Chapter Text
Cregan Stark was hunched over a stack of ledgers, his head swirling with numbers, inventory, and dates. His steward had told him the he need not involve himself with the bookkeeping, but a good lord should at least have a survey of their accounts unless he find himself pilfered from. Winter was coming and a single misplaced harvest of grain could mean life and death for hundreds. Alas, he was never one for books and numbers — but he forced himself to understand.
"Pardon the intrusion, my lord," said Denna as her head cautiously peeked into Cregan's chambers. Her face was rosy from lingering frostbite, and her thin windburnt lips curled into a hesistant smile. "But the babe is seeking out his father."
She held one-year-old Rickon in her sturdy arms. A plump and hale woman of two and forty from the mountain clans, Denna had been wet nurse and handmaid to Cregan's late lady-wife Arra. Now, after her lady's death, Denna took it upon herself to nurse the child the poor girl had left behind.
"Denna." Cregan pushed himself from his bureau. "Come."
"He's calmer now," said Denna, handing the boy to his father. "But the roar of the prince's dragon stirred him somewhat fierce in his crib. I was unnerved myself, my lord."
Rickon rested his head on his father's shoulder. There were many a night when Cregan had to cradle his son like this before the boy would allow himself to fall asleep.
Cregan gestured for Denna to take a seat. "It's no easy journey from Dragonstone to the Vale to White Harbor to Winterfell. Has the young prince retired to his bedchambers?"
"If you'll permit me to say, my lord," said Denna, slowly lowering herself on her accustomed chair. "You yourself are not much older than the prince."
"You know better than anyone," replied Cregan wearily, "five years is a lifetime of difference for some."
"To be sure." Denna nodded thoughtfully, gazing at the hearth that warmed Cregan's apartments. The fire was burning low and needed stoking. She hung her head low with a somber pity in her gaze.
"The prince has been at the courtyard, going at the captain's training bales. I passed him by when I was bringing little Rickon. He was quite..."
Denna seemed uncertain of her words. "I dare not call our honored guest violent. But he was quite forceful with his swings. It's a small miracle he hadn't collapsed after so much hacking at hay. He's been at it for a good hour by Maester Orland's reckoning."
"Maester Orland was at the courtyard?"
"Oh no, my lord." Denna shook her head, putting a hand on her generous bosom as if she were scandalized by such a thought. "I could never imagine that old, frail man there, save for if he had a lecture to give to the wooden swords and leathers."
Cregan chuckled and Rickon gurgled by his ear, softly and incoherently.
"Old man Maester Orland had told me that a letter was what made the prince storm to the courtyard," explained Denna. "A raven come from the Stormlands, he said."
"The Stormlands, you say?" asked Cregan. He was already well aware of what seal the raven's letter bore. "Are you certain it had not been from Dragonstone?"
"I admit, I know little of southern castles, my lord," said Denna with a wave of her hand. "But it was what I remember hearing from the good maester. Though I will grant you that perhaps I misheard. I am afraid that these ears are not as sharp as they once were."
"You are as sharp and fearsome as any youth, Denna," said Cregan. "Many men can boast they've killed tens of men—"
"But few can say to have given birth to just as many!" proclaimed Denna with a hearty guffaw.
Denna of Ten Sons, they called her. Although she will insist that she, in fact, had nineteen children: the ten sons who lived to their coming-of-age, five who died as babes, three daughters of her blood, and one noble Norrey nursed from her breast.
And now she counts a little Stark among them, her twentieth child. The sound of Rickon's steady breathing told his father that he had finally fallen asleep. Yet Cregan allowed himself to hold the boy for a while longer.
"Tell me true, Denna," said Cregan. "Now that you've seen Jacaerys Velaryon, would you have recognized him as crown prince?"
"Ah," said Denna once again, for she always audibly indicated when she was picking her words. "He is princely enough, very comely and good with a sword —"
"Better than I?"
Denna laughed and that was answer enough.
"I've heard Targaryens have silver hair," Denna continued. "But I have never beheld any kings or queens or princes myself before today. Perhaps there are some of them with dark hair. Or mayhaps those were just tall tales. It could very well be that Targaryens have always had common features but their hair simply turns grey faster than us common folk."
Cregan shook his head in amusement. "That's one I've not heard before."
Denna raised an eyebrow and lowered her voice. "But if you mean to ask me if I think he is trueborn, my lord, I believe it is quite obvious. The creature he flew on says more than any mop of hair ever will."
Cregan frowned. He let out a long breath, a mix of contentment and exhaustion — contentment that his son was in his arms and exhaustion knowing that he will have to part from him.
He gingerly handed the boy to Denna. She wrapped him in his swaddling furs, humming a familiar lullaby.
Cregan gazed upon his son sleeping on Denna's lap. Fortunate were people like his child's wet nurse, surrounded by their offspring and offspring's offspring. But Cregan had long seperated himself from the manipulators who should have been his pack, and now Rickon was the only family he had left.
He thought about the guest in his castle — Prince Jacaerys must be lonely with only hay for company. And with those dark words that came upon dark wings...
"Hand me my cloak, Denna," he said.
Jace gasped for breath. His threw his whole body into each swing, on and on until his mind had fallen into a trance. He knew not if his fingers were numb from the cold or from his labours. It mattered little.
He was alone in the courtyard as most of the household and garrison of Winterfell were sent elsewhere to assist with the final autumn harvests. Perhaps it was just as well.
"Perhaps the prince desires a better sparring partner?"
Cregan sauntered into the courtyard, a sheathed longsword in each hand. He casually threw one to Jace.
Jace dropped his wooden training sword and caught the blade in one swift motion. "To first blood?"
"To first blood," agreed Cregan, "and no more. Lest the gods smite me for causing injury to a guest of Winterfell."
"I would rather not trouble your household with my presence, Lord Stark," muttered Jace. "Let me have my leave."
"You are free to leave whenever you desire, my prince," said Cregan. "But I doubt even your formidable mount can fight through the coming snowstorm."
Cregan assumed his stance, rooting his feet. Jace, on the other hand, was quick to lunge at him. A foolhardy move, as Cregan easily dodged and pushed him to the ground.
Cregan was certain the prince would fall on his face, but he was pleasantly surprised to see him swiftly regain his balance. Jace took another desperate swipe as he turned.
Cregan met it with his own blade in an effortless parry. He was beating the prince handily but he took no pride in it. Jace's body was shaking, from exhaustion or emotion or a terrible mingling of both — Cregan could not tell exactly. The prince's lips were blue from the cold and dark circles framed his sunken eyes. That he was able to still fight was a testament to an extraordinary endurance.
"You fight as if you believe your blows could break steel," remarked Cregan. "Some precision will do you good, my prince. Surely the southern knight who trained you taught you as much."
Jace took a moment to catch his breath. "His name was Ser Harwin," he panted. "They called him Breakbones."
Just as Jace had found his footing, knees lowered and ready for another strike, Cregan's blade came from above. The sound of steel upon steel rang through the courtyard as Jace blocked Cregan's sword with his own.
The young wolf afforded the princeling no quarter this time. Cregan pressed his blade forward, forcing Jace to almost kneel. Cregan was bigger, stronger, and well-rested besides — there was no shrugging him off. Jace was pinned down.
There was only one way to escape. Jace stopped pushing against Cregan and slipped aside as fast as he could. The prince heard the blade whistle past him, dangerously close to his ear. In a moment of pure instinct, Jace saw his opening and swung at Cregan's side.
But Cregan proved himself nimble as he was strong. Unable to parry, all he could do was dodge which made him lose his footing and almost trip. Had he been a second too slow, the prince would have had his blood.
He expected the prince to press his advantage and continue raining blows upon him. That was what Cregan would have done. But when he raised his head, he saw Jace still kneeling, his sword planted on the snow-covered ground as he attempted to heave himself to his feet. Although it was clear his body could fight no longer, there remained a fire burning in the dragon prince's dark eyes that Cregan could not look away from.
He walked up to Jace and grabbed him by the arm, hoisting him to his feet. He then yanked Jace's sword from the ground after sheathing his own.
"Maester Orland said it would only be light autumn snow," said Cregan to the prince. "It should pass in three nights."
Cregan then did something that made Jace's eyes turn wide. After removing the leather glove on his left hand, Cregan ran his palm down the edge of Jace's sword. A small trickle of blood dripped down his wrist and onto the snow.
"What..." breathed Jace. The prince could hardly keep standing. And yet stand tall he did.
"As I said, the old gods will smite me for causing injury to a guest." Cregan wrapped his hand in gauze before slipping his glove back on.
"Both you and your dragon will need a good meal and adequate rest if you are to avenge your brother." Cregan patted his unwounded hand on Jace's shoulder. "Our household may be short on southern luxuries, but our hospitality should suffice even for a prince."
"I...of course. Thank you."
Both men stared at each other in silence for a moment. Jace seemed dazed, as if his surroundings had yet to reorient itself. Meanwhile, Cregan listened to the wind blowing past — a clear sign of the approaching storm.
Finally, Cregan spoke. "I'll send one of my men to see you to your bedchambers. Take as much time as you need."
Cregan had begun to walk away, back to his own apartments, when the prince called out.
"Lord Cregan," yelled Jace. "Twas a good bout. You honor me."
Cregan turned about, a subtle smirk upon his otherwise hard face. "You were a worthy foe, my prince. You may best me yet one day."
"One day," echoed Jace. An agreement. A threat. A promise.