Archive of Our Own

Jace has been in the North for all of two weeks when he gets The Phone Call. He flies home immediately for the funeral, then spends all of two days (fifty hours, to be exact) at Dragonstone before his mother sends him back. “You’ve been doing a wonderful job with those northern landowners,” she tells him, hands cupping his cheeks like he’s a kid again, “and this is a very time-sensitive project.”

She’s not unsympathetic about it. She drops him off at the airport with poorly-hidden tears (there’s been a lot of those lately) and a hug that lasts a little too long, and Jace knows sending him away is a sacrifice, a need rather than a want, so he keeps his own emotions in check until he walks back through the front door of his apartment and just…breaks down.

Being home had been unbearable. Everything just as he’d left it in his temporary move, the entire house exactly as it had been, and yet the door to Luke’s room stayed firmly shut. Jace had stayed up, waiting to hear him get water from the kitchen like he does — did — every night near two AM. Silence instead. Luke’s gross oatmeal, the one nobody else in the family ever touched, was still in the pantry: Jace made himself a bowl one morning, hated it as much as he remembered, then ate every last bite. Home was full of empty space that should have been occupied by a lively nineteen year-old kid, but this northern apartment with the two-month sublease and crappy furniture was just void of…everything. The little comfort Jace had been able to glean from being in a familiar space, from being with his family, was gone.

He sits on the floor with his back against his front door and cries until he can’t anymore, but the aftermath is even worse because then he’s just sitting there staring blankly at the armchair across the living room with a pounding headache and a yawning pit in his stomach. At some interminable point he summons the energy to move to the damn chair, where the change of scenery is apparently too much because the tears start again. 

He eventually falls asleep, waking up at a quarter-to-ten thinking he slept through his alarm before he remembers that it’s Saturday and Luke’s still fucking dead. He drags his exhausted carcass to bed and sleeps the day away until Sunday morning dawns; wakes up starving, finds he’s fresh out of food, and is pleasantly surprised by the idea that leaving his apartment and interacting with people sounds tolerable. Not enticing, exactly, but if he has to stare at the empty walls of his bedroom for another full day he really might go insane. 

In a town as small and remote as this, Jace knows gossip spreads quickly. He’d informed the landowners he’s been working with that he was leaving for a funeral — mostly because he hadn’t been in the headspace to come up with any kind of lie — and four days later, it’s almost a given that the entire town knows. Despite this, Lyarra at the grocery checkout just greets him with the same “Howdy, city boy” as always, while his sullen next-door neighbor Therik walks past with the same regard he’d give a fly on the wall… par for the course, with him. Jace is living the Unemotional Northerner stereotype in real time, and he finds he really doesn't mind it.

On Monday, business is as usual with Marga Bolton, the wealthy widow whose land makes up the biggest portion of the Targaryen Conservancy’s new acquisition. The normality of work helps until he gets back to his apartment and calls Baela, where the tears start again the moment he hears her voice. More sister than cousin, she feels Luke’s loss just as keenly as he does, and they both talk about their days through persistent sniffles that occasionally break into borderline-hysterical laughter. Tuesday is all paperwork and no meetings, so rather than trap himself in the four dingy walls of his own place he decides to take his briefcase down to Brandon’s Diner where he works from a corner booth all afternoon. Wednesday starts out fine for about twenty minutes, until he realizes it’s officially been a week since The Phone Call. Jace gets to call himself one week older while Luke’s the exact same age he’ll be for the rest of eternity. 

That thought drives Jace to the only bar in town.

Never much of a drinker, he only went to The Smoking Log twice during his first few weeks in Winterfell. It’s a dive bar in every sense of the word. The handful of tables are always sticky, the lighting is never set above “slight visibility” (in part due to several burnt-out bulbs), and there’s a shotgun mounted behind the bar for emergencies . The first time he’d ordered a drink, the big guy behind the bar had raked him over with a gaze so discerning Jace had flushed to the tips of his ears. He’d either deemed Jace legal or decided he didn’t care enough either way because he never asked for an ID, and a few minutes’ conversation with a regular had told Jace several pieces of useful information: bartender’s name is Cregan, yes he’s always like that, no you can’t pay with a credit card.

Jace hops onto a rickety stool at the half-empty bar and orders a whiskey and Coke. Foul, but…whatever. At some point in the interim he must have zoned out because next thing he knows, he’s being jolted from his reverie by the rap of metal against wood. It turns out to be Cregan’s heavy silver rings knocking against the bar top, and as Jace drags his gaze up from the offending knuckles he finds Cregan eyeballing him with something akin to impatience.

“Welcome back,” he says with a nod to Jace’s drink. “You want that open or closed?”

“The whiskey?” he asks dumbly, still unbelievably out of it.

“Your tab,” Cregan corrects, and though his voice is as stern as ever, Jace sees the miniscule, amused twitch in one corner of his mouth and almost passes out on the spot. He’s not even drunk yet, the guy’s just…

“Open, please.”

Cregan’s only response to that is to silently turn away.

Jace distracts himself from misery with liquor and conversation, lending an old local his ear for a while, but once the guy leaves his new distraction becomes Cregan. Despite his imposing first impression, he’s more receptive to conversation than Jace expects, and when he finally heads out just before midnight, the bartender’s “Get home safe, kid,” actually sounds a little bit genuine. Jace is out like a light the moment his head hits the pillow, his sleep more untroubled than he’s had all week. The offer of such oblivion is tempting, night after night, but countless memories tainted by Aegon’s alcohol-sodden presence keep Jace away from the bar (from any bottle, as a matter of fact) for the next few days.

Until Saturday night, at least, when he calls Baela and she chatters about a dinner she has with friends, how she wasn’t sure about going but Rhaena convinced her and it’ll be so good to get out of the house and see people besides family. Jace, stuck in a small Northern town with neither family nor friends to speak of, wishes her a good night and hangs up in the silence of his apartment.

Rather than mope, he heats himself some leftovers, eats them on the couch while half-watching a Bracken Bunch rerun, and then tugs on shoes and a coat and wanders the two blocks over to The Smoking Log. The place is a little more lively on a Saturday night, bar and tables both at half-capacity, the jukebox in the corner cranking out tunes that have to be from Jahaerys’ day while two old guys occupy the sole billiards table. Jace has found rural Northerners, for all their stubborn pride, to be exceedingly welcoming once he made it clear he isn’t here to mock their weirwood gods or take their land from under their feet. The locals are eccentric to be sure, but they’re also sociable, possessed of a bone-dry humor that Jace is always slow to pick up on, and they’re far better company than the four walls of his apartment.

Last call goes out at twelve-fifty on the dot. Jace gets up with the rest of the bar guests, but he only has one arm through a coat sleeve when Cregan pauses in front of him and says, “Stay, if you like. I could use the company while I close up.”

Jace is at the point of drunkenness where his faculties are operating just a little bit slower than usual. He freezes with his coat half-on, wondering if he even heard the guy correctly before Cregan admits, “Not exactly a lot of young people in this town. I get tired of spending my time with all the greybeards.”

It’s late and he’s in a town full of strangers. Going home would be the smarter decision, rather than staying up at odd hours with a guy he doesn’t even know, but Cregan’s looking at him like he genuinely wants him to stay and Jace is in the process of developing a weakness for those slate-gray eyes, so…

He sits back down. His drink is empty but the glass feels cool and smooth on his liquor-warmed skin, and he holds onto it while Cregan closes up shop. “How old are you?” he finds himself asking suddenly, unsure why he cares but curious all the same.

Cregan straightens up from where he’s rifling through a cabinet, facing Jace with a faint furrow between his brows. “How old do you think I am?”

Recognizing a challenge when he sees it, Jace squints up at him. He takes the opportunity that’s being offered on a silver platter, letting his eyes roam over every inch of his face with impunity as he taps his chin in thought. Cregan’s tall and broad, his hair cut in a shoulder-length style that’s exceedingly common in the north. The prominent lines of his brow and the stern set of his mouth offer Jace no clues, and although there’s something decidedly world-weary in that flinty gaze, no wrinkles line the corners of his eyes. At first glance Jace might’ve said thirty, but the longer he looks the more he realizes Cregan can’t be much older than his own twenty-three years.

“Twenty-five,” he finally hazards, thinking he’s probably stared at the guy for long enough.

Cregan’s brows shoot up. “Close,” he says, sounding surprised, “but I’m twenty-six.”

“Do people usually think you’re older?”

Frown deepening, Cregan questions, “Why? Do I look older?”

Jace flounders for maybe five seconds trying to come up with a response to that, but before he can find a way to either convincingly deny or apologize, Cregan’s stormy expression breaks apart into a smile. Not a half-smile, not a faint muscle spasm that could pass for amused, but a real, toothy grin, and seven hells is it gorgeous. He laughs too, low and rich, and Jace only halfway cares that it’s at his expense.

“Oh, stow it,” he grouses, but his irritation obviously isn’t convincing because Cregan’s still chuckling as he turns back to his tasks. 

It takes Cregan maybe fifteen more minutes to close down the place and kick Jace out, but it’s a nicer fifteen minutes than Jace has had since he arrived in Winterfell. Cregan offers him a ride home and Jace’s sole survival instinct kicks back in just in time to politely refuse. His excuse isn’t a total lie — the fresh air does do him some good, and he spends the walk home giddy, feeling like a kid who just made a new friend on the playground.

The next week crawls by. Every day that Jace adds a red X to his calendar makes him another day older than Luke, which is extremely upsetting to think about so he tries not to. He goes back to The Smoking Log twice more, but he starts ordering soda more often than anything alcoholic because heading down the same path that their despised uncle did feels like the surest way to get Luke rolling in his grave. It’s weird and alienating, trying to muddle through his grief surrounded by people who don’t even know him, but it’s also somehow easier: nobody’s walking on eggshells or giving him pitying looks even though the small-town gossip mill runs ceaselessly and they all probably know he’s lost someone.

Fifteen days out from The Phone Call and four-and-a-half weeks into his time in Winterfell, Jace finally meets Cregan outside his place of work. He’s at the grocery store with a basket full of essentials, turns a corner and practically runs right into his cart. The first thing Jace notices, actually, is the baby; a cute, chubby thing with a full head of dark curls. “Sorry!” he says on instinct, then, “Cute kid, by the way,” then he actually looks at the guy pushing the cart and says, “Oh, shit. Hey.”

“Jace,” Cregan greets, not really smiling but not looking quite as stern as usual.

Feeling a little awkward and unsure how to act around an acquaintance, Jace turns his attention to the baby instead and gives him a wave and a smile.

“That’s my son, Rickon,” Cregan says, and so Jace gives the kid another smile and says “Hi, Rickon.” Rickon just stares back with the widest, grayest eyes Jace has ever seen.

Blindsided, (a baby ?)  Jace is trying to come up with something intelligent to say to the actual adult when Cregan beats him to the punch. “There’s a festival in town tonight for Mar Skyrros Dag. Sara, Rickon and I were all going to head down together if you’d like to join us.”

The name Sara sounds vaguely familiar, like something he’s heard in passing before, but the previously unheard-of child and… well, not wife, because Cregan has no ring, but…girlfriend? is enough of a surprise that the second bombshell hits with a delayed reaction: Cregan is asking him to spend time together. Voluntarily.

Huh. Maybe he’s closer to upgrading from acquaintance to friend than he thought.

“Is that a religious thing, or…”

Cregan shrugs. “It’s a celebration of the old religion, yes, but it’s more an excuse to gather the community than anything.” He tilts his head, considering. “Our gods are more secular than your Seven, and they don’t care much about who joins in their festivities.”

They’re not really Jace’s Seven seeing as he’s not particularly religious, but rather than argue a moot point, he nods a little bit too enthusiastically and says, “Yeah. I’d love to.”

That’s how he ends up in the backseat of Cregan’s ancient car with a ten-month-old strapped in next to him. Sara’s up front, her hair blowing in the frigid breeze from the open window as she chatters about her day. She’s very pretty, and very nice, and very much the extrovert to Cregan’s stoic silences. It turns out she works for the auto shop, mostly doing their bookkeeping, and the early hours allow her to get home for Rickon before Cregan has to leave for nighttimes at the Smoking Log. “Kids are a full-time job,” she laughs, turning to give Rickon a fond smile. In the rearview mirror, Cregan’s eyes crinkle at the corners with what Jace knows to be a more subdued  smile of his own.

“Don’t I know it,” Jace laughs, “I’ve got f—”

Four younger brothers. When would that stop being habit to say?

Biting down on his words with too much force, he can’t quite manage a smooth recovery. “Uh, a lot of family,” he says after a loaded pause, watching Cregan’s eyes flicker to him in the mirror’s little rectangle.  “Brothers, half-brothers, young cousins. Every family holiday looks like a daycare.”

Sara laughs, soft and clear. “We’re a small little unit here, just the three of us. I don’t know if I envy or pity having a family that size.” There’s a heaviness underlying her joke, like maybe they weren’t always just three, but before it can stifle the mood she’s reaching over the gearshift to jostle Cregan. “ Somebody enjoys pointing out to me how father’s old place could ‘always accommodate one more.’” She lowers her voice in obvious mockery of Cregan, who scoffs.

“I don’t sound like that. Besides, what’s the point of hanging onto the big farmhouse if it's so empty all the time?”

Obviously engaging in a well-versed argument, Sara rolls her eyes. “Well it’s not for lack of interest. Winterfell isn’t exactly a nexus for attractive young singles.”

Wait, what?

Cregan volleys back a jab about lowering standards that Jace barely hears. “You’re not—” Jace starts, but the question dies on his tongue as Sara twists in her seat to look at him and he catches her exasperated expression. The hard line of her lips, the faint uptick in her brows that conveys so much emotion with so little movement…it’s not aimed at him, of course, but it is identical to a look Jace has been on the receiving end of a dozen times over.

“Not what?” Sara asks, her irritation melting into curiosity. Not together was Jace’s original question, but now that she’s looking fully at him for the first time, he can’t unsee the resemblance. Dark hair, silvered eyes, even the same sharp bump of the nose bridge…

Rather than admit to thinking (however briefly) that Cregan’s sister was the mother of his child, Jace backtracks. “You guys live together?”

“Aye. I had an apartment above the hardware store for a while, but I moved back to the farmhouse almost a year ago.” A weighted glance tells Jace there’s more to the story, but neither sibling elaborates as Cregan pulls his car into a huge, bustling gravel lot. Jace isn’t overly familiar with the town outside of his apartment and the two decaying blocks that comprise Main Street, but he easily recognizes where they are by the sign announcing “Enjoy your long weekend Direwolves!”

Winterfell’s middle and high schools sit a short distance beyond Main Street, separated by two sports fields (more dirt than grass), a small set of bleachers, and the gravel parking lot. Northerners are piling out of cars to their left and right, shouting after rambunctious children and hurriedly pulling on gloves and hats and outer layers to combat the late autumn chill. In the middle of the fields amidst the bustle of food stands and townspeople stands a wooden replica weirwood nearly twenty feet tall, red lights draped over white-painted branches in a vivid imitation of the tree’s bloody-hued leaves.

Cregan’s upper half disappears into the backseat of the station wagon as Sara points out the green-clad couple leaning close to the thick trunk. “They’re meant to be Children of the forest,” she tells Jace, “carving the weirwood’s face.” Jace spends a moment trying to make out what the figures are painting, squinting through the colorful lighting, and by the time he gives up Cregan has emerged from the car with a bundled-up Rickon strapped on like a backpack. The sight is unbelievably endearing. Cregan only gestures with his head before striding off towards the fields, his broad figure silhouetted in red, and Jace watches him go for a long moment and clamps down hard on the funny feeling that bubbles up in his chest.

“Ready?” Sara asks from over his shoulder, startling him. She’s giving him a look that’s a little too knowing for his taste, her eyes following his gaze to her brother before landing back on him, but for his own peace of mind Jace decides to ignore that in favor of following after Cregan.

The festival is nice. Certainly good fun for a night, if nothing particularly elaborate. Jace challenges Cregan to a round of ring toss, a move he quickly regrets though he gets his comeuppance on the miniature lawn bowling with two strikes in a row. The three of them amble around, bouncing from food vendors to games and back again, Cregan and Sara passing Rickon between them as the need arises. Sara soundly trumps Cregan on the miniature golf green (all three holes of it), a loss that Cregan attributes to the twenty-pound handicap strapped to his back. Jace, the unbiased spectator, doesn’t quite believe Rickon was to blame, but he offers to hold the kid while they rematch because of the pure entertainment value in watching Cregan lose at mini golf.

It’s during that second round that Rickon begins to fuss. Jace moves him from back to chest so he can carefully bounce him, recalling what often worked to settle Joff and little Viserys, and it does the job well enough. He really is a cute kid, and surprisingly well-mannered considering the late night he’s having.

“You’re a quiet thing,” Jace murmurs in High Valyrian, “The egg must not hatch far from the nest.” Rickon makes a babbling noise that sounds vaguely like agreement and Jace laughs aloud, finally glancing up from those big, uncomprehending eyes to find another pair fixed on him — Backlit by the red of the weirwood lights, Cregan’s face is entirely unreadable. Jace wonders for a moment if he’s done something wrong, but the bright flash of teeth in Sara’s otherwise darkened face tells him that she, at least, is grinning, wide and lupine.

“Is he getting tired?”

“A little, I think,” Jace says, adjusting Rickon’s knit hat to sit more securely over his ears.

Leaning his putter against the final hole’s flag, Cregan moves closer. He stoops to bring his face closer to Rickon (and Jace, by extension, which is…not of consequence), gently tucks one stray curl up under the thick yarn and says, “Time for bed, little one?”

Materializing at Jace’s shoulder for the second time that night, Sara interjects, “It’s not even ten yet. I work early tomorrow, so I can get him home if you both want to stay a little longer.”

Her demeanor is all innocence but Cregan cocks his head in what looks like a warning. Her smile ticks up and his brows go down in a silent conversation that Jace isn’t privy to. “We only have the one car,” Cregan eventually says, final, like the closing statement of an otherwise wordless debate.

“My place isn’t far from here,” Jace offers before his brain can stop his mouth. “I could drive you home, no problem.”

The siblings turn to him with matching surprised expressions. Cregan fully looks like he’s going to say no, which makes it all the more unusual when he returns a quiet “okay” instead.

“Okay,” Sara echoes, sounding suspiciously chipper. “Keys?” Despite standing less than an arm’s length away, Cregan throws the car keys. She catches them deftly, pockets them, and says, “Nephew?” Chuckling, Jace slips his arms free of the straps and surrenders Rickon. “Thank you kindly. Have a good night!” By the time Jace formulates a goodbye, she’s already gone.

Huh.

He wants to inquire what that was all about, but before he can Cregan shoves his hands deep in his pockets and asks, “You ever try a fried honey cake?” No, he has not, but this is easily remedied by one of the vendors along the edge of the field.

Stuffed full of food and growing weary of lawn games, they wander side-by-side over to the big weirwood. Its face is beautifully rendered in a grotesque sort of way, looking just as gory as the real dripping, crimson sap ever does. Close as they are, Jace can see paper leaves dangling from the lowest branches, hundreds set stirring in the breeze, edges whispering against each other too quietly to be heard over the sounds of celebration.

“Do these serve any purpose?” he wonders aloud, squinting up at them. Receiving only silence in response, he looks around for any sign of Cregan and finds he’s still right next to him, too close not to have heard except every ounce of the man’s attention is trained on the red paper leaf in his hand. Stunned into silence by the sorrow on Cregan’s face, Jace can only watch as he pulls a small object — a pen — from one pocket and writes two words that Jace can’t quite make out. He starts walking, leaf still in hand, but he only gets about three steps before he stops, turns back to Jace, and jerks his chin impatiently as if to say, you coming?

Utterly confused by the turn the night has taken, Jace follows without a word as Cregan makes his way over to a merrily-burning fire. Set a good distance from the wood-and-paper tree and constrained within bricks and bare dirt, the fire is unattended yet far from dangerous. Cregan stands over it for a long moment, watching the flames, before he holds his leaf out and tilts it in a way that the light catches.

There, in a neat, cramped hand, is a name. Arra Norrey-Stark. Jace looks at the name, then at Cregan, then back at the name as realization dawns. 

Sara’s comment about just the three of them and moving back to the family house almost a year ago. Rickon, who’s not far off from his first birthday. Cregan’s bare left ring finger…

The leaf falls. It hangs for a moment, suspended on the hot currents, before twirling down to its quick, fiery demise. The moment the paper becomes nothing but gray ash, the full force of Cregan’s attention is turned towards Jace, leaping shadows lending life and movement to his otherwise impassive face.

“Could I—” Jace cuts himself off. These are not his gods, nor his tradition.

But Cregan’s eyes soften at the corners. “I thought I told you, Jace. The old gods’ ears open for any who are willing to speak.”

Well hell if Jace isn’t feeling open-minded these days — in trying times, comfort can come from the oddest of places.

So he wanders back to the weirwood alone, reaches on his toes and plucks a leaf and returns to the fire where Cregan offers him a pen. Their hands brush as Jace takes it.

Lucerys

He thinks for a long moment about borrowed names and borrowed love, dead fathers and stepfathers and how many pairs of arms once cradled them and called them mine. 

Lucerys Strong-Velaryon.

He tilts the leaf so Cregan can read it, then lets go.

The walk back to Jace’s apartment is silent. Not awkward, more so…tired. The chill has finally gotten to him, seeping through his layers after so many hours outside, though Cregan remains unbothered even with half the amount of clothes. Northern blood, Jace supposes.

They talk more in the car, sporadic conversations about Jace’s work interspersed with directions from Cregan. He lives farther out of town than Jace had realized, the road growing more perilous as they go. Clearly denoted lanes disappear, and asphalt gives way to gravel that crunches under his tires. Eventually the radio cuts out into static, so Jace just turns it off and asks into the ensuing silence, “You ever consider moving closer to town?”

“No. The farmhouse has been in my family since the place actually was a farm, and I don’t intend to be the end of that.”

“How long ago was that?”

Cregan shakes his head. “A hundred years? My great-grandfather Torrhen sold most of our property when prospectors came through, buying up land and telling everyone they’d pay them by the pound for any silver they found. Never did, of course.” Silence stretches for a long second before Cregan asks, “You know what company name is on all those old deeds?”

“Should I?” Jace asks, feeling as though he probably should.

“Targaryen.”

Cregan’s looking at him, he can tell, and he’s suddenly glad for the dark, winding road that occupies his own attention. There’s nothing he can do about the sins of his ancestors, about the thievery committed by men dead long before his time, but it’s still uncomfortable. “I assure you that’s not what we’re doing here now,” he says, two fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm on the steering wheel.

“I know,” Cregan replies. Though still iron-hard, his tone sounds more mild than it had a moment ago, more like his usual gruff self. “You should know that Northern memories are long, Jace. Likely the only reason you’ve been accepted in this town is through word-of-mouth from our own.”

Unable to help himself, Jace jokes, “I suppose that means old Marga Bolton only has nice things to say?”

From his right he hears a sharp exhale that could almost pass for amusement. When he takes his eyes off the road long enough to glance over, the faintest shade of a smile has settled on Cregan’s lips. “Fortunately for you, yes.”

Jace’s laughter comes out in a short, sharp bark. “You don’t think I could get by on my own?” he teases. He’s pushing it, he knows he is, testing these new, open waters between them with, “I’ve been told I’m a charmer.”

“Have you?” Cregan laughs. “You certainly charmed Sara, but that’s an easy task by all accounts.”

Jace flushes, wondering just how Cregan means that as he suddenly recalls Sara’s earlier comment about Winterfell’s lack of ‘attractive singles’. The need to clear up with Cregan how much he’s not attracted to his sister is trumped by the awkwardness of actually saying the words. “Oh, I don’t actually…I hope you don’t think—”

Cregan’s exasperation is audible. “I didn’t mean it like that , Jace. She’s—” He cuts himself off with a sideways glance that Jace barely catches. “She just likes everybody, is all. You got a girl, then?” The question is all measured curiosity.

“Ah, no. No girl.” Feeling brave, Jace takes a deep breath, and adds, “No girls ever, really.”

The quiet hum he receives in response is so noncommittal that he wonders if his meaning was lost on Cregan. “Driveway’s on the left,” he says suddenly, pointing. “It’s long, you can just let me out here.” He doesn’t sound angry or disgusted, but the abrupt request for an exit has Jace reeling. It’s a long, dark walk down a driveway that effectively disappears into blackness, a few looming shapes distinguishable at the end with two tiny squares of light shining steady against the rural nighttime. Trying to keep his nerves from his voice, he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Though Cregan already has his fingers curled around the door handle, he doesn’t get out when Jace kills the engine. He sits there, his huge frame taking up all of the passenger seat and then some, and the only sounds for a long, syrupy second are his soft breaths and the insects chirping outside. Then, “I don’t care, Jace. Sara likes women, you know?”

Every bit of anxiety leaches from Jace with a heavy exhale. “Yeah?” he asks, finally finding the courage to look Cregan full-on. He can’t see much with all the lights out, but there’s something foreign in the slope of those shoulders.

“Yeah,” Cregan says. The word comes out funny, like he meant to say it louder but it tangled itself up, and Jace realizes what’s so unfamiliar about Cregan’s bearing — he’s apprehensive in a way that is entirely foreign. Shifting in his seat, Cregan looks so badly like he wants to say something else that Jace can’t tear his eyes away, except, “I’ll see you around,” is all that comes out. He still doesn’t move.

“See you around,” Jace returns cautiously, wondering if it’s just a goodbye Cregan’s waiting on, then adds, “Thanks for the invite tonight.”

Thank you for everything is what he means. Thank you for giving me a distraction from my grief. Thank you for giving me a space to mourn. Thank you for allowing me a glimpse into your own heart, a place within your family for a night.

“Anytime.”

Then Cregan does get out, shuts the car door with surprising gentleness and heads down the driveway without a second glance. Jace drives home with a funny feeling in his stomach, so preoccupied that he makes it home in silence without ever turning the radio back on.

Squires are frequently, secretly fond of each other… Say what did you think all that armor and swords was about?

The lyrics filter through Jace’s consciousness, familiar in that vague way of a song he’s heard but can’t quite sing along to. He huffs a quiet laugh into his drink, his amusement quickly dying with the disgruntled, “Who put this shit on?” that comes from somewhere behind his left shoulder. A chair scrapes back, metal on wood, but Jace only hears three heavy, stomping steps before a voice cuts through the bar.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Oh, come on, Stark. Don’t tell me you want this shit playing in your bar.”

Cregan leans over the ice bin, resting his elbows on the bartop with an expression so flat it could be pressed into a book. “Doesn’t matter what I want, Glover. Like as not, somebody paid for that tune.”

Jace finally turns around in time to see an older guy turn back towards the jukebox, but he only makes it one more step when Cregan repeats, “Somebody paid for that. Stealing from our customers is as good as stealing from us.” He’s still leaning against the bar, seemingly relaxed despite the tension that cuts through the building like a knife, but Jace follows the slow turn of his head as those fierce eyes slide over to the shotgun on the wall then back to the dissenter… every last movement lined with cold purpose. “You know our policy on dealing with thieves, don’t you?”

Smart enough to know when he’s beat, the man snatches up his coat and stalks out without another word. Cregan watches him go, doesn’t let up his glare until the door swings shut behind him and stays that way for several seconds. Chatter in the bar slowly resumes amidst the staticky refrain of There’s always somebody who says what the others just whisper. 

Jace drains the last of his soda with an accidental, obnoxious slurp that has Cregan sliding him another before he can even ask. “Must not be big on country music,” he jokes, nodding to the door and the man who’d just stormed out of it.

Cregan eyeballs him for a good couple of seconds, probably trying to gauge how serious he’s being. “Apparently not,” he eventually says, dry, before turning back to his earlier task with a thin-lipped expression that’s more suppressed amusement than disapproval.

Jace, who has never quite known when to keep his mouth shut, traces a line in the condensation on his cup and softly asks, “Are you?”

Cregan’s shoulders stiffen under his black t-shirt. “Am I what?” he asks the wall of liquor.

Jace shrugs even though Cregan can’t see it, one finger leaving idle zigzags on the cold glass. “Do you like country music?”

His double meaning isn’t lost on Cregan, not with the lilting tune still playing from the jukebox behind him. You can’t fuck with the lady that’s livin’ in each squire’s head. 

Bottle in hand, Cregan turns slowly. He’s always intense, always hard to read, but right now Jace couldn’t see past the honed edge of his expression if his life depended on it. His heavy silver rings set a steady rhythm on the glass neck of the bottle, tap tap tap, and Jace resists the urge to uncomfortably shift in his seat. Unwilling to drop his gaze or detract his question, all he can do is wait and pray that his ears aren’t as red as they feel. When Cregan does finally speak, his voice is rougher, deeper than usual, every word enunciated to perfect clarity through his thick accent. “I’m starting to think I do.”

Then he’s sliding his gaze away, busying himself with a drink ticket as though nothing even happened while Jace sits on his sticky little stool at the end of the bar with every muscle coiled like a spring. Cregan’s words, the way he’d said them, had diverted every last rational thought from his mind. Seven hells. 

“Benja?” Cregan calls.

The lone waitress, leaning against the unused host stand, looks up from where she’s idly picking at already-chipped nail polish. “Yeah, hon?”

“I’m gonna take a smoke break. Keep an eye on these old men for me?”

“Sure thing,” she says amidst the ensuing chorus of disgruntled regulars; three gray-haired, stoop-backed locals Jace has talked to from time to time.

“Still young enough to give you a good run, boy,” one of them declares, to which another scoffs, “Oh no you couldn’t.” Ignoring the bickering, Cregan pauses by the back exit, looking over his shoulder and locking eyes with Jace for a beat too long before he shoulders the door open and disappears into the dark. Jace manages to wait an appropriate thirty seconds, twitchy as a rabbit, then leans out far enough to catch Benja’s attention and says, “I just want to grab some fresh air, I’ll be back in a minute.”

She nods once and shrugs, unbothered, but he still leaves his jacket so they know he’s not skipping out on his bill. He leaves through the front door, taking a hard left into an alley that spits him out in a tiny parking lot behind the building. Cregan’s slouched against The Smoking Log’s dirty back wall, shadowed by a rusted-out fire escape that accesses the apartments above. The cigarette smoldering between his fingers gives Jace pause, but before he can worry whether Cregan really did just want a smoke break, he drops it. The embers disappear, smothered under his heel, and he straightens up, an imposing figure half-lit by a neon entrance sign and bare-armed despite the chill. Heart in his throat, Jace stalks closer, halting when he’s near enough that the toes of his sneakers nearly touch Cregan’s boots.

Cregan has to be the one to close that final distance, he decides, has to want this as badly as he does… yet seconds tick by. And just when Jace begins to think he won’t , Cregan kisses him.

He’s walked backwards, one step then two more, but instead of cold bricks at his back he feels a hand splayed over his spine, another cradling the crown of his head with gentleness that makes him dizzy. Cregan’s chest is warm and solid, his t-shirt is soft where Jace’s hands are bunched in it, and his cigarette lingers faintly on his tongue. It should be gross, probably would be in any other situation, but Jace only chases the barely-there taste of menthol and thinks that for someone who’s ostensibly just “starting” to like men, Cregan kisses without a scrap of uncertainty.

As suddenly as they’d begun, they’re stopping. Cregan untangles himself from Jace and steps back, runs a hand through his hair and smooths his rumpled shirt and says, “I have to get back,” in a voice so measured that Jace almost misses the short, hitched inhale at the end.

He grins. “ Have to?”

“Yes,” Cregan says firmly, though he hasn’t actually moved or put any real space between them. Jace can still feel the heat of him, a lingering sensation that thrums with every frantic beat of his heart. His lips are spit-slick, and Cregan’s eyes — reflecting bright and vivid-blue in the sign’s neon light — track the movement as the right side of his mouth lifts higher.

“And if I asked you what you’re doing tonight, after you get out?”

“It’ll be late,” Cregan warns. Jace shrugs.

“I’m sure I’ll be up.” When Cregan still doesn’t say anything, Jace pushes down his anticipation and reaches a hand out, gently tugging Cregan’s shirt hem to cover the sliver of bared skin above his jeans. “Call me if you change your mind.” He tries to make a smooth exit, slipping out from where he’s sandwiched between Cregan and the wall, but a hand on his wrist stops him. Releasing his hold almost immediately, both of Cregan’s hands come up to cup Jace’s cheeks in a kiss that’s shorter than their first but no less hungry, a thorough thing that makes Jace’s head spin. Cregan’s thumb brushes over his cheek, his touch first feather-light, then harder against the prominent bone, then he’s drawing away. He sweeps back through the employee entrance without another word.

Jace stares after him, breathless, far too aroused for a cold back-alley makeout and entirely unsure if that last kiss was a promise for later or a goodbye. Smoothing his curls back into some semblance of their normal state, he heads for the front door he’d left through… minutes ago, perhaps? Time had lost some meaning. Inside, he begs a piece of paper off Benja, writes his number (adds Call me anytime about watching the kid! just to be safe), and leaves it next to his payment. Snatching his coat off the hooks, he’s out the door without even a glance at Cregan because as it stands, he’s not convinced of his own impulse control nor of what he’d do if they made eye contact again.

At home, he nearly wears a hole in the linoleum with his pacing. Self-awareness kicks in shortly, hitting him with the realization that he’s being a little bit pathetic, so he tries to distract himself with paperwork. When he reads the same document three times without comprehending a word, he gives that venture up, migrates to the couch instead and listlessly flicks through the limited channels; local broadcasting, Mander Vice rerun, King’s Landing derby recap, more local broadcasting…

Jace flips the TV off and retrieves his book from his nightstand. That, at least, holds his attention in fits and starts, enough so that when the phone rings there’s a tiny fraction of a second where he wonders who’s calling him at one thirty-five in the morning. “Told you I’d be up,” he says in greeting, rewarded with a skeptical hum that sounds halfway to exasperated.

Normally Jace would offer a drink, maybe give him a tour of the tiny space, but his patience is worn thin and it’s already late and so the moment he shuts the door behind Cregan, he’s bodying him up against it. Cregan’s somewhere just above the six-foot mark; Jace, more than a few inches below. Stronger than he seems and athletic in his own right, Jace still couldn’t hope to push the man around against his will…which means Cregan went willingly, which is a head rush all its own. Curious hands ruck up Jace’s shirt, rough and warm and exploratory, and Jace slots one knee between Cregan’s and presses against him from thigh to chest, the full-body contact leaving little to the imagination even with their clothes between them.

Struck with the sudden need to taste,Jace moves away from Cregan’s lips, pressing light, open-mouthed kisses under his jaw and down his neck. He notes the short, hitched inhale his efforts earn him with gleeful interest, drags his teeth across the soft skin at his pulse point and laughs when Cregan arches into him. “Gods, Jace,” he groans, and the way he says his name makes Jace want to drop to his knees then and there and see how loud he can make him. Most of the reason he doesn’t, in fact, is because of Cregan’s hands holding their bodies flush, because of the fingers that dig into his waist and keep him upright as much as they keep him close.

Eventually they make it to the bedroom, stumbling and ungainly and still tangled together, and when the backs of Jace’s knees hit the mattress he drags Cregan down with him by the nape of the neck. Not feeling particularly verbose, he breaks away from the kiss long enough to tug Cregan’s shirt halfway up and demand, “C’mon, off.”

Cregan’s quiet laugh comes from low in his chest, colored with the same arousal that’s made itself obvious against Jace’s hip. He obliges, sitting back on his heels and pulling his shirt off in one fluid motion, and Jace pushes up onto his elbows to get a better view. Cregan’s body is built on a lifetime of hard work. Thick muscle cords his arms, his shoulders and chest, but it’s a filled-out kind of strength rather than the defined movie-star musculature that’s all over the TV. He’s got fat atop muscle atop a big, northern frame, and every inch makes Jace’s mouth water.

Raking his gaze down the newly-revealed view before him, Jace’s attention hits a snag. The silver chain around Cregan’s neck is a familiar sight, perpetually, partially visible above his t-shirts but always tucked away. Now, it tangles up in the fabric before falling heavily back to his chest, revealing two pale objects threaded next to each other. In the low light they almost look silver, but their faint sheen is duller than the metal rings on his fingers and the sound they make when they hit Cregan’s chest…Wood, Jace realizes. White wood.

Weirwood. Polished to a shine and fashioned into two perfect rings.

Cregan follows his eyes down to the rings and something indecipherable crosses his face. His fist closes tight over them, protective, and Jace almost thinks he’s going to yank the chain off and stuff it out of sight.

“We don’t have to—” Jace starts softly, averting his eyes, but Cregan cuts him off with a shake of his head. He looks to the window for a moment, breathing slow and steady, but when he turns back to Jace, the fire in his eyes hasn’t dimmed a bit.

“I want to,” he says, hand falling away from the necklace to help divest Jace of his own shirt, and when he leans back down to mouth at Jace’s neck the rings are pressed skin-hot and sharp between their racing hearts.

Cregan’s lips and teeth are as maddening as the heat of his bare skin, quickly wearing through the last little bit of patience Jace hadn’t even known he possessed. Time should be what Cregan needs, a chance to move slowly. After all, he’d married his school-yard sweetheart, barely a year in the ground now, and there’s a very real chance that Jace is Cregan’s first besides Arra… if nothing else, he’s certainly his first man.

It’s flattering, in a fucked-up kind of way, and it makes Jace that much more determined to make this good for Cregan. Better than good.

Jace has done both and likes it either way, but with his experience and Cregan’s lack thereof, there really only seems to be one logical way this should go. They move from the foot of the mattress to the middle like proper human beings, and once the last of their clothes have been stripped away, Jace procures a small bottle from his nightstand. He presses it into Cregan’s hand, kisses away the worried line that’s formed at the corner of his mouth and says, “I’ll show you how. Just start slow."

“Slow down” Jace says, but his voice doesn’t sound like his own. He knows this dream, knows what he’ll see if he turns to his left, so instead he watches the droplets race each other across his window and repeats himself.

“We’re the only car out here,” says the driver, and that doesn’t sound like who he’s expecting either so he turns with a start and finds himself in Aemond’s usual place.

Weird.

Jace turns back to the window, catching his own faint reflection in the glass and finding a younger, rounder face framed by shorter, straighter hair — Luke. He’s Luke here, but he’s still himself, but he’s not really Jace because Jace is in the driver’s seat with one hand too loose on the steering wheel for how slick the roads are. “Put your other hand on the wheel,” Jace begs in Luke’s voice, but dream-Jace just laughs with an irreverence that sounds more like Aemond than himself.

Even the deep, subconscious knowledge that this isn't real doesn’t stop the fear curdling in his stomach, locking up his muscles as they approach a too-familiar bend in the road. Slow down slow down slowdown slowdownslowdown.

But the memory is only a dream in disguise, and no amount of desperate chanting can change what has already happened. 

It ends as it always does, with a blaring horn and the horrible screech of rending metal, and Jace wakes disoriented, sweaty and sick to his stomach. He rolls out of bed and tries to stand, but his brain still hasn’t caught up to his body and he’s forced to clutch the edge of the nightstand to keep from falling. The second his equilibrium returns Jace is zig-zagging to the bathroom, shutting the door and flicking on the light and sitting down in the middle of the floor until the cold, hard tile and fluorescent glare have dragged him back to the present.

It’s a sad coping mechanism, but he’s found it works after a fashion. Still can’t do anything about the raw, nauseating knowledge that what’s ‘just a dream’ for Jace was reality for Luke, but after whiling away entire nighttimes on this horrible bathroom floor, Jace has begun to recognize that punishing himself for that fact won’t bring Luke back — the first time, he’d curled into a ball on the tile and stared at the molding grout until six AM. Sleepless in bed is better than sleepless on the bathroom floor, at the very least, so Jace staggers to his feet and pads back into his bedroom in near-total darkness.

Cregan’s slept through it all, he thinks, his shadowed mass unmoving as he slips back under the covers, except as soon as Jace has settled in, a sleep-rough voice murmurs, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” It’s an obvious lie but Cregan doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything so Jace assumes that’s the end of it until the sheets rustle and the mattress dips behind him as Cregan shifts closer. Casual as anything, he drapes an arm around Jace’s middle, noses through dark curls to press a quick, soft kiss to the top of Jace’s spine…and that’s it. His hand doesn’t drift lower or trace teasing circles — it’s a simple act of comfort, nothing more, and Jace can’t tell if he wants to cry or flip Cregan onto his back and make him see every one of his innumerable gods. Both instincts thoroughly lose out, however, overpowered by a visitor Jace hadn’t expected to see until the next night — sleep , the warm weight of Cregan’s arm and the inexorable rise and fall of his chest lulling Jace into an uneasy but blessedly dreamless oblivion.

When he wakes for good, the clock on his nightstand reads twenty-past six and the bed beside him is empty, sheets still smelling of Cregan. Jace wrestles with disappointment that feels unearned, especially so when he pulls on a pair of shorts and shuffles into the kitchen to find a note stuck under a glass of water: Sorry, had to get back for Rickon. Right. Cregan has a kid for Sevens’ sake, of course he’s not sticking around after a one-night stand.

Cregan’s swift exit is a very pertinent reminder that all of this is temporary. Jace officially has three more weeks to close out the job, but the purchase went smoothly, the land surveying is on schedule, and he already has contractors lined up in his back pocket for trail and access road projects. Two weeks, at most, before he moves south and puts fifteen-hundred miles of Kingsroad between himself and Cregan. Pursuing this any further would be folly.

That wisdom lasts Jace three days, which is as long as it takes for him to run into Cregan in town. They exchange pleasant hellos and go on their way, and later that night Jace finds himself face-down in his pillows with one of Cregan’s huge hands spread across his back and the other gripping his hip almost hard enough to bruise. Teachers, coaches and family alike have always praised Jace as level headed, not given to impulse, but when he again finds himself in a similar position (barely twenty-four hours later) he’s forced to reconcile with the idea that maybe he’s just never wanted anything badly enough to be succumbing to impulsive desires.

Pulled from sleep in the early hours of the morning, Jace blinks into the graying light and wonders why. Another body in his bed has done wonders for his sleep, Cregan’s stolid, sleeping presence keeping the worst of the nightmares at bay, and it takes a second for Jace to realize that Cregan is what woke him up. His breath is coming short and sharp and there’s tension carved into his face, brow to jaw, but beyond the occasional twitch he barely moves. Even asleep, it seems, Cregan keeps his pain close to his chest, leaving Jace unsure how he’d even awoken. Loath to abandon him to the mercy of his subconscious yet unsure how physical contact might be received, Jace lays a tentative hand on Cregan’s side. When that fails to stir him, he moves his hand to Cregan’s chest, splaying his fingers out and sweeping a thumb under the hard line of his collarbone until the racing heartbeat under his palm levels out. 

Jace doesn’t quite manage to drift off again, but he curls into Cregan’s warmth and rests his forehead between his shoulder blades and falls into a hazy kind of doze. Half-aware of his surroundings, he feels when Cregan's fingers close around his wrist with care, sliding his hand away and onto the sheets. In the faint light Jace opens his eyes, watches Cregan move about collecting his clothes and waits until he’s headed for the door to ask, “Leaving already?”

He doesn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but the contrast between nighttime’s careful touches and morning’s empty bed is glaring. They’re both adults with lives and jobs and homes on the opposite ends of the continent, but every time Jace remembers that, he also recalls the curve of Cregan’s mouth as he grins into a kiss, the way his eyes soften at the corners when he recounts stories of Rickon or Sara or even poor, sweet Osrick, forever nine years old. Those same eyes fix on him now, narrowed in what Jace thinks is affront. “How long until I wake and find you gone?”

His words take an axe to Jace’s bristling ego. Laying down for this conversation feels rude, and also like giving up before he’s even started, so Jace sits up with the sheets pooling around his waist and says, “Two weeks at most.” A blink is the only sign of surprise Cregan shows. “I’ve never tried to pretend that we’re building something permanent here, and I don’t think you have either.” Jace’s eyes drop to Cregan’s sternum, to where he knows those rings rest hidden under wrinkled gray fabric. He lets his gaze linger, allows Cregan to see where he’s looking before he adds, “I know you have other commitments.”

A  son who needs raising. A wife who took a piece of his heart with her to the grave.

“I don’t intend on tearing down every one of your high walls, Cregan, but you’ve come to mean much to me. You’ve been an immense comfort and a great friend.” His only friend, actually, because all the people closest to Jace’s heart are family first and foremost, but his sentiment only strengthens in the face of that fact. “I will never lay another hand on you if that’s what you want, but I won’t pretend that all of this is just about the sex.”

The morning light has shifted quickly with the sun, beaming through the window and landing in a white square at Cregan’s feet. In the brightening room Cregan’s eyes are stormy, a roiling gray that reminds Jace of the seas around Dragonstone, and he stares for a long, hard second before shaking his head like a dog shakes off water. He’s turned on his heel and barely made it one step towards the kitchen when Jace barks, “Don’t walk away from me.”

Cregan’s shoulders stiffen in silhouette, but when he faces Jace again he doesn’t look angry. He’s smiling, or… maybe not quite, but he’s doing that tight-lipped expression he always hides his smiles behind. Jace can’t comprehend what’s funny right now, but he also couldn’t piece together all the inner workings of Cregan’s mind in two decades, much less two months, so he writes it off as a lost cause and asks, “What are you thinking?”

Surprisingly, the blunt approach seems to work. Cregan settles in where he is, shifts his weight to one leg and leans against the bedroom door frame and frowns in thought. “I’m thinking that I can’t give you what you’re looking for and I don’t enjoy pursuing futile endeavors.”

“Futile endeav—” Jace throws his hands up, lets them drop back to the sheets in exasperated dead weight. “What did I just tell you? All I’ve really needed these past weeks was a friend. Have you not done that?”

Cregan very pointedly glances down at Jace’s bare chest. “I don’t think friends —” he draws the word out, wry, “— do that.” He’s talking about the bruise blooming under his collarbone, Jace knows, vivid purple and just low enough to hide under a shirt. He rubs at it absently, thinking.

“I’ll make this as plain as I can: I’ll be going home to Dragonstone sixteen days from today. I have no desire to get in over my head, no more than you do, but I would like to continue spending time together in whatever context you’re able. If continuing to fuck means we can no longer be friends, then…” Jace trails off, looking around for some way to make a grand gesture and coming up empty. “...Then to hell with it,” he settles on, waving one hand dismissively, “Because I’m not going to waste my last weeks here chasing a few hours of pleasure at a time if it comes at the expense of something better. I’d rather have your genuine company than your cock.”

Despite how often Jace is scolded as being “too blunt” (from a family that could make talking in circles a professional sport), he’s sure he’s never been so bold. Perhaps he cares too much to let this issue pass him by, or perhaps the North’s heavy-handed ways are rubbing off on him.

Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing either, because Cregan laughs and pushes off the door frame, uncrossing his arms. “Such sweet words, Jacaerys. You really are a charmer.” Jace can’t even tell if he’s joking, but he doesn’t get a chance to ask before Cregan adds, “I do have to go, I don’t want to make Sara late for work.”

“Right, of course.”

“…Monday’s her day off, though.”

Jace blinks, uncomprehending, and Cregan elaborates, “I’m sure she'll be okay to watch Rickon in the morning for me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He raises his eyebrows, cocks his head. “You can have me for a few hours of sunlight for once.”

Jace can’t keep the teasing lilt from his tone. “Just the morning?”

“All night and into the morning,” Cregan promises, solemn. “We Starks are men of our word.”

One of the main provisions of the Conservancy’s purchase was that some of the land they bought for restoration and protection would be open to public use. The process of making it that way — building walkable trails, installing boardwalks over wetlands, improving access roads — is a long one, but all Jace is really responsible for is hiring the people who’ll do the job. Wanting to keep the work local, he finds a construction company based out of nearby Cerwyn and contracts them. The process is painless, and with the last permits stamped and signed and filed away in manila folders to be returned to his mother, Jace’s work in the North is officially done.

He calls his mother to inform her it’s all done ahead of schedule, but when she asks when they’ll expect him home he doesn’t hesitate. “I’d like to stay until my lease is up. Just an extra week or so.”

There’s a curious pause on the other end of the line. “If you have anything you’re worried about finalizing, I’m sure it can be done from here.”

“Oh, uh, no. Not for work or anything, I’d just like to take a little bit of time.”

He’s nervous asking for this, but he’s not sure why. His mother never begrudges him anything. “Of course, sweet boy. I was worried about sending you so far away, but it seems you’ve found a place for yourself there.”

Flushing red, Jace pulls the receiver away from his face long enough to clear his throat. “Thanks, mom.” There’s a lot going unsaid here from both of them. Most of her worry, he suspects, came from sending him away after everything with Luke. “Some distance was good for me, I think.”

When you’ve spent your entire life in the same city with the same people, everything grows stale and stifled. When your entire professional life is based around a business run by your family, the effect is quadrupled. He’s a homebody at heart and his family is everything to him, but two months away isn’t exactly a lifetime.

“You’re doing well, then?”

“Yeah. Yes. Better than I expected.”

“Good.” The warmth in her voice is obvious even over miles of telephone line. “Enjoy your time, honey. We’ll be glad to see you home.”

Not ten minutes after he hangs up, the phone’s ringing again.

“Hello?”

“So the hardworking Jacaerys Velaryon is taking the first vacation he’s ever had in his life.”

“Hi, Baela.”

“Don’t ‘Hi, Baela’ me. What’s the reason?”

How she manages to see right through him from another part of the continent is astounding. “Would you believe me if I said I enjoy it up here?”

“Hm.” How she manages to convey so much skepticism with one syllable is also astounding. “You met someone.”

“No.”

“Hmm.”

Jace sighs loudly and receives another rebuke for his efforts. “You can lie to your mother, you can’t lie to me. You met someone up there!”

“No.”

“Jaaaace.”

“Whining isn’t an attractive quality, Baela. Neither is nosiness.”

There’s a staticky silence. Then, “Just give me a name.”

“There’s no name to give!”

“You’re going to make me do all the hard work? Okay, I’m going to start listing names and you tell me if I get it. Jeyne. Catelyn. Elinor. Brienne. Aly—”

“You might be better off starting with northern names, not southern,” he teases.

“Asha. Branda. Lysa. Esgret—”

Baela probably gets through about two dozen names, barely pausing for breath, before she wears him down. He could hang up, but she’d just call him back with fifty more ready on her tongue. Besides, if he can’t tell Baela, he really can’t tell anyone.

“Cregan,” he interrupts, rewarded with a brief reprieve for his poor right ear.

“Cregan.” She rolls it on her tongue, cautious. “A nice, sturdy northern name.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I’m not!” There’s another pause, this one more intentional. “How long?”

She’s not asking about Cregan. “Years, I guess. I’ve kind of always known.” He fiddles with the tightly coiled phone cord, stretching and squishing it in the ensuing silence, but she doesn’t leave him to his anxiety for long. 

“You know, when you never brought anyone home from college or talked about girls I always thought you were just too busy, too focused on your work and studies and being the perfect, flawless heir.”

“I was ,” he insists. “I never dated much… ever…”

“Turns out,” Baela continues, unheeding of him and sounding way too delighted, “That all it took was a big beast of a Northman who can keep you oh-so warm in the frozen northern wastes.”

Jace scowls. “You don’t even know what he looks like.”

“…So he’s not big and hairy?”

His lack of a response is more than enough. She laughs.

Jace is just raising his fist to knock when the front door swings wide. He freezes, his knuckles inches from the weather-stained wood. “Hey.”

Sara just puts a finger to her lips and motions him in. Confused, he follows her into the living room where he’s greeted by an unexpected sight. Cregan — who he’s here to meet — is asleep on the ratty sofa, feet dangling off the armrest and one arm stretched out sideways. Rickon’s crib has been set up close enough for Cregan to reach, his fingers curled into the small space between bars like the whole crib would up and run away if he didn’t keep a hand on it. Father and son are both sleeping soundly, so Jace only takes a second to watch the heartwarming scene before following Sara into the kitchen and then out the back door.

“Rickon hasn’t been sleeping well,” she explains once the door’s shut securely behind her. “They’ve both been out like a light for hours, and it’s the most peaceful I’ve seen Rick sleep in ages.” She pauses, cocks her head. “Most peaceful I’ve seen Cregan sleep, as a matter of fact.”

“Do you think he misses Arra? Rickon, I mean.”

Sara hums thoughtfully as she steps off the back porch, nodding with her chin for Jace to follow. “She died hours after he was born. I’m not sure what kind of imprint an infant forms with their mother, if he can miss the idea of her even without real memories to tell him who he’s missing.” 

They’re heading for a barn. It’s ancient but standing strong, stone foundation intact despite the peeling paint and rotting wooden boards, but Sara just ignores the padlocked door and skirts the edge of the building, bringing Jace around to the shady back side where the forest, once cut back, has begun reclaiming its old land. There, under the encroaching reach of the trees, is a small, fenced-in plot maybe fifty yards square, peppered with headstones. The ones towards the back are so worn that Jace suspects their inscriptions are long gone, the edges of the stone smoothed out and softened with pillows of moss. At the front, a couple yards to Jace’s left, are newer headstones, the granite’s shiny finish still mostly intact.

“Is this your shovel talk?” Jace asks. “Hurt my brother and I’ll bury you?”

Laughing, Sara shakes her head. “That sentiment certainly stands true, but no. I just wanted to show you this place.” She drifts over to the newest grave where the grass still grows a little sparser. Jace doesn’t have to look to know who’s buried there, though he does so anyway out of respect.

Arra Norrey-Stark

110 — 136 AC

There’s no epithet beneath her name, only an engraving of thistle flowers, three in a row.

Beside Arra is an older grave, a wide headstone with two names and dates — Gillian and Rickon Stark — and to the left of them is a smaller headstone with a name Jace has only heard once before, birth and death dates a mere nine years apart. Wife, father, mother, brother… 

Sara points to the grass beside Arra’s grave. “Cregan’ll be right there someday, and Rickon too. Gods willing that day’s not for a long, long time.”

“And you?”

Her mouth twists. “No, I’m a Snow, not a Stark. I lived with my mother for half my life, but when I was fifteen we had a falling out. Irreconcilable. Father wasn’t a warm man but he was honorable, and he saw it as his duty to do right by me even if bringing a bastard daughter around wasn’t doing right by his wife.” Sara tears her gaze away from him to look at the grave, her expression stony. “Cregan’s the only one who’s always had my back. Now…” she gestures to the row of headstones. “We’re all we got.”

She doesn’t say it with any kind of pointed emphasis and she sounds more proud than morose, but Jace still understands her message clear as day: This town is Cregan’s everything — don’t ask him to leave it. And maybe, on a smaller level, Don’t ask him to leave me.  

He wouldn’t. He’s been (too) aware of the reality of their situation for weeks now, since Cregan first went from a handsome stranger, a stupid crush from afar, to somebody Jace could trust. During his first two weeks in Winterfell the ticking clock hovering over his head was a welcome reminder that he’d be home before he knew it; in the aftermath of The Phone Call it became a blessing and a curse, an anxiety-inducing reminder that, for better or worse, the world hadn’t stopped spinning. Now, one day out from departure, that infernal clock’s been hijacked by Cregan.

Jace doesn’t know how to convey all that to Sara, so all he says is, “Family seems to mean a lot to Cregan. It’s good you have each other.”

“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives,” Sara intones, then shrugs at Jace’s questioning glance. “Just something our father used to say.” She scrunches her nose in thought, glances back in the direction of the farmhouse and smiles ruefully. “Three’s not much of a pack, huh?”

“Seems like a happy three,” Jace hazards.

In lieu of a response, Sara starts walking for the house. He falls into step beside her, hands in his pockets to combat the chill, though his pace falters in surprise when she links her arm with his own. They walk like that for a couple of seconds, Sara’s determined stride pulling Jace along, before she says, “We are. It’s been nice, though… having a fourth. Cregan’s been markedly happier these past weeks.” Something uncomfortably warm blooms in Jace’s chest, but before he can even begin to examine the sensation, Sara’s adding, “I don’t know everything that’s passed between you guys, and if I’m right, I don’t want to know the half of it—” Crimson splotches across Jace’s cheeks and down his neck, red-hot, and Sara laughs. “— but I’m glad you could be there for each other. I’m sorry about your brother, as well. Truly.”

Walking through a frozen field arm-in-arm and swinging from teasing to empathetic in the span of a second, Sara really feels like a sister. Jace thinks it’s immensely unfair that the end of this strange, temporary life he’s built here is so imminent, but before that thought can take root he realizes he’s looking at it all wrong. It was a job he’d come here to do, and yet when one single phone call took a warhammer to his home life, he’d managed to find something good in a vast realm of nothingness.

“When you left me and Cregan at that festival, did you…” Jace isn’t sure how to finish his question.

“Did I think you’d end up fucking my little brother?” She pulls a face of disgust amid Jace’s futile assertions that he ‘hadn’t meant it like that.’ “No. But given the holiday and what it represents…I dunno. Guess I just thought you two could learn something from each other.”

“So I suppose I have you to thank for all of this?”

“Hardly.” Laughing, Sara jostles sideways into his space, sending them both careening a few steps off course. “Cregan’s always been the brooding type. The fact that he actually willingly engages you in conversation should tell how much he likes you.”

They’ve reached the house. Sara creeps up the steps quietly, peeks through the door before nodding with satisfaction and tearing it open with all the subtlety of a bear. “Thank the gods you two are up, because dinner ain’t gonna cook itself.” Jace makes it inside just in time to see her swing her nephew out of his father’s arms, the ferocity of Cregan’s answering scowl somewhat offset by his bedhead.

Sara and Jace end up taking care of most of the cooking. Cregan declares himself adequate in the kitchen and takes on the task of cleaning instead, a designation Sara protests (“You kept the both of us alive with your cooking!” “Alive. A ringing endorsement.”). Jace almost backs Sara up, until Cregan strips off his sweatshirt and rolls his sleeves past his elbows and he decides maybe he won’t complain. 

After dinner Cregan puts Rickon to bed and the three adults migrate from the kitchen to the living room. Nighttime chill creeps through the old, drafty windows, but Sara gets a fire blazing in the hearth so it’s perfectly, comfortably warm as they nurse their drinks. Sometime near midnight Cregan offers to put another log on the dying hearth and she stands with a stretch and a yawn. “I think I’m tapping out.”

So Jace says goodnight and goodbye before Sara heads to bed. He and Cregan remain in the living room until the moment the last log has burned to smoking embers, at which point Jace drags him out to his car. Briefly, he considers the merits of the cramped back seat, but the idea’s quickly discarded in favor of Jace’s unoccupied apartment and queen-sized bed. His room’s filled with boxes and bins, all taped up and labeled and ready for home, but the path to the bed remains unobstructed — littered with their quickly-shed clothes, but unobstructed.

For all their haste in getting into bed together, everything slows to a crawl once they’re there. Jace straddles Cregan’s hips and presses him into the mattress and kisses him like they have all the time in the world. Hands roam seemingly of their own accord, twisting into hair or cradling the curve of a jaw or tracing over flushed, sensitive skin. Everything’s hot, every last nerve ending burning with barely-contained need — hot bodies, hot mouths, hot blood — until the very idea of cold feels entirely foreign.

He’s just kissing his way over Cregan’s racing pulse, tasting the salt on his skin, when Cregan tightens one hand in his curls and whispers to the ceiling, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Getting there,” Jace hums into Cregan’s neck, pushing his hips back against the hard length of him for emphasis, but Cregan just drags him up to his mouth and says against his swollen, kissed-red lips, “No, Jace. Fuck me.”

A short, punched-out exhale leaves Jace’s lungs at the image that conjures. It’s a gorgeous one, Cregan all laid out beneath him, cast half in shadows by the light of the sole remaining lamp. Unrealistic, perhaps, for tonight.

“You ever…?”

“No.”

“Not even your fingers?”

Cregan’s eyes gleam in the darkness. “Thought about it,” he admits without shame.

A smile creeps up, just wide enough to flash a hint of teeth. “Think about me while you were at it?” He receives a pinch to his side in rebuke, squirms away laughing while Cregan rolls his eyes.

Amusement dissolving, Jace traces a nail lightly down Cregan’s chest and says, “Look, I won’t promise we make it all the way in one night, but—” He cuts himself off, dragging his gaze back to Cregan’s. “Do you trust me?”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

The answer is so immediate that Jace knows he’s being serious, but it’s also so endearingly Cregan that it brings a smile back to his face. “Can you maybe find it in yourself to—”

He doesn’t have to finish his question. “Yeah. Yes.”

Victorious, Jace doesn’t wait for further permission before he returns his mouth to Cregan’s neck, then his chest, then follows the thick line of hair leading down his stomach. Ignoring the obvious for now, Jace meanders sideways, scrapes his teeth over Cregan’s hipbone then sinks them into the meat of his thigh. That earns him a low groan, though he still smooths his thumb over the spot in silent apology before settling himself securely between Cregan’s legs and spreading his thighs wide enough to get his shoulders under.

There are better positions, better angles, better ways to do this, but Jace is more than happy with where he is now as he gets his mouth on Cregan’s entrance. The future crick in his neck is well worth the noises he pulls from high in Cregan’s throat, the way those glorious fucking thighs tense on either side of his head. He’s more turned on than he’s been in probably his entire life but that matter feels secondary to the spit-slicked, bruise-littered inside of Cregan’s thighs. When he tries to touch himself, Jace doesn’t even think before grabbing his wrist and redirecting the offending hand to his own head where Cregan gets the memo without being told, uses his newfound fistful of dark curls to hold Jace close — it’s not a manhandling by any means, but there’s enough rough intent behind it that Jace sees stars.

Only once his jaw and tongue are aching does he resurface to retrieve the lube. Meeting Cregan’s eyes in silent question, this time he doesn’t have to ask. Do you trust me? Cregan dips his chin in a minute nod, though the solemn expression drops off his face as Jace’s finger slides in to the second knuckle. 

He takes him apart with his hands before Cregan (never one to be outdone) rolls him over and holds him down by the hips and returns the favor with his mouth — what he lacks in experience, he more than makes up for with keen attentiveness and sheer determination.

Though they fall asleep tangled up in each other, Jace wakes to find Cregan on the other side of the bed with the sheets shoved down to his waist. Considering how hot Cregan runs, he doesn’t take the separation personally, just rolls out of bed and pads into the kitchen to start making breakfast with the one pan that hasn’t been packed away. Cregan’s up as soon as the eggs start cooking, and they eat at the empty kitchen table in comfortable silence before throwing the last of Jace’s stuff into a box labeled misc.They pack Jace’s car together, the poor sedan stuffed to the gills, then wander over to Brandon’s Diner for an early lunch mostly for the sake of buying a little more time. Jace pays for the both of them, a move Cregan (predictably) protests until Jace argues that it’s in exchange for his manual labor. “You think I’d make you carry all those damn boxes and not repay the favor?”

“I think those skinny southern arms weren’t up to the task alone.”

He deftly dodges the french fry Jace throws in protest.

They’re soon finished. As the plates empty, Jace finds he has no more excuses to linger, nothing else tying him to this town besides the man across the table. Even that’s not enough, much as he might want it to be. “Need a ride home?” Jace asks, and Cregan’s wintry eyes meet him over the rim of his mug, narrowed like he knows what he’s doing.

“Sara and I have some things to do in town,” Cregan says with a shake of his head. “I’ll call her to meet me in a little bit.”

A little bit just means until they’ve drained the last dregs of coffee and Torrha drops the bill between them, then they head back into the cold air. A needling anxiety has taken hold, a persistent itch that can only be scratched by miles of Kingsroad disappearing under his tires — Jace needs to be out of this tiny, freezing town. He needs to be home , even if home will never again be the way he’d left it two months ago.

Fiddling with his car keys, Jace clears his throat. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Sure thing.”

Jace has never been good with goodbyes, but judging by the awkward way Cregan shoves his hands deep in his pockets, he’s not the only one. “Drive safe.” With that, he shifts his weight and turns to walk away and for one paralyzing second Jace thinks that’ll be the end of it.

He’s moving before he can stop himself. “Cregan, wait.”

The full force of his hug must take Cregan by surprise, though he barely cedes a step as he brings his arms up to wrap around Jace’s shoulders. “Thank you,” Jace says into Cregan’s shoulder, muffled, and there’s so much wrapped up in those two words he doesn’t think he could find the language for it all if he tried. Cregan just tightens his hold, bunches his fists in the fabric of Jace’s jacket and says nothing.