Chapter Text
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace observes the group of men and women gathered in the courtyard of Winterfell — the largest keep above the Neck, and the seat of House Stark. The assemblage gazes back at him, undoubtedly waiting for him to dismount Vermax. The dragon shakes his great head, a low rumble leaving his chest. He’s impatient to find a meal after their afternoon flight, and Jace knows he doesn’t appreciate being gawked at.
“Lykirī, valonqar” he murmurs, running his gloved-hand across Vermax’s shoulder. Be calm, little brother . A puff of hot air releases from the dragon’s nostrils, and then he lowers his shoulder to allow his rider an easier climb down to the frozen ground. Jace’s feet find earth, toes tingling from the cold, and he unhooks his saddle bags from the dragon’s back with frozen fingers. But as he gives Vermax a pat, and steps back, the dragon lets out a deep growl and slowly bars his teeth at the onlookers.
“ Vermax ,” Jace hisses harshly, quickly putting himself between the dragon’s jaws and the northerners. He locks eyes with Vermax’s golden ones, and for a moment, he thinks his notoriously ill-tempered mount isn’t going to back down – but then he does, to Jace’s immense relief. Though Vermax’s expression softens as he gazes at his rider, the great dragon unfurls his green-red wings and launches into the sky with a dramatic force, making the people gathered in the yard shrink back from the rush of icy wind.
Jace clenches his jaw at his dragon’s behavior, for he doesn’t want to start this trip off on the wrong foot, but as he turns around and steps towards the group he notices that only one man hasn’t moved back from the dragon’s antics. A burly man, near enough to Jace’s own age of twenty, with wavy, chin-length brown hair and piercing gray eyes. The cloak draped over his shoulders is framed by a thick layer of silver fur, secured by leather straps across his chest. From the distance between them, Jace can only just make out the shape of the metal buckle holding the leather together: a direwolf, the sigil of House Stark. This must be the man he has come to treat with — Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.
“My apologies,” Jace rushes out, but trying to keep his tone light. “He has never been well-behaved.” He gestures a hand to where his dragon is soaring over Winterfell, already searching for a meal.
The man stares at him for another moment, his expression hard to read. And then he speaks. “Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, welcome to Winterfell.” The lord bows his head respectively, and though his body language gives off the expected deference to a prince of the realm, his tone is clipped — seemingly impatient, and perhaps rather unimpressed. A stern reminder to Jace that he hasn’t been invited to Winterfell, but has come at the behest of his mother to demand the fealty of the Starks and their bannermen to support her rightful claim to the Iron Throne. And his dragon has just expressed a viciousness that Jace feels he failed to explain away with a wave of his hand and empty words. The others standing behind Lord Stark bow their heads as well, following his lead.
Jace takes a deep breath. “Thank you, Lord Stark, it is an honor to be received by your house and the North.” It’s the practiced words of a prince, but he wonders where he missteps when he sees the lord’s eyes narrow – the gray seeming to ice over. Lord Stark clenches his jaw and shifts his weight to his left foot, the greatsword slung across his back shifting with him.
A woman steps up to the side of the northern lord and flicks her eyes up at him, and then to Jace. “You must be tired after your long journey, my prince,” she says, her tone much kinder than her lord’s. “Please, come inside,” and the woman gestures for him to follow her into the inner keep. The other northerners turn to follow her as well. Jace notices the woman gives Lord Stark a particular look – one that could be understood as annoyance – before turning her back on both men. She can’t be the Lady of Winterfell, as Jace was reminded by his mother before he left Dragonstone that Lord Stark’s wife, Lady Arra, passed away several years ago. But before he can determine the woman’s identity, his mind is pulled back to the courtyard by the feeling of being scrutinized. Lord Stark hasn’t moved and hasn’t taken his narrowed eyes off of Jace. They lock eyes, but Jace has to fight an urge to look away again. It’s unnerving to be stared at in such a way. As a prince, he’s used to people lowering their gazes around him, but this feels like the lord is trying to see into his soul and expose all of his secrets. A shiver runs down his spine, and it’s not from the cold.
“Cregan,” the woman hisses quietly from behind the lord, as the others finish filing in through a door behind her and out of sight. Her reproach seems to break the man’s trance, but he still keeps his eyes fixed on Jace’s for another heartbeat before turning his back on him and passing the woman who is still waiting for both men. They exchange a glance as Lord Stark walks past, but her face is less readable now. Then she turns her eyes to Jace, with what appears to be sympathy. “Please, my prince, a warm bath has been drawn for you before we sup.” She gives him a kind smile. He nods, then lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and follows her.
—
The mysterious woman leads him down a long hallway, and then up a flight of winding stairs of what he assumes is one of the inner towers – an important one, he hopes, given his status as a prince, but now he’s not so sure, given Lord Stark’s cold greeting. “You’ll be staying in the tower shared by the Stark family, my prince,” she says over her shoulder, as if she can read his mind.
When they reach the landing, she leads him to a room immediately on the right. A few servants are bustling about the room working to fill a large metal wash basin, situated in front of a large fireplace. The fire crackling in it fills the room with a heat that instantly begins to thaw Jace’s frozen limbs. Winter hasn’t officially come to the North yet, but the icy wind outside and the snow squall he and Vermax flew through earlier would suggest otherwise. A servant approaches him, bows, and then reaches for the saddle bags slung over his shoulder.
“Please make yourself comfortable, my prince,” the woman says gently. “Maester Selmond will retrieve you in a bit to escort you to where we will have supper.” She curtsies, and turns to leave.
“My lady, have I said something to offend Lord Stark?” He rushes out before he can stop himself.
“Of course not, my prince. He’s just…” she pauses, and then says, “Well, he has a lot on his mind. Winter is coming, you see, and he’s in the midst of preparations… And my apologies, my prince, while I am Lord Stark’s sister, I’m not a lady. I’m Sara — Sara Snow.” She drops her eyes in deference before lifting them to meet his gaze once more, and he realizes that her eyes are the same shade of gray as her brother’s.
Jace feels his cheeks flush. Snow . The surname for bastard children in the North. So, she’s the bastard daughter of Lord Stark’s father, the late Rickon Stark. Jace’s mother had mentioned this woman, but he was unaware that he would meet her in this way, if at all. Perhaps northerners view bastards differently than they do in the rest of the realm. It’s a comforting thought, for he himself is a bastard, albeit a secret one.
He inclines his head at Sara Snow to acknowledge what she’s just confessed, but then decides propriety be damned. “I look forward to joining you for dinner, my lady .” Jace knows he can’t change the views of the realm, for most lords and ladies hold prejudices tightly in their grips. But he’s a prince, and he can offer this woman the same kindness that she’s shown him.
Sara smiles again, and her eyes flash with what Jace thinks is a hint of surprise. She curtsies once more, and the servants follow her out. But before she closes the door, she sends one last glance in his direction, undoubtedly unsure of what to make of him and their exchange. When the door clicks shut, he turns to the bath waiting for him, pleased with his choice of words, and hopes the hot water will relieve some more of the tension plaguing his shoulders. Now, if only he can find a way to break the ice with her brother.
—
Cregan Stark
Cregan leaves the courtyard and makes a beeline for the kennels to ‘check on the hounds,’ wishing to cool off from the irritation that has been surging through him since the moment the prince and his dragon landed on northern soil. The Kennel Master, Ardrick, is surprised to see him, and insists that all is well with the hounds, and that there’s no need for Cregan to dirty his hands. He sends Ardrick away – likely with an amount of gruffness that he’ll regret later – but he needs a quiet place to unload his frustrations.
The Targaryen Queen felt the need to send an envoy – her own son and heir – to Cregan’s lands and demand that he keep the oath that his father swore many years ago, when she was a child: that the North would one day bow to Rhaenyra Targaryen as the chosen heir of King Viserys I. Starks do not forget their oaths , and he had to bite his tongue back in the courtyard before he reminded the prince of this fact. To make matters worse, the Queen and her son expect northmen to fight alongside her sworn bannermen in the brewing war for the throne between her and her half-brother, Aegon, who Cregan has learned currently calls himself King. All of this bother and insult has now been thrust Cregan’s way when winter is nearly at the North’s doorstep, and he needs his men here . He feels his frustrations increase from a simmer to a boil, so he tries to keep his hands busy by changing the water in a wooden trough in one of the empty kennels, and takes a few steadying breaths.
He hears the kennel gate swing open, and hurried feet coming in his direction. He looks up, unsurprised to see his sister standing before him, looking exasperated.
“What’s gotten into you? What was that back there?” she demands.
He lowers his eyes back down to the water trough, not wishing to feel her wrath directly. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies with ill-disguised defiance.
“Don’t know what I mean? ” she repeats. “Cregan, you were incredibly rude to the prince; speaking to him so sharply and staring him down like he’s a hostile intruder. What were you thinking?” she whispers harshly.
“He is an intruder,” Cregan huffs, finally gaining the nerve to look back up at her. “He’s come to our home, uninvited, to demand things. And he brought his dragon to make his message clear,” he finishes, frustration seeping into his voice.
She lets out a long sigh, and looks at him knowingly for a moment before speaking. “I’m sure he brought his dragon because it’s the quickest means to get to the North to treat with you. You know the trip from King’s Landing to here takes nearly a moonturn on horseback,” she counters, and he notices she’s now using the same voice she does with his son, Rickon, when the boy is upset. Firm, but gentle.
Cregan scoffs, and though he’s still too worked up to admit it, he knows in the back of his mind that she’s right. Yet he straightens his spine, unwilling to back down from her so easily. “I don’t need that pup to remind me of the duty of House Stark and our bannermen who have already sworn an oath to his mother,” he states through gritted teeth, placing a bucket of water down with enough force that water sloshes over the sides, drenching his boots.
“Brother, you judge him too harshly. Father swore that oath. And yes, perhaps the Targaryens don’t understand what father’s word means to you and the North.” He lets out a shaky breath with the mention of their father, but she pushes on calmly. “But you would do well to remember that he’s here because of his duty to his mother and his house, just as it’s your duty to receive him, listen to him, and to negotiate with him on behalf of your house and the North.” Her voice has become even more patient and gentle, trying to coax him out of his perceived temper tantrum. It bristles him, how she can unwind him so expertly, but it does endear her more to him knowing that she learned her tactics from their father. She crosses her arms and leans against the kennel wall, her face giving away that she knows she’s won.
Their eyes are locked for a few moments, and then he lets out a sigh, admitting too that he’s been defeated. “Alright, alright. I’ll hear what he has to say over supper tonight,” he concedes, rubbing the back of his neck and breaking their shared gaze.
She gives him the same smile she wears when she finally convinces Rickon to eat the peas in his steak and kidney pie. A smile tugs at his lips, but he does roll his eyes at her for treating him like her three year old nephew. No wonder Rickon avoids her eyes when he doesn’t want to listen to her.
“And you’ll be a kind and gracious host to our royal guest ,” she finishes for him, patting his arm.
“You’re insufferable,” he grumbles, but he lets out a chuckle too, and she appears delighted. “Aye,” he agrees, “we’ll give him a taste of northern hospitality .” Though her expression shows that she knows he’s teasing, she still gives him a pointed look.
“You’ll show him true northern hospitality, or you’ll not hear the end of it,” she threatens playfully, jabbing her finger into his bicep, making him wince. Cregan has known his sister for two and twenty years, and though her tone is light, he knows when she means what she says.
“You have my word,” he huffs, gently shoving her out of his way, as any older brother would, so he can exit the kennel. She returns a playful shove from behind him, as any younger sister would, and he grins at her over his shoulder as they make their way out of the kennels, and back inside to the warmth.
—
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace sits down in a stiff armchair by the fire, finally cleaned and redressed, and waits for his wet curls to dry before Maester Selmond arrives to escort him to dinner. He’s rehearsing diplomatic lines and arguments in his head, having a feeling that Lord Stark won’t make his task easy. Oaths have been sworn, duty comes before all else, the realm needs to be united as one, he repeats in his mind. All of these arguments suddenly sound hollow and feeble. They’re true, but he imagines the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North will find it insulting that Jace feels the need to say these words aloud. He chews on his bottom lip, trying to think of more clever points to make.
He stands, hoping, a little desperately, that pacing about the room might help. He looks around with a sigh, and notices for the first time the tapestries hung on the far wall, framing the room’s singular window. The tapestries have scenes of mounted knights galloping in snow, and large wolves running ahead of them; undoubtedly the same direwolves that match the one holding Lord Stark’s cloak together. He walks over to have a closer look, and admires the tight weaving and blending of colorful thread. The tapestries are indeed expertly made, and likely practical for keeping in warmth for it’s noticeably colder on this side of the room. Bright red catches his eye from beyond the window. The room, he realizes, overlooks the keep’s godswood and a weirwood tree. The bright red leaves of the tree stand out against the gray castle walls and windswept landscape beyond. The weirwood tree is an important symbol to the families throughout the Seven Kingdoms that still worship the old gods, as House Stark has from time immemorial. Or so he had been taught in his formative years by a slew of maesters. Perhaps a visit to the godswood might do him good, for he needs all the help that he can get.
The door on the far side of the room suddenly opens, and Jace spins around to see a child bouncing into the room.
“Dragon outside!” a little boy shouts with delight.
“Rickon!” comes a booming voice, and then Lord Stark rushes into the room after the child. “My apologies, my prince, my son has been impatient to meet you and has forgotten his manners,” the lord says, scooping up the child into his arms while clearly trying to hide his embarrassment behind his son’s small frame. Jace realizes the boy is his father in miniature, for he has the same wavy brown hair and gray eyes.
Jace laughs lightly, trying to calm his pounding heart. “Please don’t apologize, my lord, I have four younger brothers. I’m quite used to the excitement of little ones,” he says, grinning at Rickon, who grins back for a moment before bashfully hiding his face in his father’s shoulder.
“Ah, four younger brothers is quite a handful,” Lord Stark comments, and he can see the man visibly relax his shoulders, seemingly grateful that Jace isn’t upset.
“Yes, I never have a moment’s rest,” he agrees warmly, hoping to put the lord at ease even more. The child has done no harm, and he would like to put whatever exchange he and Lord Stark had in the courtyard behind them.
“Aye, and with this one too – not much peace to be had,” the lord says with a wearisome look at his son, but then he playfully jostles the boy in his arms, making the child giggle out “Papa!”
“Would you like to meet my dragon?” Jace asks the little boy, before he can stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. His feet move him a step closer to the lord and his son, but this only makes his heart beat rapidly again.
Rickon’s head swivels around to look at him, and a grin spreads across his face. “Yes! Meet big dragon,” he exclaims with delight, clapping his little hands together.
“Alright then,” Jaces says, grinning back, “but only if your papa says yes and if you finish all of your supper.”
Rickon considers Jace’s offer for a moment with a little tilt of his head. “Okay!” he agrees, scrambling down out of his father’s arms and back out the way he came.
The Lord of Winterfell laughs as he watches his son go. The laugh is gentle, and Jace can tell that it’s full of affection. It reminds him of the way his father – his real father, Harwin Strong – used to laugh when his sons found themselves in some kind mischief. The memory of his late father brings forth a pang in his heart, but he tries to push the pain away and concentrate on the man in front of him. When he turns his attention back to Jace, they both seem to realize that they are now grinning at one another. A moment – a rapid heartbeat on Jace’s part – passes before Lord Stark breaks their gaze and looks off to his left at the fire crackling in the hearth. Jace bites at his lip again, trying to compose himself.
“The same argument my mother used to make when my brothers wanted to see their dragons. Worked every time,” he states quietly, and the lord looks back at him, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“A wise woman,” Cregan Stark says gently, and it warms him when he realizes the lord’s words appear kind and genuine. They look at each other for another moment – smoky eyes searching his face before the man speaks again.
“Thank you for your kindness towards my son, my prince.” And now it’s Jace who ducks his head, feeling almost as bashful as the young boy in question.
“Of course, my lord, he reminds me of my littlest brothers. They’re a bright spot in my life,” he confesses, and he’s not sure why he’s telling the lord this, but the words seem to rush out of him.
“You must miss them,” Lord Stark murmurs. Jace looks up again, and notices how the fire dances golden against the man’s eyes.
“I do… I don’t know what I'd do without my brothers. They mean a great deal to me,” he replies gently, and he feels another tug at his heart as he thinks of them, so far away.
Lord Stark nods, but Jace sees his expression fall a bit. He assumes he’s probably said something foolish again, but before he can apologize, the lord speaks again. “Supper is ready. If you’d follow me, my prince.” He opens the door wider and Jace gives him a smile before following him. Despite Jace’s perceived misstep, the lord gives him a small smile in return.
—
Cregan Stark
The exchange with the prince about brothers, and Rickon’s antics, have made him feel off-balanced, and Cregan tries to steel himself as he steps down the spiral staircase that leads to the floor below his family’s sleeping quarters, to their private dining room. He can feel Prince Jacaerys following closely behind. He must get a grip, for if the heir to the Iron Throne decides to make demands of Cregan and his men, he must be ready. He lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
When he walks through the doorway to the dining room, Cregan sees servants bustling around the long, wooden table, placing food and pouring ale and wine. They notice him and cease their activities at once to bow in his direction. He’s momentarily taken aback, for the servants don’t usually act this way. But then he remembers that their bows aren’t for him, but for the prince who’s stepped through the doorway behind him. Prince Jacaerys stops next to him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the man’s cheeks redden.
“My prince, welcome,” Sara greets cheerfully, standing from where she sits next to Rickon, who’s fidgeting in his seat while playing with a wooden wolf. Cregan has never been more glad for his sister’s presence. “A place has been set for you just here,” she gestures to the seat across the table from her and Rickon.
“Thank you, my lady,” the prince says, inclining his head in her direction, and then he leaves Cregan’s side. Cregan freezes to his spot at hearing his sister referred to as ‘my lady’ by royalty. The prince mustn’t be aware of her birth, as southerners wouldn’t dare to show a bastard such respect. He’ll have to correct the prince’s mistake, but at another time. Not in front of Sara.
Cregan sees Sara smile at the prince as a servant assists him with his chair, and then she turns her eyes to Cregan, giving him a silent look that he knows all too well. She breaks through his thoughts to remind him that he once again looks ridiculous standing there, staring at them all.
He shifts uncomfortably, and looks at his feet before running his hand across the stubble on his cheeks. He releases a breath, and then lets his feet carry him around Sara and Rickon to sit at the head of the table, between his family and Prince Jacaerys. He makes a point not to meet the eyes of the prince who’s watching his every move. He must get a grip, and fast. What is it about this man that’s unnerved him so much?
A servant helps Cregan settle into his seat as well, which is unpracticed for both of them, and it shows as his calves bump against the chair. “Thank you, Bowdwyn” he mutters to the servant, who bows his head and then hurries to the other end of the table to tend to the food.
Cregan clears his throat. “May I offer you wine, Prince Jacaerys? Or ale?” He’s still not met the man’s eyes.
The prince pauses for a moment, and then decides on ale. Bowdwyn hurries back over to pour the amber liquid into a cup at the prince’s side. The prince takes a large first sip, and then instantly sputters and coughs, and Cregan is sure it’s because he’s used to drinking only wine grown in southern lands.
Rickon giggles, but Cregan gives his son a sharp look and the boy shrinks back into his chair a bit, suddenly interested in his toy again.
“My apologies,” the prince says, his voice rising a bit from embarrassment. Cregan finally looks at him only to see that the man’s cheeks have reddened again. “I’m not used to drinking such fine ale,” the prince admits, and he gives them a sheepish smile, before tucking his chin to chest. Cregan notices how delicate his eye lashes look as they brush against his cheeks. He feels his heart skip a beat and his own cheeks flush at the sudden thought, and he tries to ignore it by taking a sip of the ale that has already been poured for him. Bowdwyn knows he prefers ale over wine.
“Please don’t apologize, my prince,” Sara soothes. “In fact, dear brother, didn’t you have the same reaction the first time father let you drink a northern ale?” she muses, clearly trying to lighten the awkward moment.
“Aye, I believe you’re right, dear sister,” he agrees, but it comes out rushed and a little flustered, and he finds all he can do is look into his cup and tug at his tunic. He feels her eyes on him, and knows she’s wondering what’s gotten into him now. He takes a breath. “It takes practice, my prince,” and then turns to the man, “but don’t worry, we mayhaps make a northerner of you yet.”
Prince Jacaerys laughs at that, brown eyes twinkling and dark curls dancing as he shakes his head. He raises his cup to Cregan before taking another smaller, more careful sip. No coughs.
“Aye, there we are,” Cregan teases lightly with a nod of approval. When he lifts his own cup of ale again he catches the prince smiling in his direction. It makes him want to fidget in his chair, not unlike his son.
“I hope you’re finding your accommodations to your liking, Prince Jacaerys?” Sara asks, as the servants begin ladling venison stew into their bowls. Rickon pauses for a moment from playing with his toy to take a piece of bread and dip it into his stew. Sara doesn’t look away from the prince as she pushes Rickon’s bowl closer to the boy so he doesn’t drip food onto his lap.
“Yes, Lady Sara, thank you. They’re most agreeable. The tapestries on the walls are splendid to study up close,” the prince replies before reaching for a piece of bread too.
“Aye, our brother enjoyed those tapestries as well. Used to say he was going to grow up to be one of the warriors in his bedroom,” Cregan shares, but the memory of his late younger brother, Brandon, makes his heart clench as it had when he stood in the boy’s room, discussing missing brothers with the prince.
“That was your brother’s room?” Prince Jacaerys asks gently, looking at each sibling.
“Aye, my prince, Brandon. He passed away a number of years ago now,” Sara replies gently, but she’s eyeing Cregan whose emotions must’ve shown on his face. He takes a breath and tucks his spoon into his bowl of stew. What’s going on with him? Smiling like a fool one moment, feeling sad and nostalgic another. He’s the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. And a prince sits before him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prince Jacaerys says, and he sounds sincere. It makes Cregan’s heart flutter again, and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably.
Sara opens her mouth to reply, but Cregan quickly cuts her off, preferring to steer the conversation away from their brother. “You mentioned that you have younger brothers as well, my prince. Are they much younger than you?” he asks, quickly glancing at the prince before looking back down at his meal.
“Yes, my lord, the two littlest ones are. They are my half-brothers – Aegon is six and Viserys is four. My other two brothers are closer in age to me. Lucerys is three years younger than me, at seven and ten, and Joffrey is three and ten,” the prince explains, and then takes a bite of his stew. “This is quite delicious, my lady,” he comments, smiling at Sara. She returns a warm smile before turning to wipe Rickon’s face as stew dribbles down his chin.
So he’s twenty. Closer to his own age of six and twenty than he would have guessed. He looks up at the ceiling for a moment, wondering why on earth the prince’s age should matter to him. To fend off his intrusive thoughts, Cregan decides he should push the prince closer to the business of why he’s here, and what that business would mean for House Stark and his bannermen. “And what have the maesters in the South taught you and your brothers of the North?” He tries to keep his tone light, but he’s not sure he succeeds.
Prince Jacaerys pauses the spoon traveling to his mouth, and replaces it in his bowl, sitting even straighter in his chair. A prince, indeed.
“We’ve been taught a great deal about the North, my lord,” he replies quickly, but his tone is even. He thinks the younger man must’ve practiced a line similar to that many times. Cregan inclines his head to indicate for the prince to continue, and then rips a piece of bread to swipe through his stew.
“For instance, I know that the First Men inhabited these lands for many centuries, and the blood of the First Men still runs through the veins of many northern families. And that the old gods are still worshiped by those same families,” he looks at each sibling, and Sara nods her head politely, but Cregan can feel her eyes flick to him.
The prince continues. “And it’s said that the wall of ice above your lands–” he looks to Cregan “–is six hundred feet high and infused with magic.”
Cregan looks at the dragon prince again, brown eyes meeting his own with confidence, and feels himself bristle at the prince’s profession of knowledge. “Aye, our ancestors did build the Wall with some kind of magic – and I’m sure a bit of blood and sweat too – until it reached seven hundred feet high. Most formidable at that height, I think,” he corrects the prince, and he feels Sara’s eyes sending daggers his way. Still, he locks eyes with the prince, suddenly feeling much the way he did in the courtyard. The younger man’s jaw flexes, and he sits back in his chair, clearly a bit embarrassed, but surprisingly, not backing down from his sparring partner by keeping his eyes fixed on Cregan.
“Come now, brother, do you know how many rocks are on Dragonstone or how many bricks make up the Red Keep?” Sara interjects, trying to grab Cregan’s attention. Why must she never be on his side? He clenches his jaw now, but then the prince speaks again.
“Perhaps,” Jacareys says, slowly, “the maesters didn’t teach my brothers and I as much as they should have.”
Cregan sits back in his chair as well, and takes a sip of his ale, still not looking away from the younger man. Prince Jacaerys’ confession defuses some of the frustration that Cregan hasn’t been able to shake, not entirely, since they first came face to face.
“But I wish to learn more,” the prince admits, “and correctly.” He mirrors Cregan, and sips his ale, his dark curls falling forward around his face. Cregan can feel Sara’s eyes dart back and forth between the two of them. “And who better to instruct me than the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North,” Prince Jacaerys finishes gently, and Cregan doesn’t miss the significance of the prince’s chose words. Like he’s offering both a white flag and a challenge to Cregan.
“Aye, I can teach you, my prince,” Cregan concedes, never one to back down from a challenge, but not wishing to escalate the conversation any further either. “Tomorrow, we’ll ride out for a hunt and begin your education anew.” He pushes the challenge and peace offering back across the table to the prince. In the back of his mind, a voice is begging the younger man to accept. He tries to ignore it.
“Thank you, my lord. A hunt and your knowledge would be most appreciated,” the prince replies graciously, inclining his head in Cregan’s direction.
Cregan nods, and tries to ignore the way his stomach flips as the dragon prince’s brown eyes find his own again, and he gives the older man a small smile.