be full to bursting."
"Where do they come from?"
Lord Stark laughs, and the sound hums through the prince's veins in a soft buzz, warming him as the lord gestures all around them—a change from his first few days, for now, he knows the lord is not laughing at him, but more at his curiosity, something he admitted was a surprise over steak-and-kidney pie. "Everywhere. Farms, villages, the northern mountains. People from all over load up their sleds and make the journey to bring winter town to life. Spending the season alone is a death sentence. At peak, there might be fifteen thousand men taking shelter from ice winds here."
It's fascinating to watch his words come to life, for in the days that follow the declaration, more and more men arrive; all of them setting to work on building their stalls in the market, in helping one another prepare the makeshift homes. The kindness, the way in which men help one another so effortlessly, is a surprise to the prince. It seems as though the weather has created a world entirely different from the southron one he's grown up in—even down to the coin exchange.
Whereas back home, there are coffers to buy food and supplies for harsh weather, a gold dragon can only take a man so far in the north, and so outside of inns and taverns, it's not oft the first item that men barter with.
"Can't eat coin," Cregan explains, his words more dire as the wolves on his banners. "That's why we hunt."
Jacaerys experiences culture shock in the North, but through the discomfort, realizes his solution. Without a marriage to offer, he will prove himself worthy. His cause, relevant.
Sacrifice carries a different meaning in the north than it does in the south, for a war could tear apart the southron lands, rend flesh from bone from Casterly Rock to Dragonstone, and if it happened mid-winter, the lands above the Neck may still win out for casualties. Starvation and freezing are both far greater, and far more immediate, risks than the blade of a Lannister, and so Jacaerys will give them a reason to fight. Should he fail, they'll send their elders and their weak, but keep the fiercest of their warriors home. Worse, he's near certain they'll continue prioritizing preparations for winter, that they'll drag their feet in marching south.
It will take time to earn the respect of Lord Stark and his men—but the northern wolves are tough, and they're strong. They're exactly the type of warriors his mother needs to swing the war against the usurper king into her favor. Jacaerys' traitor uncle may have the fealty of the Hightowers and the golden lions, but with every passing day, the prince is seeing firsthand that there is nothing so powerful as a northerner fighting for something they believe in.
And so Jacaerys makes a decision. He will earn their favor, but also their earnest support—and not by the threat of Vermax's flame. He will forge a pact to secure their swords, to stir up their blood, and to pull the warriors south in a passionate fervor the moment they're called.
He's just not sure how.
He's also unsure of how to handle the other…problem.
The one regarding his…heightened interest in the man he's trailing like a shadow. Jacaerys was expecting his time in Winterfell to be different from his time elsewhere, but he hadn't been expecting the allure of the keep's lord to be quite so…powerful. And as it turns out, keeping a collar on his attraction to Cregan is even more difficult than he thought it would be.
At first, he thinks his interest is because his mind is playing tricks on him. He looks across the table during suppers, sees Cregan cradling young Rickon in his lap, and finds his own childhood at the front of his mind, his chest seizing with emotion. He yearns for the arms of his late father, and following those meals, when he slips into bed and his sleeping mind replaces his daytime thoughts, the longing is more powerful than he could have ever expected. He wakes each morrow in mourning for the lack of embrace.
Yet as the days pass, his dreams evolve. The cradle of a father becomes the caress of a lover; both visions equally as powerful—both haunted by memories. The trouble is that in his waking hours, Jace struggles to discern if the man he's seeing in his mind's eye at night is inspired by memories from his youth or ones from the previous day's events. Worse, his attempts to parse what he hungers for the most are futile, for as the days pass, his sleep remains full of gruff baritones and a calloused touch, but never a solid identity.
And try as he might, Jacaerys is not given the space he needs to ponder this. His quarters are those of Cregan's late brother, attached to the same family solar as the rest of the Starks for ease of mealtimes, and so he's never far from the lord. Jace considers requesting the Guest House, but cannot bring himself to part with the deep, husky rumble of Cregan's voice that follows him into slumber each eve.
It's absolutely maddening, and it all comes to a head on a cold, dark evening at the tail-end of the first fortnight he's in Winterfell. He falls asleep with a belly full of beef-and-bacon pie, only to stumble through the confusion of his dreams and strike into clarity for the first time, when the face in his dreams is finally revealed.
At the unveiling, Jacaerys' dreams shift. The physical yearning for closeness becomes unmistakenly sexual. His unconscious mind becomes flush with hedonistic visions of bare flesh kissing damp skin, of heat stirring between two men in the throes of a forbidden canality, and he jolts awake covered in sweat, his heart racing in his chest as he blinks away the memory of shimmering steel irises staring down at him with lust.
"Get ahold of yourself," Jacaerys hisses into the cold chambers. "It's not real." He has simply let himself go too long without release. Determined of this, Jace rolls over in his bed, pulling the furs up over his head, and tries his best to fall back asleep—but each time he closes his eyes, his mind flames to life with illicit sex and debauchery. And so after a time, he decides to take an evening walk to clear his head of the inappropriate thoughts.
But when he steps into the solar, Lord Stark is already there. Without shirt, without trou, and without shame, for his cock is hanging thick and heavy between his thighs.
Jacaerys nearly crumples to the stone beneath him.
He's been a fool in denial, for his physical reaction to the naked Stark before him matches the one that woke him. It confirms that the prince's mind hasn't been playing tricks on him at all. Perhaps the attraction was sparked by familiarity, but there's no mistaking the truth: his desire is sexual.
Lord Cregan Stark was sculpted by the gods. All of them. The old, the new, the ones from his mother's long doomed ancestors in Valyria, and the ones across The Narrow Sea—ones he's never even heard of. Cregan's chest is wide and thick, and if he stood behind the hindquarters of his sixteen-hand stallion, Jace is fairly confident he'd see a shoulder on either side. His entire body is corded with thick muscles, as if he's consumed a thousand pounds of lean meat to fuel his body in preparation for winter—but whereas Jace struggles to keep meat on his bones, Cregan clearly has no such trouble.
And his hair, gods his hair.
Jace takes after his father in some ways. He has long, dark hair that curls up when it's wet—but unlike his father, the prince can't even grow enough of it on his face for a light dusting of stubble. He takes a razor to the few strays every once in awhile, lest it look patchy, but doesn't even bother to try to let it grow. He'd look like he spent all of his time in Flea Bottom if he dared.
But Lord Stark…he probably takes a razor to his neck every morning before sunrise, but still has stubble by the time they break their fast. Jacaerys is greener than an unbroken colt in his dalliances with men, has never touched another—is betrothed to his cousin, Baela, and has always known better than to indulge in such a thing.
And yet, as he gazes upon Cregan's naked body, the yearning in his chest intensifies. He's overcome by how much he wants to feel the northern lord's stubble burning across his neck, by how much he wants for the caress of a lover like the ones from the stories tucked beneath his floorboards at Dragonstone. The ones he confiscated from hidden corners in the library late at night after many moons of searching—ones that tell tale of large, confident knights fucking their slight squires into the dirt…ones that he had half a mind to burn before his journey north, for fear of having them found, but couldn't bring himself to lose.
Because as taboo as it is to think of, Jacaerys is sure Cregan is exactly that sort of lover—like the ones from his stories. Given the way that the lord interacts with the people who surround him, vacillating between the confident provider and the loving father, it would be logical to assume he's hungry, demanding, and possessive. That he's the sort of man who knows exactly what he wants in bed. That he leaves marks in his wake, fucks without mercy, and takes control of a dalliance using his size and his weight while sparing nothing at all in devouring a partner whole.
Arousal floods Jacaerys' body as he drags his eyes over the lord; over the man's hairy chest, over his tree trunk-sized thighs, over the thatch of dark curls between his legs and the thick, fat cock nestled there.
Cregan is lost in his own thoughts, but when he mutters something to himself, Jace is yanked back into the present. He moves as quick as possible, slipping back into his chambers before he's caught ogling the Lord of Winterfell, only to throw himself head-first into bed, feeling more childish than young Rickon.
He wants…and he knows he cannot have.
Jacaerys reaches for his cock, eyes squeezed shut with the memory stamped on his lids, but it's only to curl his fingers around himself—not to jerk off. He wants to. Gods, he wants. But it's inappropriate. Lord Stark has been nothing but kind, despite the obvious burden of Jace's presence, and hasn't shown a lick of interest. Not sexual interest. Not as far as Jace can tell.
And yet, Jacaerys cannot resist the pull for long. Now that he's confirmed the source of his sensual dreams, his blood is singing and his body is yearning. He wonders if perhaps it's not so bad to pleasure himself to the lord's appearance if Cregan never knows the truth of it…but when he squeezes his length, it's to no avail. His chambers are too cold, or perhaps his shame is too great, because although he clenches his eyes shut and tugs earnestly at his prick, recalling how Cregan's body appeared in the glow of the hearth, he cannot get hard enough to seek release.
Frustrated, the dragon prince falls asleep half-hard and miserable, but slightly relieved at having finally put a face to the man in his dreams.
***
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON
After Jacaerys' revelation, he's unable to free his mind of the memory of Cregan's naked body. It changes things, even if only slightly. When they break their fast the next morning, he sees a nick of blood on Lord Stark's neck. Confirmation that Cregan had taken a blade to his throat but been unsuccessful in taming the rugged stubble. When Cregan rubs his face against Rickon to make the boy giggle, Jacaerys melts in earnest adoration like he's done during every other moment he's perceived between Cregan and his son—but this time, he's jealous as well.
Jealous of a boy that hasn't been alive for more than eighteen moons.
Jacaerys knows it's foolish, but understanding that his jealousy is misplaced doesn't help the desire stirring in his lower belly. As Cregan plays with Rickon at the table, the prince hungers to feel the lord's face pressed against his own. When Sara takes Rickon, and Cregan speaks with Robb about the day's plans, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully, Jace wonders what it'd be like to have Lord's Stark big palm cupping his own jaw. And when the corner of Cregan's lips twist up in a grin, the prince pines for the pink curve to be pressed against his own flesh. The older man's smile is chapped and rough from the harsh northern winds, and Jacaerys loses many hours wondering how his own pale, sensitive skin would respond to the brush of such lips.
Worst of all, now that he's seen it, Jace finds himself unable to look away from the Lord of Winterfell's cock. It's horribly inappropriate, but he can't help himself. It's as though his eye acts before his mind does…and unfortunately, the lord isn't blind.
He catches Jace looking more than once, and each time, the prince feels exposed. Each time, he swears it's the last time—and yet, as the days go on, it continues, unbidden. So much so, that his body begins to hum with a constant, low-level arousal. Cregan is exactly the sort of man Jace always wished he might be. Worse, he's exactly the sort of man Jace has spent many moons reading about. Nights where he turned to the illicit stories buried beneath his floorboards after an uncomfortable afternoon of sparring. Nights where he turned to fantasy to satiate his forbidden desires.
At first, Cregan says nothing…but then, he begins to look, too. Not in the same way, Jace is sure of it, but he isn't shy about taking his own eyeful of the prince. About dragging his own silver gaze over the curves and lines of the boy's much smaller, much more delicate frame.
He never speaks of his thoughts, and his expression is difficult to read, but it's as though Cregan develops a sixth sense for when Jacaerys is staring—because each time he does, he's caught.
And so, Jace's attraction to the lord becomes a mortifying obstacle in the path of any sort of meaningful conversation. As such, the prince quickly comes to the conclusion that he needs to find release, lest he continue to make a fool of himself, so that he can accomplish what he set north to do, and then get out from underfoot—get away from the forbidden temptation. And so the next moment he's able, he slips through the keep in the dark of the night, and lets himself into the hot springs below Winterfell.
The cavern is enormous, large enough to fit Vermax—although the dragon spends most of his days in the outer run of the kennels, has become a preferred perch for many of the Stark hounds—and is filled with more hot pools of water than the prince can count, all of them emitting warmth into the air. It's like a hot, hollow belly beneath the keep, and the steam rising up off of the pools is a comfort. If he were to close his eyes, he could almost imagine himself back home at Dragonstone, perhaps somewhere deep in the heart of the Dragonmont.
It's dark, for he's foregone a torch, but there are a few torches from past visitors set into the walls, and the soft glow they cast in the distance is enough to see by, if not enough to read by, and so Jacaerys sets out to find a pool.
He dips his toe into the first one, but the water is tepid at best, and so he ventures deeper into the cavern. He ignores the blood rushing south in his body, the eager anticipation, and bites down on his lip, forcing his prick to behave as he finds a pool hot enough to satisfy the fire in his blood. Unfortunately, it's a vast space, and he's quickly losing patience. He settles on one near a big, rocky wall cloaked in shadow, and slips from his nightclothes faster than he's ever done before. Jacaerys could probably find a hotter pool somewhere else in the cavern, but he's aching and desperate, and as long as he's not shivering, he doesn't care to find the perfect temperature.
He can seek out a hotter pool after he's fucked his hand raw.
Jacaerys sinks into the hot water the moment he's naked, welcoming the heat as a balm to his chilled veins, groaning at the immediate release of tension in his muscles.
Then, he reaches for his cock.
***
LORD CREGAN STARK
It's late by the time Rickon is asleep enough for Cregan to slip out of his chambers and down to the pools. The little lad has a way of knowing whenever the lord wakes, and though he loves his son, he's been itching to get below the keep to spend a few hours alone ever since his brother's bed became reoccupied.
He was wrong, woefully wrong about the dragon prince.
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon is a thorn in his side, that much is true, but the young southron boy with fire in his blood is driving Cregan insane for a much different reason than he'd believed would be the case.
After Cregan's wife died, he started fucking. Men, women, both at the same time. He frequented the taverns of winter town at night, drawing in a partner or two to soothe the cracks in his heart, satisfying them enough to keep them silent once they were through—doling out coin where that failed. And though it helped to bandage the grief of losing his wife…it did not satiate his lust for sex. If anything, it only whet his appetite. Yet when northern winds began to blow blizzards into Winterfell, Cregan stopped showing face at The Smoking Log and elsewhere, too busy focusing on preparing for the upcoming cold to mind his sexual urges with anything other than his own fist.
Then Prince Jacaerys Velaryon arrived on the back of his dragon—a svelte young man served up on a platter just for him. At first, he'd ignored the way his cock twitched in his leathers at the sight of the young prince, but then he realized that Jace was not granting him the same…care.
Cregan knows exactly what the boy's cock looks like, because it's been half-hard since the moment he stepped into the Winterfell yard. Though, for some reason, he's yet to approach the northern lord, despite spending every hour of the day in Cregan's presence. They get along much better than the lord had assumed they might, and Jacaerys has shown an actual interest in learning more about the north while he's here, helping to soothe the insult of his presence. But despite the visible evidence of his interest in Cregan, the dragon prince has yet to make a move. Not even on the evening when Cregan attended to a few things in their shared solar without a nick of clothes, moving around loud enough to wake the prince, hoping Jace might catch a glimpse of his body and finally speak the words his eyes have been shouting. Alas, that was not the case. He took one glance at Cregan's fat prick and swept back into hiding in Beron's former chambers, either intimidated or otherwise uninterested.
The northern wolf is a patient man, but it's been near a fortnight of tension, and so slipping down to the hot springs to jerk off in a place where his groans won't disturb the young prince is a need, not a want.
Cregan moves silently through the cavern, stripping his clothes as he does, not bothering with a torch because he knows the route by heart. When he finds his chosen pool, he slides into it at once, and grips his cock with a groan. "Fuck," he hisses, relief flooding his system at the lightest of touches.
The water is hot, near-boiling, but Cregan likes the heat. Ice may live in the veins of a Stark, but that doesn't mean one can't enjoy a fire every now and then. He fists his shaft, thinking of the greedy mouth of Prince Jacaerys, of the way he licks his lips near-constantly, of the way he stares without care—or perhaps without notice…and he fucks his fist, imagining heat from someone else's body wrapped tight around it.
Water sloshes over the sides of the pool, and he's only pulled his hand from root to tip once or twice before he hears a sound. He pauses to listen…but there's no further noise, and so he relaxes back into the act.
At any given time, the weight upon Cregan's shoulders oscillates between heavy and crushing. Jerking off is an easy way to help relieve some of his body's tension, and so the lord does it oft enough that he has a favored routine—one he falls into easily in the heat of the evening.
Cregan tips his head back, parts his lips, and resumes stroking his cock beneath the waterline. As he slides his loose fist from base to tip, he allows his imagination to wander back to the source of his sexual frustration—back to the dragon prince. With Jacaerys' swollen red lips, his freckled nose, and his doe-eyed gaze in mind, Cregan hardens the rest of the way, at which point, he allows himself to push deeper into his routine.
He ceases stroking, opting to form a fist, and begins thrusting lazily into it—pushing his hips up to force his cock through the circle of his fingers until it pops out of the spring, foreskin pulled back, glans exposed, so that with each thrust, his tip is kissed by the evening air. The contrast is heady. Hot and cold, like he and the dragon prince. Cregan chuckles, and his body vibrates, causing the waves to ripple, to lap at the tip of Cregan's cock—ebbing his laughter into a desperate moan at the introduction of a new sensation.
Gods, he's wound tight.
Needs release.
Needs it bad, though he knows it'll only tide him over for a few more days of watching and being watched by the beautiful boy that has been tracking his every move. And gods, is Jacaerys beautiful. Tight waist, swollen mouth, greedy little burnt umber gaze—one that begs for something the dragon prince doesn't even seem to notice he's asking for.
Cregan fucks his fist with a smooth, steady rhythm, and allows his mind to wander further—to wander towards Jacaerys' most alluring trait; his curiosity. Before he can stop himself, he's imagining that it's Jace's curious little tongue lapping at the head of his prick instead of the water. Imagining that it's a smooth southron palm wrapped around his length instead of his own calloused one.
"Fuck," Cregan breathes, shuddering with pleasure. "Gods, yes."
He shouldn't think such lewd things about royalty, but he can't help it. The mere thought of having the boy's curiosity trained on his own prick is an all-consuming one. Once it's in mind, he can't release it. Cregan may not know Jacaerys well, but he figures the prince would approach cocksucking the way he's approached everything else; with eager determination, with a relentless need to learn and to please.
Cregan moves his hips faster, harder—rougher. He tightens his fist, forcing his length through the circle of his fingers with a grunt, the movement catching his foreskin, ensuring that his sensitive tip is exposed, bare in the cool air as the hot water releases it. He does it again. And again. The thoughts paired with the pleasure become a whirlwind of desire, burning the lord from the inside-out as he recalls the anxious clench of the boy's fist, as he recalls the pink of the boy's tongue, as he imagines Jace dragging it over Cregan's cock instead of his lower lip, blinking up at the lord with innocent curiosity—with determination as well.
"Jacaerys," he moans—
This time, he knows he hasn't imagined the squeak. "Who goes there?"
It takes a moment, but when the water sloshes into Cregan instead of away, he realizes he's not even alone in this pool. He startles—but when his eyes adjust, the heat in his body turns to wildfire.
A lithe boy is pressed up against the stone at the back of the spring, but there's no mistaking his pale skin and his delicate features—his swollen lips—because across the spring from Lord Cregan Stark is another, more powerful ruler: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.
His doe-eyed gaze is filled with terror, but he's staring down at the lord's cock with his precious mouth hanging open. Doesn't seem to realize he's been caught, yet. Seems to think he's still blending in with the stone at his back.
Cregan thrusts his hips up again, keeping the tip of his prick out of the water, and squeezes himself. Waits as a little bit of pre collects in the slit of his glans. Drags his thumb over it—sucks the digit between his lips with a dramatic groan.
Jacaerys whimpers high and breathless, his greedy gaze narrowing in on Cregan's tongue with envy. Satisfaction rips through Cregan stronger than any orgasm might, and he slides back down into the water.
"You've been watching me, Prince Jacaerys."
Panic floods the boy's expression as he snaps his attention to Cregan's gaze. "I'm— I'm so sorry, my lord. I'll—" he stands, his cock popping free of the hot water.
Cregan swallows back the saliva that floods his mouth at the sight of the angry, red cock. But he doesn't get much time to ponder it, because Jacaerys is moving—sloshing through the water, babbling apologies and scrambling towards the natural steps. Water sloshes over the edge of the pool in his wake, in his desperation—his pretty innocence.
"Didn't say you had to go."
Jacaerys pauses, and this time, Cregan doesn't hold back. He releases an unrestrained moan, one that echoes through the dark cavern as he fucks his fist again. He hisses at the sting of sensation as the hot waves lap over his cock, as the chill blows across it—as his sensitive tip is revealed to the two extremes in rapid succession beneath terrified, but curious eyes.
The cavern falls into silence, save for the wet slap of Cregan's skin, the heavy breathing shared between them…but Jace doesn't look away. The lord's stomach tightens, his prick growing heavier in his hand. Thicker, somehow, as if even more of the blood in his body is rushing into it beneath the gaze of his prince. Finally, he can't help but speak.
"Is it a southron tradition to watch another man take his pleasure?"
Jacaerys startles, and then shakes his head fervently.
"Ah, so it's my cock that you favor," Cregan muses, huffing the words out between half-breaths and moans. "Yours is a right sight as well, boy."
"Oh—"
"Were you planning on saying anything or do you prefer jerking off alone?"
"No— it's not— I didn't know," Jacaerys whispers. "I wasn't sure—"
Cregan grins and releases his dick, taking a deep breath and steadying his own voice as he falls back beneath the waterline. "Aye," he says, tone low, calm—speaking to Jace the same way he might a skittish colt. "But you've been thinking about it." He nods at Jacaerys. "Go on, then. Fair is fair."
The prince glances down, and though it seems like he might not, he does eventually wrap his fist around himself. He squeezes once, and then looks to Cregan for validation.
"Come closer," the lord murmurs. "Can't quite see."
The boy prince stumbles through the hot spring a bit like a fawn on fresh legs, but he doesn't stop until he's standing before Cregan, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock, face flushed, lips still wet and swollen—though they're always swollen. Always begging to be sucked on. His hair is damp, and it curls around his shoulders, somehow making the proper, clean dragon prince look disheveled for once. And while Cregan is dying to tangle his fingers into it and pull…he waits to touch. Encourages Jace to step up onto the ledge Cregan is seated upon, so that the boy is closer to eye-level with the man.
"Bigger than I thought."
"You're not." Jacaerys' eyes widen the moment the words leave his mouth. "I mean— you're—" his cock twitches. "Very big, but I knew that."
Cregan chuckles. "Aye, I know you've gotten more than one eyeful. Too shy to come out and play?"
"It's not proper, my lord." Jacaerys is chewing on his lower lip, but he's yet to release his cock, and so the lord decides to push him a bit. Wants to sidestep the blundering 'maybe we shouldn't' and move on to the pleasure.
"And who is here to stop us?" Cregan slowly drags his wet fingertips up the back of the prince's thigh, wrapping them around the place just beneath his ass. Squeezing gently to comfort and encourage him, nearly drowning in lust for how responsive Jace is—for the boy makes the softest little sounds of need in the back of his throat throughout it all.
"No one," Jace breathes the words like a question, searching Cregan's eyes desperately for validation.
"Stroke yourself," Cregan murmurs in response. "Lightly. Twist your wrist at the top."
Jacaerys follows his instruction, pulling his fist from base to tip and back again beneath Cregan's gaze. "Like this?" His question is a whisper, hardly louder than an exhale, but Cregan feels it in his balls, and desire burns along his veins. This is better than he'd imagined.
"Exactly like that, my prince."
The boy shakes his head, laughing uncomfortably. "No, no. You don't have to call me—"
"My Jacaerys, then," Cregan murmurs. "Touch yourself for me, my Jacaerys."
He doesn't respond, but he does slowly resume stroking himself. Up close, he seems so young and naive; his chest free of hair, his body without fat, his skin without wrinkle. His prick is, as Cregan first thought, fairly thin, but it fits his small fist well.
And his eagerness…gods, even shrouded in the innocent unease that comes with inexperience, Jacaerys is exactly how the lord imagined; hungry to please in a way that borders on desperation.
Cregan wants to pin him down and fuck him hard. He wants to watch the pretty and proper prince fall apart while his body is played like a lute. To watch the ever-present tension in Jace's shoulders unravel at the seams as he's filled to bursting with a man's cock—with Cregan's cock.
"Like this?" Jace's voice is so small, his face blooming so red beneath his freckles, it would seem less vulnerable, had he slit his chest open and showed his insides to the lord.
But Cregan has dealt with timid lovers before, and it would be a lie to say he doesn't enjoy fucking that sort of thing out of them—and he will, he knows, for timid isn't something that fits Prince Jacaerys Velaryon of House Targaryen, the heir to the Iron Throne. Already in his time at Winterfell, his confidence has grown tenfold from the boy who fumbled his first greeting with red cheeks and half-sentences.
Cregan is certain that the boy's prowess in carnality will soon match that growing knowledge of northern customs…but for now, it's a treasure. An experience Cregan will savor, for he's certain it won't last. "Good," he praises. "Very good."
Jacaerys makes a choked sound, and Cregan leans closer.
"Do you like it when I watch you?" He exhales, knows that his breath is skating over the exposed head of the prince's cock. "Does it arouse you to know I've been watching you this whole time? Like you've been watching me?"
Jace jerks in surprise, but then licks his lips as he recovers—clearly drawn in by the revelation. "You have been?"
Cregan hums. "I'd like to do more than watch," he says. "Are you going to let me, my prince?"
Jacaerys shudders, but the word 'prince' was the wrong one to utter, because he drops his length and looks away. "It's not—" his face suddenly burns brighter, fear and uncertainty glimmering in his gaze "—this isn't…I shouldn't be—" he rubs his thumb over his forehead, looking stricken, panicked "—I'm so sorry, my lord. I should not have come down here."
"There's nothing to be sorry about," Cregan soothes him. "I want this, do you?"
Jace clenches his eyes shut, takes in a deep breath, and for a moment, the lord thinks he might flee. He is, after all, a prince of the realm—and this is no princely act. It's clear he's even more uncomfortable with his lack of experience here than he is on the grounds of Winterfell, or out on a hunt. That he isn't fond of being out of control, either…but Cregan allows him space to think.
After a beat, he finally exhales deeply, nodding as he does. "Okay." He releases a shaky breath and turns back to Cregan. "Yeah, okay. I do. I do want this."
"There's that princely confidence." It's popped up more and more of late, and Cregan can't deny it makes him hot to see it, can't deny he enjoys the touch of a grin on Jace's lips at the praise. He pulls the boy closer, tugging Jace's slight body over his thighs until the prince's cock hits him mid-chest. The lord's own prick juts up beneath Jace's spread legs, but Cregan ignores it in favor of the one close enough to lick.
Jacaerys is still trembling as he lifts his hand, as he rests his palm on Cregan's shoulder, but there's a new sort of determination as well…a glint in his eye that Cregan likes. "Is this okay?"
"Perfect," the lord croons.
Jacaerys shifts, breath hitching. "For balance."
"Of course," Cregan responds, not releasing Jacaerys' ass. In fact, he massages his fingertips into it, and then looks down between them. "Poor dragon," he murmurs. "You've been miserable since you got here, half-hard and desperate. Wasn't sure you would ever decide you wanted this."
"I do," he repeats, quickly. "I do, I—" he breaks off with a sharp inhale, because Cregan wraps his fist around Jacaerys' cock and squeezes.
"I know." He keeps his hand wrapped around the boy's length and slides his fist to the tip. "You need this, don't you? Need to relax a bit, need my help." In more ways than one.
Jacaerys releases another shaky breath, a half-laugh, as though he's can't quite believe what's happening—but he nods, biting his lip…and when Cregan remains quiet, tightens his fist at his side with determination and nods. "Yes," he croaks. "Yes, my lord."
"I do too," Cregan admits, something that makes Jace bite his lip, like he's holding back a self-conscious grin, like he's not quite comfortable with being the object of a man's desire. "You've never been touched, have you?"
Jace looks away, but Cregan catches his jaw—tugs it back to center. Liquid amber gazes back, and Cregan can't help but tug his face closer.
The kiss is so brief, it's hardly a kiss at all, but the Jacaerys relaxes into it beautifully. When they part, his gaze flickers between the lord's mouth and his eyes like he can't decide where to look.
"You're so responsive," Cregan murmurs, reaching for the boy's cock again—gathering it in his fist to stroke up and down. "I'm going to fuck you, my Jacaerys."
Jace exhales a half-laugh, half-moan. "Yeah?"
Cregan hums. "Yes. I'll fuck you until you're desperate, crying for release—until you spill your seed with only the force of my cock."
The noise that breaks through Jacaerys' lips is a hot, heady sound, and it encourages Cregan to continue. He rolls Jace's foreskin back, drags his thumb beneath the ridge of his tip, and captures another kiss when the boy moans, tugging the prince closer—drinking his whimpers and his gasps like each is a finer wine than the last.
When they part, Cregan cups the back of his boy's neck—tugs them together until Jacaerys' forehead is against his own, and they're sharing each breath. "I'd serve my prince," he breathes, remedying the self-conscious hitch in Jace's breath with another pass of his thumb beneath the boy's sensitive cockhead. "Give him what he needs."
Jace chokes. "Needs?"
"I think you need to be filled," Cregan murmurs conversationally as he quickens the pace of his fist. "Need to be fucked hard…think you need to be pleasured, too. To learn pleasure. There's nothing better than the caress of a lover, than the overwhelming release of a peak ripped from your body after it's been kept on edge all night; desperate and wanting." Cregan reaches down and cups Jacaerys' sac.
The boy whimpers, but seems to be at a loss for words. He closes his eyes, breathing heavy into the space between them.
"Look at me, Jacaerys," Cregan says, and when the prince opens his eyes, the lord cups his ass—reaches back around and grazes the tight furl between his cheeks with a single fingers, causing the boy to keen towards Cregan. "I'll take care of you."
"Oh," Jace gasps. "Okay." His cheeks are burning red, like he has no idea how to react in the moment, but it only works to endear Cregan to him.
He keeps his eyes on the prince, and on the next downstroke of his fist on Jace's cock, dips his head slightly. Takes the fleshy head between his lips, and suckles just a touch. Keeps his eyes up as he laves his tongue over the very tip of Jace's prick—and then hums before sucking with real force.
Jacaerys erupts.
His entire body shudders, his fingernails digging into Cregan's shoulder, and he floods the lord's mouth with seed; groaning and gasping, apologizing, but begging, too. Suddenly full of the words that were previously lost to self-consciousness. Babbling so fast that Cregan can't quite understand him, but he can feel the boy shaking with the strength of his orgasm, holding onto Cregan for balance as his knees give out. The northern lord steadies his boy, holding the prince's hip firmly in place as he continues sucking at the tip of the boy's pulsing cock, and allows his mouth to flood with seed.
The pleasure breaking across Jacaerys' face is gorgeous—even more so when his beautiful gaze flickers to the corner of Cregan's lips, to where a line of his cum is trickling out of the lord's mouth, and tries to pull back with a bumbling apology.
Cregan stops that nonsense by tightening his hold on the boy's hip. He keeps his mouth where it is, drinks the prince down, mouthing at the tip of Jace's prick until the boy's hips have stopped jerking and he's starting to whimper from overstimulation. But before Cregan pulls away, he grazes his teeth across the slit, enjoying the ripple it sends through the dragon's lithe body. So godsdamned responsive it nearly hurts.
"Oh, gods," Jacaerys moans, sliding his free hand up to curl his fingers around the back of Cregan's neck. "That was…better than I thought it would be."
Cregan tugs Jacaerys down, crushes their lips together, and groans—blowing past chaste, deepening the kiss into something filthy. Their mouths are filled with cum, making everything messy and lewd and so much more intense than it was before. Cregan lifts the prince enough so that his cock pops up between them, and then tugs Jace right back into his arms.
Jacaerys doesn't even need to be told. He wraps his hand tight around Cregan, and begins stroking as the lord devours him—until he's forced to break the kiss.
"Gods," Cregan growls, glancing between them. "Your fucking hand."
Jacaerys is a southern prince. He's got the callouses of a boy who spends his days wielding a sword, but the meat of his palm is smooth and untouched by the dry winds of a harsher land. Even without oil to slick the way, the boy's delicate fist is as soft as it is firm, and Cregan bucks his hips, driving his length up further into the lush grip, wanting and needing more of the touch.
It's incredible.
Jace is green at handjobs, but he clearly tries his best, going with the motions as Cregan snakes fingers into his hair, tugging and pulling and holding him in place as he crashes their mouths together again, nipping at his lip, slicking his tongue into the boy's mouth to possess it once more. Suddenly, Jacaerys' finger slips beneath Cregan's foreskin and drags along the ridge in a mirror of what Cregan did to him earlier, and the resulting flame of pleasure is unfathomable.
"Fuck," the lord hisses, breaking their kiss to gasp for air. He leans their foreheads together, looking down past the shiny, wet lips of the smaller man, down to where his cock is being fisted. He's close, now—very close. "Nearly there."
Suddenly, Jacaerys finds his voice—finds a hint of his confidence, too. "Want you," he breathes. "Want you inside me."
Cregan nearly blacks out. The need to possess the prince burns brighter, hotter than he'd imagined possible—something animalistic, something untamed. Cregan grips the boy's chin, desperately kisses him again as Jace fumbles with his rhythm, and then moves away. He sits up higher in the hot spring, holds the base of his cock, and when the water parts, Jacaerys doesn't hesitate to slide down and suck the man into his mouth.
The prince isn't skilled. His teeth bump Cregan's shaft, he chokes a little with the effort, releasing a self-conscious laugh, but all it does is make the lord want him even more. He helps the prince along by squeezing himself, but the need is too powerful to last for long. Jace gets a few heartbeats of curious, erotic, exploration with his perfect tongue, but the moment he successfully closes his lips around Cregan's tip and sucks, the lord loses it; groans with the force of his bone-deep release after a fortnight of tension.
Jacaerys squeaks with surprise, pulling back quickly as Cregan jerks himself over the edge, but then must realize his mistake, because he immediately leans down again. Yet the seal is broken. As he parts his lips to re-take Cregan's meat, he gets a face full of cum instead.
"Fuck," Cregan hisses—
"Oh," Jace shudders, letting his lips fall open. He replaces Cregan's hand, begins stroking the lord's prick, and gazes upwards, eyes going glassy as he catches the rest of Cregan's seed on his cheeks, his lips…his tongue.
It's a right fucking sight.
Once Cregan's body stops shaking, the prince of the realm sits up and chuckles nervously, globs of seed dripping down his pale, freckled face. "Was that—"
"Perfect," Cregan growls, dropping back into the pool and tugging Jacaerys into his lap. He kisses him again; slow and deep, but more gently this time. "You're perfect."
Jace doesn't respond to that, because he's too busy chasing the lord's mouth again—and Cregan is wont to deny that. They kiss for a time, Cregan massaging his seed into Jacaerys' face like he's some sort of animal, and the boy doesn't complain. He wraps his arms around the larger man's neck, swallows all of the lord's filthy whispers as they both ride down the aftershocks of pleasure, and when they've finally calmed their racing hearts, leans his forehead against Cregan's with a sigh.
"Now what?"
Cregan's heart lurches. He wants to lead Jacaerys back up to his chambers covered in the evidence of their act, but knows that might be a bit too far. Not everyone is as understanding about two men laying together as the dragon prince has learned Cregan is…and the lord won't risk his new paramour for an unnecessary desire. He shoves the animal down in his chest and reaches behind himself until he finds something soft, dipping it into the water, using the shirt foraged from his pile of clothes to wipe away his seed from Jacaerys' mouth, his cheeks—gods, even his eyelashes.
They clean one another between soft kisses, both of them using the soap that Cregan brought down, and when they've finished and there's nothing left to do but leave the hot spring, Cregan tugs his prince back atop his own lap and cradles Jacaerys' jaw. The boy looks unsure of himself again as he trails his fingers through the hair on Cregan's chest. "You didn't answer my question."
Cregan responds with a soft kiss. "We return to our chambers and rest."
"I mean on the morrow."
"We train, we hunt, and make our rounds." He twists Jacaerys' jaw away, and presses a kiss along the sharp edge. "We continue preparing, my Jace."
The boy hums. "Because winter is coming?"
"Aye," Cregan chuckles. "Because winter is coming."