The North did not often see princes, it saw heirs to thrones that laid leagues away even less. Even lesser did princes charm a lord reputed as formidably stern as Cregan. Charmed. Cregan had grown to dislike that word. It implied softness, that his heart was easily opened by a mere set of calculated words that came from a smooth, silver-tongue. Cregan had reputations to uphold. Reputations that he was not cruel, but instead stern and closed off. The Wolf of Winterfell opened his heart to few, and prince Jacaerys had been one of many to be barred from the tenderness that lay beneath his ice, and yet he begrudgingly found himself being charmed. When had the politeness ebbed into friendship? Into camaraderie? Into something else he dare not put a name to? A gradual decline, he would like to believe, for none would believe that Cregan Stark had grown lonely. Lonely in a way that he kept to himself, tightly held and refusing to allow anyone else see it. He was not a man who desired for glory, grandiosity or gold, yet his desire for a true friend was the only thing just beyond his grasp. Jacaerys, however, was within his grasp. The way his prince behaved, he wondered if perhaps the prince was all too eagerly in his grasp.
Their friendship was unlikely, but that made it no less strong. The North was well known as being a reserved region. The South could play its games and have its scandals, for Cregan always believed the North was best when it held its own. Jacaerys was, admittedly, not the type of man Cregan would normally seek companionship in. When he had first come to his gates, sliding from the back of his dragon with all the grace of a cat, he had almost immediately decided that their meetings would be curt. He had no interest in whatever wars were fought over a chair, and he had held even less care for whatever pampered, perfumed princes that were sent to woo him. These people knew nothing of him. Of his people, his religion, his mere way of life. He could not fathom why good men should march off and die for dragonlords, why any man should. He had half a mind to scruff the back of Jacaerys’s neck and send him sprawling in the snow, to send him back to Dragonstone, or whatever sweltering hellhole he had come from. Cregan was intelligent to know what consequences would come from laying his hands upon a prince, but he was now haunted by the wish to lay his hands upon Jacaerys in other ways.
Other ways he would not acknowledge. Could not acknowledge. He could not, and neither could Jacaerys. If Cregan recalled correctly, his prince was already betrothed. Promised to another. The simple string of words grated on his nerves, made his jaw clench so tightly it was a wonder his teeth had not cracked from the pressure. Promised to another. As if a man could truly hold any promise, no matter how dire it may be. Another, and oh how that word truly grinded away at his resolve. Jacaerys seemed to be enjoying himself here in the North. As far as Cregan could see, anyhow. He had never been a man easily versed in the art of reading people, but he could hold hope that Jacaerys had found some delight in a place he no doubt thought of as an icy, barren wasteland. He liked it enough to stay as long as he had thus far, why not stay? Cregan would not be displeased by seeing him day-to-day, by having him always in arms reach. By having him closer than arms reach, if the gods were truly willing. The crypts beneath Winterfell were warm enough, and he held enough affection for Jacaerys that he would not even mind his ever-miserable dragon remaining in his crypts. Let the beast stay beneath Winterfell, Cregan thought. Whenever Vermax and his rider were reunited, Jacaerys never stayed on the ground for long. He seemed to prefer his dragon to horse, for Cregan could not blame him for, but that did not disparage the feelings of irritation whenever Jacaerys was not within his direct line of sight.
Jacaerys seemed to give his smiles to Cregan with ease, and he found himself grasping at the thought of what other facial expressions his mere presence could bring to his face. Grasping, but he would never hold onto it. He was once again forced to think if Cregan was alone in his feelings, or if perhaps Jacaerys felt them too. If he kept them as tightly to himself as Cregan did, or if he felt nothing at all. If he merely thought of Cregan as a steppingstone, a savage man who would live and die for his mother leagues away from here. He would be delighted to show Jacaerys how savage he could truly be, but he was less delighted at the idea that Jacaerys may see him as nothing at all. Cregan easily took up a room, demanding respect and attention without having to utter a word, and even Jacaerys’s imagined disrespect was enough to bring about a sourness in the back of his throat. It sat there like bile, but he dared not wretch it up yet. Not here, where eyes and ears were everywhere all at once. Jacaerys spoke, but he hardly heard whatever words came off his tongue, instead he was too busy peering at his face. A delightful lad, truly. He would like to touch his hair, to thread his fingers through his thick, dark locks and feel the softness of them beneath his skin. It would be so easy to manuever and force his head any which way, but he was curious if Jacaerys would get cross with him if he did such a thing. Cregan would like to see him displeased, and whatever attitude that came with his displeasure would be dealt with as well.
He had grown distracted, too busy staring at Jacaerys and his perfect face that he had hardly noticed him grasping at his wrist. The contact startled him, as if he had stepped back outside into the cold. His hands were not as soft as he had expected, and he supposed that the sword he kept at his hip was not just for show. His hands were not so soft, but his touch surely was. The back of his neck erupted with heat, pale skin steadily giving way to a warm, pink flush that painted over the apples of his cheeks. He hoped it would not be too noticeable, or if it was, he did not expect any comment on it. Blushing like a maiden girl on her wedding night was utterly beneath him. Cregan forced a steady breath out through his nostrils despite his rabbiting pulse, his throat growing as dry as a Dornish desert. “I am, as is expected of me.” He replied gruffly, and his own voice sounded strange to his ears. “You seem eager.” He continued, his touch feeling like a burn, but he could not bring himself to pull away. “I imagine that you have grown tired of my company by now.” He said it with a huff of laughter, but he expected (and hoped) that he would deny it.
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