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The lift groaned as it rose steadily upwards, the sound echoing like a rumble in the icy walls surrounding.
“The North must stand ready,” Jace rather thought that Lord Cregan Stark’s voice held a similar, if even deeper rumble. In the day past, there was very little thought that had not been devoted to the young Warden.
The towers of Winterfell barely a day prior had emerged from the snow like something carved from the mountain itself, grey and immovable beneath a sky the color of beaten steel, as Vermax circled once overhead at Jace’s command before descending into the open yard, wings stirring powder into blinding spirals that sent stablehands scrambling and horses tossing their heads.
The castle did not erupt into panic as southern keeps often did at the sight of a dragon. The North had seen dragons before, if only in memory, but its people watched with the measured caution of those who had long ago learned that awe was no substitute for good sense.
Jace had swung down from the saddle with stiff legs, tugging his gloves tighter against a cold that bit sharper than anything the narrow sea had ever thrown at Dragonstone. Before the hastily procured welcome party stood a young man scarcely older than himself, broad of shoulder beneath a heavy pelt cloak, dark-haired, grey-eyed, and utterly still. There was nothing ostentatious about him--- no gilded clasp, no embroidered surcoat announcing his rank. He did not need one. The certainty with which every man around him deferred made his identity plain before introductions were ever spoken.
"Prince Jacaerys," the young lord had greeted, voice even as fresh snow, and deep, with a thick Northern affectation. "Winterfell welcomes you."
"Lord Cregan Stark,” Jace had replied in turn.
Their hands then met briefly, leather against leather. Cregan’s grip was firm, but without challenge. Jace had expected suspicion, perhaps even resentment at a southern prince’s arrival with a dragon and, no doubt, an expectant request. Instead, Cregan regarded him with quiet appraisal, as though measuring not by his birth or station, but the man himself. It was strangely relieving.
"Your dragon is smaller than I imagined," Cregan remarked after a moment, glancing toward Vermax as the young dragon folded his wings. It was the first bite of a test, one that Jace immediately understood to be in good faith. He instantly rather liked the Northerner, huffing out a laugh before he could stop himself and feeling his shoulders relax slightly.
“He is still growing.” Cregan offered a wry smile of approval.
“As are we all.” He turned to the steward waiting behind him. “See Prince Jacaerys to the guest chambers. Make sure his dragon is tended as well as may be.” He turned again to Jace. “Take your rest, my prince. I trust a warm bath and fire will do you good. What you’re here for,” he paused, turning and inclining his head in clear leave, “I trust can wait at least until dinner, if it pleases you.”
Jace nodded in thanks, a small feeling of warmth in his chest despite the great chill. As he followed the steward through the courtyards of Winterfell, he allowed himself to hope that perhaps this would not be as difficult as he’d feared.
As his host had intended, the warm bath and Northerner style clothes heated in front of his chambers’ fires left Jace feeling entirely renewed scarcely an hour or two later. He paced, briefly, in front of the flames, reminding himself of his charge and the details he had pain-stakingly gone over on his journey here.
Amidst recalling lessons of guesthood and diplomacy, his mind unfailingly drifted to Luke, far off in Storm’s End. Still a boy, entrusted to petition a Baratheon. Then to Rhaenyra, grieving Visenya, still, in Dragonstone. The memory of them both seemed to revitalize his determination.
By the time the same steward, Harrion, arrived at his door to escort him down to the Great Hall for dinner, Jace was resolute. There was no other outcome, in his days to come in Winterfell, then a pledge of troops for this war.
For his mother, he would do anything. He simply had to succeed.
The Great Hall was warmer than Jace had expected.
Not warm, precisely. No hall built to withstand northern winters could ever truly be so. Yet the immense hearths at either end burned with enough vigor to chase the sharpest edge from the air, and the smell of oak smoke mingled with roasted venison, fresh bread, onions, and ale. Hounds dozed beneath the long trestle tables while men-at-arms crowded the benches, voices loud and ardent beneath the timbered roof.
Conversation ebbed only briefly as he entered.
Curious eyes followed him the way they had followed Vermax's descent--- measuring, rather than marveling. A few men inclined their heads, murmurs of “my prince” and variations of the title scattered amongst the noise. Others simply returned to their meals. Whatever stories had travelled north about the fracturing of the war, they did not seem to have peaked the barest of interest in most of Winterfell.
Lord Cregan rose from the high table in acknowledgement.
"My prince." Jace nodded his head.
"My lord."
"You have rested well, I hope?”
"Yes, thank you. Better than I could have hoped.” He glanced quickly at the spread across the great table, his stomach growling in spite of himself. Cregan, to his credit, said nothing of it.
"Good." He gestured to the place of honor at his right. "Sit. Winter is no friend to an empty stomach." Jace smiled despite himself.
"I've begun to suspect it isn't much of a friend at all." A flicker touched the corner of Cregan's mouth.
"No," he admitted. "It asks much and gives little."
Jace took his seat of honor beside the young lord, nodding in thanks to the squire that filled his goblet with mulled ale. Servants appeared almost at once, placing before Jace a trencher piled with roasted venison, barley, turnips swimming in butter, coarse brown bread still warm from the ovens.
With as much decorum as he could muster, Jace began to eat. He had not realized quite how hungry he was until the first bite, and for several minutes little was said. Conversation continued to flow around him, Cregan engaging in a rather one-sided discussion with a neighboring noble of trade in the lower ports. Jace took the chance to observe his host in this element, much more of a robust home than he had ever expected before the journey from the hills of the Vale.
The normalcy of him, of it all, struck Jace. No one watched Cregan for permission to speak. No one measured words in fear before saying them. The Lord of Winterfell listened more than he talked, answering questions directly, occasionally smiling, never once needing to remind those around him who he was. The respect for him, young as he was, was evident. It was a quieter sort of authority than Daemon's or even Corlys's, and somehow the steadier for it.
Around them, the hall continued as before. Men traded stories over ale. Somewhere farther down the table someone had begun arguing over the merits of one hunting dog over another. A serving girl hurried past with another platter while an old hound lifted its head hopefully before settling back beside the fire.
It was different from Dragonstone, where supper with his mother had so often become in these times another council by another name, every bite interrupted by tidings, petitions, and worries that seemed to multiply faster than they could be answered. Jace rather welcomed the change.
After several minutes, his own plate’s portions dwindled sufficiently, Cregan turned to him once more.
"You have flown far," he observed, breaking apart a honey loaf with practiced hands. Jace leaned back in contentment, full at last, grateful for the ease in which conversing with this particular man seemed to occur.
"Some four hundred miles, from White Harbor. A day’s ride on dragonback.”
"Not an easy path this close to winter,” Cregan allowed.
Jace nodded.
"The winds over the Neck were kinder than I feared. North of the moats…" He shook his head with a rueful laugh. "Vermax seemed to enjoy them more than I did."
"I imagine he did."
"You've flown?" The question escaped before Jace thought better of it. Cregan looked almost amused.
"I've fallen from enough horses to know I should keep my feet on the ground." Jace chuckled. “I simply remember accounts of the passages from our traders to the southern ports.”
"No wish to ride a dragon, then?"
"I've enough trouble keeping one castle fed.” He gestured out to the sea of laughing families in front of him, his falsely rueful expression hitting its mark.
For the first time since arriving, they both laughed together openly, any last remnants of frost dissipating between the two men. "I'll confess, I was uncertain of what one feeds a dragon."
"So was I, once." Jace, still smiling, sipped from his goblet.
"What did you settle on?"
"Mostly sheep." Cregan whistled low.
"That seems expensive."
"It is."
"So are wars." Jace met his eyes across the table. The first acknowledgment that both of them knew why a prince had crossed half the realm to Winterfell. Jace debated pursuing the matter then, but thought better of it. Not tonight.
Instead Cregan reached for the ale, raised his cup slightly, and said, "To warm halls." Jace lifted his own and smiled.
"And to good hosts." Cregan inclined his head, mirroring his smile.
"Much easier to come by than warm winters."
The following morning dawned beneath the same iron sky, and Winterfell seemed abuzz with life before the sun had properly risen. Jace gazed out the window of his chambers to the view below of the cityscape.
Smoke curled from a hundred chimneys into the pale morning air, and the courtyards rang already with the rhythm of hammer upon steel. Men crossed between buildings with armfuls of timber balanced across broad shoulders, while women disappeared into the kitchens carrying baskets laden with turnips, onions, and hard winter apples. Stableboys hurried through the snow with pails of water, their cheeks already reddened by the cold. There was a deliberate, steady purpose to every person his eyes landed on, different from the energy he had grown accustomed to, clearly, in the south.
Jace had scarcely finished fastening the clasp of his borrowed cloak when a knock sounded upon his chamber door. Harrion stood waiting, hands folded neatly before him.
“My prince. Lord Stark bids me ask whether you would join him to break your fast.” Jace smiled faintly.
“I would be glad to.” He had expected another meal in the Great Hall, or perhaps to be left to his own devices until Lord Stark found time to receive him again.
Instead, a private invitation.
It was, he reminded himself, nothing more than the courtesy owed a guest beneath Winterfell's roof.
Still, he found himself oddly pleased.
Harrion led him not to the Great Hall, but to a smaller chamber overlooking the inner ward. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and a modest table had been laid with oat bread, smoked trout, soft cheese, boiled eggs, and steaming mulled cider.
Cregan was already there, waiting.
"My prince."
"My lord."
"You've taken to our weather well enough."
"I've survived it."
"That is more than some southerners manage." Jace laughed as he took the offered seat.
There was no ceremony beyond that. No heralds announcing courses, no attendants hovering behind every chair. They were served, certainly, but discreetly, and once the meal was laid the servants withdrew to the edges of the room. It was comfortable, moreso than Jace had expected to find in the seat of the North. He was beginning to suspect there was much prejudice he had yet to overcome, and thought gladly of the stories he’d be able to recount to his mother upon his return.
They ate without hurry.
From the narrow window beside them, Winterfell unfolded beneath a veil of drifting snow.
A pair of blacksmiths argued amiably over the fitting of a horseshoe. Two children, bundled nearly beyond recognition beneath layers of wool and fur, raced one another across the yard before an older woman barked something that sent them scattering in opposite directions. Near the gate, a file of guards drilled with spear and shield, each movement practiced until it bordered on instinct.
"They’ve begun their training quite early," Jace noted.
"They're late." He glanced across the table. Cregan tore another piece of bread before explaining. "They should have begun before first light."
There was no irritation in his voice, the statement so matter-of-fact, Jace found himself watching the men below with renewed interest.
"They don't seem to resent it."
"They've never known otherwise." The answer was so simple that it left nothing further to ask. After a moment Cregan pushed back from the table. "You've seen my hall."
Jace nodded. "And you've seen little else." Cregan fastened the clasp of his cloak. "Come."
They walked without direct escort.
A handful of guards lingered at a respectful distance, near enough to intervene should they somehow be required, far enough that conversation remained their own. Every few paces, someone greeted him.
A mason repairing a frost-split wall inclined his head. An elderly woman emerged from one of the bakehouses carrying fresh loaves beneath a cloth. Cregan acknowledged both by name, neither party lingering, but a courteous air about each interaction nonetheless.
It struck Jace how little ceremony attended the Lord of Winterfell within his own walls. His people did not throw themselves into bows or scramble over one another for his notice. They acknowledged him much as one acknowledged the sunrise—constant, expected, reassuring.
"You know them all," Jace said at last.
"I try." This answer carried no pride. "They're mine to keep." This answer did. Jace didn’t miss what went unsaid, the words so typical of a lord anywhere else. Mine to keep, he had said. Not mine to command.
A sharp wind suddenly whipped between the buildings, carrying with it a spray of fine snow.
Before Jace could pull his cloak tighter, Cregan had unconsciously shifted half a step into its path, left shoulder and pelt taking the worst of it as they continued walking.
The movement was so natural Jace doubted the other man had noticed he'd done it. He said nothing.
Neither did Cregan.
The pair continued their stroll, the young lord of Winterfell occasionally pointing out important structures: the glass gardens, where impossible greenery flourished beneath clouded panes despite the snow outside---a natural form of stubbornness only fitting for the North---the armory, the kennels.
There, a monstrous greyhound lumbered from its place beside the door and ambled straight toward Cregan. Without breaking stride, the young lord scratched behind one ragged ear. The hound leaned into the touch with shameless enthusiasm. Jace watched him a moment longer than he meant to.
The sternness he carried so naturally had softened almost completely then, replaced by an easy warmth reserved, it seemed, for creatures incapable of politics. It was the first time Jace had seen Cregan look his age.
Something unfamiliar settled briefly in Jace's chest when faced with it, but he looked away before he had to give it a name.
They found Vermax in the outer yard.
The young dragon lay curled against the earth, olive-green scales dulled beneath a dusting of snow he seemed wholly content to ignore. At the approach of his rider he lifted his head, rumbling deep in his body.
Jace crossed the yard without thinking, laying a hand against the warm scales beneath Vermax's jaw, an affectionate smile crossing his lips. Vermax answered his touch with another low rumble.
A pair of stableboys hovered several yards away, attempting very hard not to stare. One could not have been older than ten, and flinched the moment Jace noticed him.
"It's all right," Jace said gently. The boy hesitated before stepping closer. His voice was high and young, but the words came out in a rush of curiosity and awe. With a pang, Jace realized it reminded him of Joffrey.
"Does... does he breathe fire all the time?" Jace smiled.
"Only when he has reason." The boy nodded solemnly, as though committing the answer to memory. He backed away to his friend, the two excitedly whispering together as they returned to their posts.
Beside him, Cregan regarded Vermax thoughtfully.
"You’re quite bonded, the pair of you," Jace looked up. The observation had been offered simply, factually, as though Cregan were remarking on the state of the stables.
"Yes. He was a hatchling when I was a baby, chosen by my mother. The custom of her house.”
“I had imagined dragons were harnessed, taught to obey.”
“Obedience is not quite it.” Cregan's attention remained fixed upon Vermax, grey eyes calmly studying the dragon with the same measured curiosity he seemed to reserve for everything unfamiliar.
“No?” Jace shook his head.
“You cannot command a dragon the way you command a horse. Or an army,” He paused, searching for words he had never before been asked to find. “They choose to trust you, and you them.”
“And if they don’t trust you?” Jace let out a breath.
“They remind you. That you've not yet quite earned it.” Cregan’s look turned appraising then, still settled on Vermax. He nodded, and for a while they stood together in companionable silence, broken only by Vermax’s slow, contended rumbles as Jace stroked his forehead. “We grew together, and strange as it might seem, I feel I know him, and him me. He can sense my feelings, my intentions.” The words left him almost before he had realized he had spoken them. It was strange, verbalizing these truths for the first time. Jace was glad it was to the young lord beside him.
"I suppose," Cregan said, "that explains why he looked for you the moment we entered the yard." Jace smiled.
"You noticed?"
"It seemed difficult not to."
He followed Cregan's gaze as Vermax nudged gently against his shoulder with surprising delicacy for so large a creature. A laugh escaped him.
"I suppose he did miss me."
"I suspect," Cregan replied evenly, "the feeling was mutual." The words were spoken without teasing.
Jace glanced sideways.
There was no fear in Cregan’s eyes. Nor the hunger Jace had seen in lesser lords, whose first thought at the sight of a dragon was power. Cregan seemed interested only in understanding not the beast, but the bond.
Scarcely a day in his company, and he already sought to know Jace in one of the only ways that truly, deeply mattered to him.
The thought was strangely thrilling.
By the time they reached the First Keep, the morning had slipped toward noon.
Jace realized, with some surprise, that nearly an entire morning had passed without either of them speaking of crowns or games of succession. Yet it had not felt wasted. Far from it, he felt he understood the man beside him better than any amount of negotiation across a table could have managed.
Cregan rested one gloved hand upon the weathered stone of an ancient tower.
"There is one place left." Jace followed his gaze northward.
Far beyond Winterfell's walls, the horizon disappeared into white.
"The Wall?" Cregan nodded once.
"If you're to ask the North to fight for your mother,"
His grey eyes met Jace's.
"You should first see what the North has always fought for."
Another jolt of the lift yanked Jace out of his reverie. Cregan was explaining the duties of the men of the wall, the history of how he had come to support it, the honor-bound nature of the assignment.
“The North must stand ready,” he said firmly, staring out at the seemingly endless rise of the wall’s ice. “Winter is coming.” Jace looked at him, incredulous.
“Coming?” he pressed, eyes widened slightly and the start of a disbelieving laugh coloring his voice. He glanced around at the thick snowfall around them as he felt Cregan’s eyes land on him. “What is this then, that falls from the skies and shivers my bones?” Cregan looked down, amused.
“This is only a light summer’s snow, my prince. In winter, it will cover all you see, and all memories of warmth will be forgotten.” His eyes were on Jace, and in that moment he saw his opening.
“It pleases me to think that over a century ago, our ancestors treated in this very place.” He offered a courteous, trained smile. “The Conqueror, and the King in the North.” His smile dropped slightly when Cregan’s mouth drew in a line. If it weren’t for the slight jump in his tone, Jace might’ve thought he was serious. He suspected, still, that the Winterfell lord was only partially joking, when he returned,
“You, at least, had the mercy not to threaten me with your dragon.”
His walk was broad, towering, now as they made their way out of the lift. In the narrow passes between the path’s walls he seemed to encompass thrice the space of an average man, his wolf’s coat billowing around broad shoulders, ancestral greatsword a menacing load behind his left ear. Everything about him echoed strength in equal parts severity; the kind of essence only a Lord of Winterfell could attain.
Jace had the sudden thought that nothing in the world could upset him. He seemed, in all aspects of the word, unshakeable. But this was not about shaking the man, or claiming a great strength over him, he reminded himself. He tried again, continuing, as he followed the Warden.
“Surely, the great Torrhen Stark would’ve sooner died than bent the knee.” He felt Cregan barely a pace behind him, and paused to meet his eyes as they walked. “Unless he believed the Conqueror could bring unity to the Seven Kingdoms.”
“You are right, in that,” Cregan conceded.
“That unity is now threatened, “ Jace pressed on, “The realm will soon tear itself apart, if men do not remember the oath sworn to King Viserys, and to his rightful heir.”
“Starks do not forget their oaths, my prince,” Cregan’s Northern accent curled around each of his words, stretching out each long vowel with a heavy lilt akin to the drawling pace of his sigil’s direwolf. “But you must know, my gaze is forever torn between north and south. In winter, my duty to the wall is even more dire than the one I owe to King’s Landing. I need my men here.” He stopped walking then, and Jace circled around him, face determined and more severe than Cregan had yet seen it.
“Whilst your men guard against Wildlings and weather, the Hightowers plan to usurp the throne,” he said forcefully. The anger was apparent, steps past brewing beneath the surface. Try as he might to control it, Jace had not the patience to hide it much longer. Cregan moved past him then, his imposing figure seeming to tower over the prince. Jace straightened in turn, refusing to let up, and followed his path up the snow-buried steps to the outlook point as he continued. “If my mother is to defend her claim, to hold the realm united, she needs an army.” He looked to the side as the beams of the post finally began to give way to the highest viewing point. “War is coming, to the whole of the realm, my lord. We cannot wage it without the support of the north--”
His voice trailed off and died on the last word as he came face to face with the world beyond the Wall for the first time. Cregan was stopped a few steps behind him, and Jace could feel his gaze sharp on the back of his head. Jace took a few measured steps closer to the banister, mouth parted slightly.
The air felt dark, imposing, almost sinister. He suddenly understood why Cregan had brought him here to discuss his request. The stories about the strange ways of the North, the honor-bound Starks and their dedication to the Wall, fables of the Night’s Watch, all paled in comparison when faced with the beyond of the hundreds of miles, of hundreds of feet of ice. The stretch of haunted forest, dark, and foreboding, expanding outwards for leagues. Jagged mountain ranges, where even from Jace’s protected position appeared looming and treacherous, giving way to desolate wasteland as far as the eye could see. It felt like the ends of the earth. So lost was he in this revelation, robbed for words, that he had to steel himself not to jump when Cregan spoke suddenly, moving closer to him.
“My father brought King Jahaerys and Queen Alysanne to see the Wall.” His eyes burned into Jace’s profile as the prince continued to look outwards. “His Grace stood at this very outlook, and watched as their dragons, the greatest power in the world, refused to cross it.” The wind was howling, swirling around them at this height, and Jace could not find it in him yet to speak. He met Cregan’s eyes, which were serious, searching, “Do you think my ancestors built a seven hundred foot wall of ice, to keep out snow and savages?”
The pockets of steam billowing out from Jace’s hot breath with every word he spoke suddenly seemed even more apparent.
“What does it keep out?” Cregan didn’t speak for several beats, maintaining unwavering eye contact. It sent a strange rush down Jace’s spine to hold it.
“Death.”
They stood in silence. Jace hardly knew how to fill the space between them, but as Cregan turned to glance below them and back, he let it linger, allowing himself another look beyond the pass as reprieve. Cregan’s eyebrows furrowed momentarily, but his eyes trained themselves on Jace’s profile once more as he finally spoke.
“I have thousands of greybeards, who’ve already seen too many winters.” Another pause. Jace glanced at him. “They are,” a shadow of a smile seemed to pass Cregan’s face then, the pride of a Lord that knew well the might of his seat, “well-honed.”
Jace fought down a smile then, seeing his chance at last to diffuse.
“So they’re old?” The joke slipped past his lips before he could stop it, and he watched as Cregan’s eyes flashed with amusement, one side of his mouth twitching up almost imperceptibly. He nodded away, briefly, and Jace felt a rush of a victory in his chest. Cregan seemed to draw his cheeks to compose himself before continuing.
“I can ready them to march at once.”
Jace nodded in acknowledgement, face full of barely controlled mirth, still, at his temporary success. A larger smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth, and it took considerable effort to keep it small. He stared out past the wall, forcing himself to remember the reason he was truly here---his princely duties, and service to the realm, no less---beyond the simple, reactive pleasure drawn from amusing, if even for a moment, the young Lord of Winterfell.
“If your greybeards can fight,” he paused, turning towards Cregan before continuing. “The queen will have them.” He maintained Cregan’s gaze then, his chin set slightly upwards, almost an undertone of challenge in his tone. The icy wind blew errant curls across his forehead. But he didn’t move until the other responded.
“They fight hard,” Cregan said, by all accounts earnestly, but there was a spark of something deeper behind his eyes. His voice was deep and soft, as if sharing a valuable secret. He leaned closer to Jace, then, head angled in towards the young prince as a smirk broke through his placid demeanor. A glint of something wilder passed across his face. “Like Northerners,” he drawled.
Jace’s eyes fought against the urge to blink, rapidly, and he told himself it was due to the biting cold, and nothing more.
Unbidden, he wondered if fighting was the only hard thing Northerners did.
The thought sliced through him as if from Cregan’s own Valyrian steel, briefly inviting flashes of images entirely inappropriate for the situation.
A thick wolf’s coat shrugging off of broad shoulders, his back hitting cold granite walls.
The push of a rough hand against his jaw.
Jace tried desperately to tamp them down, swallowing, shocked at himself, and suddenly very grateful for the bitter conditions as an excuse for his glacial reactions. He squinted out past the wall, knowing without looking that Cregan was, of course, still watching him.
It was ironic, really. That a man with an ancestral derision towards dragons seemed to hold an uncanny ability to track his every move with the same prowess of one. It took enormous effort to meet his eyes.
“I have no doubt of it.” A beat. “The realm thanks you.” Jace exhaled then. There. Good. A verbal breaking of this odd tension that had seemed to rob the small lookout of air for the precious few past seconds. His position, a prince, with the man before him, a bannerman for the cause.
Cregan nodded, roughly, looking away at last.