Chapter Text
The hearth crackled with low-burning embers, casting red-orange flickers against the stone walls of the solar. A northern storm had been building since morning, its howling wind scratching against the high windows, but within, the silence was heavier than the snow outside.
Lord Cregan Stark sat at the long oaken table, fingers laced, jaw tight with thought. Before him were parchment stacks—grief made paper. Tithes lost to rot. Widows left without firewood. Fatherless children, whole villages half-gutted by the recent fever.
The Winter Fever, as it was coming to be called.
Ser Jorlan, his old friend and bannerman, leaned forward with a sigh.
“The crofters in Last Hearth say their stores won’t last the month. They lost every man between twenty and forty to the sickness. Only old men and boys left to till frozen ground.”
“Send grain,” Cregan said, low and sure. “From Winterfell’s reserves. Enough to carry them to new sowing.”
Ser Jorlan nodded. “The widows in the Rills—”
“Coin and smoked fish,” Cregan interrupted. “And a mason for the roof of their sept. The gods may not have helped them, but they’ll need shelter to curse them in.”
It was nothing new, after the loss of his mate in childbirth, it had become easier for Cregan to bury himself in duties.
a better alternative to thinking – whether it be about the loss, or about how is son was motherless before he even had a chance to open his eyes properly.
Even Maester Hareth gave a brief smile at that, though the look he cast Cregan was edged with fatigue. “And Deepdown?”
Cregan hesitated. That one hurt.
“Send word that we remember them,” he said, voice quiet. “And riders. It may be the fever spared them. Or it simply hasn’t reached them yet.”
The silence that followed was respectful. Grieving.
It was Hareth who eventually broke it, shuffling a smaller, pale scroll into view—its seal already broken.
“One more matter, my lord,” he said cautiously. “A raven came this morning. From the Eyrie.”
Cregan’s brow twitched. That was all. But those who knew him—like Jorlan and Hareth—recognized it as the North’s version of a groan.
“What,” Cregan said flatly, “is that woman up to now?”
He didn’t need to hear the name. Lady Jeyne Arryn. That meddling hawk. A thorn in his side since they were both children of important names.
Always writing letters, making suggestions, asking favors. Always poking her long beak where it didn’t belong.
She called him “Creggie” once in court when they were fourteen. He’d never recovered from the disgrace.
“Does she want a favor?” he muttered. “A marriage pact? To sell me another bloody moon tea remedy she claims cures gout?”
Hareth cleared his throat gently. “No mention of marriage or gout, my lord.”
“That’s worse.”
Cregan rubbed his face, for all the troubles of the north, nothing irked him more than that woman.
“Gods help me. What has she done this time?”
Both his advisors exchanged a glance.
Cregan turned back to the hearth with a sigh that sounded closer to a growl. “Well? Spit it out, Hareth.”
The maester adjusted his sleeves and pushed the scroll forward, its fine Vale parchment already unfurled.
“I thought it best you read it yourself, my lord,” he said carefully. “It… bears Lady Jeyne’s particular signature.”
Cregan gave the scroll a suspicious glance, as if it might bite him. Then he took it between two fingers, inspecting it.
The parchment inside carried the faintest scent of lavender — of course she’d scented it.
“To my favorite glacial-faced wolf—
You may thank me now or later, but thank me you must. Since you refuse to see sense and find help for that poor, motherless pup of yours, I’ve done the sensible thing and sent it to you instead.
The omega boy is young, yes — but he is bountiful where it counts. Milk-rich, well-fed, and well-read, which is more than I can say for most of your bannermen.
He’s served in the Eyrie nurseries these past two years and never once dropped a babe or spilled a cup of milk. I’m told your Rickon is still at the breast — and as you’ve yet to grow a set yourself, I’ve done the next best thing.
He’s sweet-natured, gentle-handed, and frankly wasted in the Vale. Consider this a gift, or a rescue. From both ends.
Don’t frighten him. Or do. If he flees back to me in tears, I shall take it as a personal triumph.
Yours in eternal torment,
— Jeyne Arryn, Falcon of Mercy, Wind Beneath Your Sulking”
There was a long silence.
Jorlan cleared his throat once. Maester Hareth shifted uncomfortably.
The fire cracked. The wind howled.
Cregan stared at the parchment for a long moment after reaching the end, then placed it gently on the table as if restraining the urge to rip it in half.
There was a vein pulsing at his temple.
“Milk-rich,” he said slowly, as if tasting the words and finding them poisonous.
“Indeed,” the maester replied diplomatically.
“Well-fed,” Cregan continued, voice low. “Well-read.”
“Which is more than she says for me,” Jorlan muttered, earning a sharp look.
Cregan leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That woman. That airborne menace. That smug-feathered serpent—”
“She means well, I suppose.’” Maester Hareth offered, trying not to smile.
Cregan gave him a glower that could ice a river. “She sent me a milk-laden omega nursemaid without my consent.”
He grunted before he could help himself.
“She’s going to tell everyone I needed help. That I couldn't handle one small boy without a wet nurse.”
“She already has, I imagine,” Jorlan said. “In writing.”
Cregan pointed a finger at the letter like it personally insulted him. “She knows I hate surprises.”
“She does,” Hareth said mildly. “She also seems to enjoy them.”
Cregan scrubbed a hand down his face, then pointed sharply at the maester.
“Write her back. Now.”
Hareth blinked. “My lord?”
“Tell her we have wet nurses in the North. Tell her my son doesn’t need—what did she call him—‘milk-rich blessings’ from the Eyrie. Tell her if she sends me one more gift, I’ll start sending things back. Sharp things. Dire things. Preferably still growling.”
“I see,” the maester said, already reaching for his inkpot. “Should I keep it civil?”
Cregan narrowed his eyes. “Use your judgment.”
Just then, the solar door creaked open and one of the serving maids peeked her head inside, cheeks flushed from the cold.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said, eyes darting nervously between the men. “But there’s… a guest.”
Cregan’s head lifted slowly, the kind of stillness that preceded a storm.
“A guest?”
“Aye, my lord,” she said quickly. “A carriage just passed through the gate. Men with it, bearing the falcon of House Arryn.”
The silence was instant.
Maester Hareth lowered his quill with a sigh. Jorlan covered his mouth with one hand, but not fast enough to hide the smirk.
Cregan did not sigh. Cregan seethed.
“Of course she did,” he muttered, pushing back from the table. “Of course she bloody did.”
**
The hall echoed with the steady stomp of Cregan Stark’s boots.
Snow still clung to his shoulders as he barreled down the corridor, his bannerman Jorlan trailing behind, trying not to slip on the stone or the tension.
“Cregan,” Jorlan called, his tone annoyingly reasonable, “you haven’t even met the lad yet. Maybe he’s a decent sort. Could be this helps more than hurts.”
Cregan didn’t look back. “He’s an omega nursemaid Jeyne hand-delivered like a crate of lemons, and I don’t need either.”
“She says he’s well-trained.”
“I don’t care. He’s going back.”
He had a plan, he was going to tell this boy —whoever he was —to take his belongings, and leave like he was never there — provide compensation, or threats if necessary.
Jorlan grinned. “Then why are you marching like you’re off to war?”
“I am.”
Then Cregan turned the corner and entered the hall where the omega was supposedly awaiting an audience, pushing the door open with a firm hand.
And then—gods help him—the scent hit.
Warm. Gentle. Sweet as milk and soft pinewood and some underlying note that tugged at something behind Cregan’s ribs.
Omega.
Cregan froze like a hunted stag. Jaw slack. Shoulders locked. Blood trying to remember how to move.
There stood a boy no older than seventeen, bundled in fine wool, with a thick cloak trimmed in dove-grey fur. His cheeks were flushed red from the wind, his lips slightly chapped, and a few brown curls peeked out from beneath his hood.
The figure approached with small, careful steps on the wood, but without hesitation.
The boy — the omega — lowered his hood with a smooth motion, and bowed with grace too natural for a southerner.
“My lord Stark,” he said politely, “I am Jace Waters. Lady Jeyne said I was expected.”
The boy looked up—
—And smiled.
A warm, open, unguarded smile that didn’t belong in a place like Winterfell.
Cregan blinked. Gods, no. She didn’t—
Oh, she did.
"Damn you, Jeyne," he muttered beneath his breath.