𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗧 𝙰𝚃 𝗦𝗘𝗔

𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 ─ ᵗʰᵉʳᵉ'ˢ ᵃ ˢᵒᵘˡ ᶠⁱʳᵉˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ 𝖇𝖚𝖗𝖓 𝖋𝖔𝖗

[jacaeryse]

   the sigh of the shifting sea , the kiss of the salt-sweet breeze . the white of her silken dress , stained in red . a memory fading fast . his mother sits , eyes downcast a torn uniform in hand ,  farewells unsaid .

⟢ JACAERYSE ... an independent, mutually exclusive & selective writing blog for Jacaerys Velaryon of GRRM's fire and blood/HOTD. Book, television and headcanon based. he/him. 21+ ONLY, minors DNI! please read rules before interacting. ─── written by 𝒹𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓎𝓈𝓊𝓈

[awinterswolf]

Unbecoming. A fitting word, he admitted to that fact begrudgingly, and yet Jacaerys had no right to chastise him for teasing. That was all the prince had done to him since he had first climbed from that wretched, fire-breathing beast of his, smoke wrought around its horns whilst the prince made demands of him as if he held the leash of the wolf. He does now, a more willing part of him whispered. Internally, he strangled that thought till it fizzled out and died, as it ought to. In the beginning, the teasing had been scarcely more than amusing to Cregan. He was never the type of man to enjoy games, and that was what he had reduced Jacaerys and his behavior to. Games. Games played by a delicate, hot-blooded prince who knew nothing of him, his people, or what a single shred of hardship looked like. Cregan still clung to his virtue with a grip so tight it ought to hurt his fingers, and he had to wonder when it had begun to ebb away. Perhaps the virtue had faded the moment Jacaerys came to Winterfell, his skin smelling of smoke and dragon, his hair swept and pulled by the wind, his eyes dark with a determination that Cregan was forced to respect. Maybe the virtue had weaned when they had first gone hunting together. The young lord had made quite a skilled shot, embedding his arrow clean through the eye of an impressive buck, and Jacaerys had praised him for it. He could recall it as clearly as if it had been a mere moment ago. The prince had appraised his shot, and had rested his hand upon his bicep. His touch had been light, but the weight of it was like lead. He could almost still feel the touch, engrained into his very flesh. Once more was Cregan forced to realize how easily Jacaerys undid him, and he swallowed back the bitterness of the consideration that, perhaps, his virtue had never been there to begin with.

“I would like to see that ferocity.” He heard himself saying, his voice a low, cool husk. His grip tightened, squeezing Jacaerys’s fingers harder than intended. His eyes drag down the litheness of his body, settling on his feet, and how he has to stand on the tips of his toes to be able to reach his face. He had not noticed the stark height differences between them, and yet it made his throat go dry and his belly feel as if someone had lit a fire inside of him. He watched with a hungering intensity as Jacaerys ran the muscle of his tongue over the points of his canines, licking over his lips. If Jacaerys had tried such a daring move even a mere few weeks before, the outcome would have been led down a much different, more defensive path. But Cregan could not find it within himself to act that way. Maybe the man he thought he had been was gone, burned up to a cinder in the prince’s heat. His body moved without accord, tilting his head downward in a manner that made the muscles in his neck sore, but the soreness was a mere afterthought. Their noses touched, just barely, before they were rudely interrupted. He felt his face swelter with heat as he pulled back his head, shoving Jacaerys’s hand down his chest, feeling a tremor run up his spine as his fingers just hardly grazed the firmness of his stomach beneath the layers of his clothing. 

For once, Cregan was grateful for Jacaerys’s ever-running mouth, as all Cregan could do was gape and flush like a maid. For a man that Cregan deemed one of his closest friends, Cerwyn surely had hellish timing, something he would brood over for the rest of the night, to the lord's displeasure. He forced his face into a stern mask, furrowing his brows at the suspiciously cheeky smile that Jacaerys dared to give him whilst he trailed behind Cerwyn as they descended back down the stairs. For a moment, all Cregan could do was stand in the hallway and process the madness of what had just happened, before roughly dragging a hand over his flushed face and trailing behind them. Jacaerys seemed to like to tease him, as he dragged him into a torturously handsy dance, and even whilst he danced with a woman for a short moment, fair of face as she may have been, he traitorously felt nothing. Not even a stirring, as other men may have felt. It frightened him, but he would not allow himself to be frightened of a foolish thing such as feelings. 

The night offered Cregan solitude, but no answers to the questions that swirled freely about in his head. The hour grew late, the moon glowing ghostly white in the black ink of the sky, and all he could do was stare out of the window and ponder. Pondering on everything. On him, on Jacaerys, on his late wife who he had believed he loved. He had loved her, perhaps once. Perhaps it was love of a different breed. He sat on the edge of his bed, cloak grasped in his hands, boots unlaced, gloves tossed unceremoniously to the side somewhere, tunic untucked and unlaced, allowing the cool air of the night to kiss at his skin. His teeth ground together as the door opened, the hinges whining with age and wear. He turned his head, eyeing Jacaerys through the thick of the night. He could not see him, but the moonlight allowed him to see the dark blotch of his form in the darkness. His heart leapt up into his throat as the prince climbed into his bed, settling his hand onto his shoulder. Cregan forced out an exhale, the sound shaky as it escaped his lips. His hands fisted in the material of his pants, thinking. Debating. This was wrong, and inappropriate of both of them, yet it had been so long since he had shared his bed, since he had truly held anyone. And once more, he caved to the prince, bowing to his every ask and demand. “As you wish.” He replied, forcing his words into a low whisper as he allowed his arm to slide along Jacaerys’s torso, settling hesitantly onto his hip.

[jacaeryse]

Dancing with Cregan had been so exhilarating that he was still drunk on the sensation of it. Those big strong hands on his waist. That stern face smiling down at him, cheeks flushed with color. Jace wanted to imprint that sight upon his memory forever. It came as no surprise that the northern lord was quick on his feet. He was a fabled swordsman, and dancing was only a slightly different form of battle. Cregan had been able to keep up with with plenty of fair maidens, though Jace could tell that he held no interest for them. He would glance over, often catching those stormy grey eyes upon him. Jace felt like he belonged to Cregan in that moment. That he was tempting the wolf by daring to dance with another. Cregan must have known that the prince would return to him in time. Their almost kiss had ignited a fire in Jace's gut, one that would only be quenched by pressing their lips together. Even if he was risking everything to satisfy his own selfish desire. Jace had done everything to prove that he was a worthy heir to the throne, surely he could afford a night of selfishness? His mother would never know. His future subjects would be none the wiser. Nobody but Cregan and Jace had to ever know what transpired between them. Though it pained the prince that it must be so. If he desired another man he should have been allowed to do so without prejudice. His mother and Laenor had made arrangements that benefited them both. Jace had no idea how to breach the subject of Cregan Stark without blanching at the very thought of it. But Jace had time to mull it over. For now he wanted to do nothing but focus on the wolf before him. When Cregan calls back to him in the gloom, Jace can't help but smile. He knew he wouldn't be denied. He had seen how quickly the man's resolve had crumbled when tempted with a kiss. Jace had no idea that he could have that effect on a man nearly twice his size. He was drunk on the thought of it.

"How easily you yield to me." Jace chuckles, leaning into the arm that travels around his waist. He inches closer to Cregan until absolutely no distance remains between them. Laying down their size difference wasn't as noticeable. He didn't have to crane his neck to look up at the wolf like this. It almost felt like they were on a level playing field, yet Jace held all the power. His hand trails up Cregan's waist, dipping beneath the fabric of his tunic. Jace's breath hitches in his throat. The man's skin was so warm beneath his fingers. So unlike the chilly air of the north just outside. There's a moment of silence that follows while Jace trace's over the man's hips. He can't make out Cregan's features in the dark, but he knows the man is looking down at him. "Kiss me, sir." Jace whispers, leaning up, licking over his lips in preparation for what is to come.

[deadwillful]

@jacaeryse asked: May I have the honor of wearing your favor today, my lady?

Lyanna  blinked  once,  clearly  not  expecting  the  question.  For  a  moment  she  simply  stared  at  him,  as  though  deciding  whether  he  was  teasing  her.  Then  the  corner  of  her  mouth  twitched  upward.  "A  favor?"  she  repeated.  The  tournament  grounds  were  full  of  knights  boasting  about  victories  they  had  not  yet  won  and  ladies  pretending  not  to  enjoy  the  attention.  Lyanna  had  never  cared  much  for  either  game.  Still,  hearing  the  request  from  Prince  Jaecerys  himself  left  her  oddly  aware  of  the  ribbon  tied  around  her  wrist.  She  untied  it  with  quick  fingers  and  held  it  out  between  them.

  "If  you  wear  it,  Your  Grace,  then  you  had  better  make  certain  it  returns  to  me."  There  was  challenge  in  her  voice,  not  hesitation.  The  same  look  settled  in  her  grey  eyes  whenever  she  mounted  a  horse  too  spirited  for  anyone  else's  liking.  "I  would  hate  to  think  a  prince  of  House  Targaryen  could  lose  something  entrusted  to  him."  The  smile  she  gave  him  widened  slightly  before  she  pressed  the  ribbon  into  his  hand.  "And  if  you  mean  to  win  today,  then  I  suppose  I'd  rather  have  my  favor  carried  by  the  victor  than  left  in  my  pocket."

[jacaeryse]

It wasn't everyday that the Heir to the Throne took part in a tourney. Jacaerys had decided upon arriving that he wouldn't just sit beside his mother. He wanted to prove himself, and to show the public that he was no delicate princeling. And while he was much more comfortable on dragonback, he could just as easily handle a horse. Rhaenya wasn't thrilled with the prospect of her eldest son, one already subjected to vicious rumors enlisting in the tournament. If he failed it would become yet another barb that could be used against him. Jace was determined to win the entire thing to prove himself to his future subjects, and to silence his detractors. By even volunteering he had earned the adoration of the crowd. No matter what they whispered about his dark hair and dark eyes, there was no denying his targaryen beauty.

Jacaerys had borrowed a suit of the finest armor the local blacksmith could afford the prince on such short notice. Jace decorated it with a red cape, identifying him as the heir to the throne. The makeshift look of it made Jace feel like an amateur. Other knights had came with full regalia, sporting the sigils of their houses and fine plumage. Jace was certain that if he had expressed any interest in the tourney that his mother would have dressed him up to the nines. He didn't mind, either way. He was there to win. Looking the part mattered very little if he got knocked on his arse. Every knight needed one thing in a tourney, however; The favor of a fair maiden. Jace couldn't think of better to ask than Lyanna Stark. He takes the ribbon offered to him before tying it around his own wrist. It meshed well with the deep wine color of the cape he wore. "This prince will do his best to make sure it returns to you." He winks up at the maiden. "How are you enjoying the festivities?"

[jacaeryse]

these spoilers... throw the whole show out. and idk if I'll even watch it. because if I don't then my boy doesn't have to suffer through that.

[sunstiana]

One last ride…

[jacaerysvelaryonn]

Jacaerys Velaryon in Every Scene (Wheel Spinner Edition) Talking to Rhaenyra on the Balcony

[calisources]

𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒.

All of these sentences are mostly taking by my own mind and i'm not joking. It was hard finding material quotes regarding tournaments in historical or fantasy setting. Some are from shows or media but eighty percent is all from my own mind, please give credit if use these. Change pronouns, names, locations as you see fit. All of these involve the medieval event of a tournament and what happens around them.

I fear I am already bending far too many rules just by taking you, my young princess.

Show me your hands, you will have blisters soon.

Lady Eglantine doesn’t believe in love, only lust.

In the world of competition, only the strongest shall prevail.

A true champion is not defined by their victories, but by the obstacles they've overcome.

Victory is sweetest when it's earned through sweat, hard work, and determination.

Will you not participate in the tourney, my lord? 

May I have the honor of wearing your favor today, my lady?

Good luck to you, my Prince.

The tournament is not just a test of skill, but a test of character as well.

Is it always this bloody? Will those poor men die? Someone must see them.

I want him to wear my favor.  Only him. 

If he wins, the knight has the right to name his Queen of Love and Beauty. And at the feast, they shall dance.

Be careful. A tourney is a grand place for courtly love, but also, for blood to rise and affairs to appear.

Call me what you like, say I'm without honor, I don't care. I'm not getting on any more horses to whack you people with a stick.

Kings may be chosen by God, but they still make the mistakes of men.

When even those who rule can sink this low, it is not possible to change anything.

It's my lucky charm, be sure to bring it back to me.

My favorite blue ribbon. Take it.

It will bring you good fortune and you will return from joust unharmed.

I was hoping to ask for the Princess's favor.

How about a kiss, for luck?

Courtly love was the culture around the performance of love at court.

And now, rather than admit these feelings, you're dancing around one another with this mind-numbing and frankly boorish mating ritual.

The knights take on the duties of shadows with pride.

Whoever wins the tournament, shall become the prince/princess’ new betrothed.

You want to marry my daughter? Prove yourself worthy.

Petyr survived only because I begged Brandon not to kill him.

When Petyr heard of my engagement, he challenged Brandon to a duel. 

You do qualify to marry my daughter.

What matters most is who she will give her favor to. 

Her face is one that can create dynasties or crumble empires.

I was hoping for a word before you rode on the tourney, my Prince. 

My brother is the one competing against you, please be gentle with him.

The games are done for the day, please, feast and drink as you wish. 

You have been staring all day, my lord. I was beginning to wonder if I had something in my face.

Any damsel that's in distress - she'll be out of that dress when she meets Jim West.

Great men do not seek power... they have power thrust upon them.

My daughter seems. . .infatuated with you. I have yet to see why.

The princess is naive and thinks any man who is kind means well. A tournament will only show her the reality of life.

You honor the arena with your combat. May your swords and shield preserve the peace.

In the songs all knights are gallant, all maids are beautiful, and the sun is always shining.

I will be brave for Princess Pea.

As a squire, your first duty is to your knight’s armor. Your knight’s armor is more important than your own life. 

You will be knighted and you will have earned your knighthood.

You are hurt. At least let me tend to your wound.

The men laugh and fight and the ladies search for husbands.

Nothing like a good tournament to find a husband, or a companion for the night. 

Rumors are always spread with ease in these.

Can I have your daughter for the rest of my life?

You say I'll never get your blessing till the day I die.

We're married now, but we still haven't told your dad. This is the right time.

Are you promised to someone?

My sister's getting married. It's a love match. A rare thing. I’m not so lucky. My husband is to be chosen by who can hold a sword the longer.

Why can’t women participate in the games?

There are games for the ladies, Your Grace. But they are less. . .gruesome. And of course, the dancing.

Princes and Princess all over the realm and across the sea are coming for this event. You must shine brighter.

Let me help you with your armor. It appears loose.

As I promised, I return your favor to you, my lady. 

The Prince never loses a joust. He will crown his queen and then all will be well.

I do not understand the appeal of this. 

I spend days making these favors, let me stay a little longer.

My lady, I do not need your favor to win, but perhaps, a kiss of good faith. 

I do not care who wins these games, your hand is already arranged for another.

Men are scoundrel, specially when blood runs hot after a good battle, stray away from them.

These games are done in honor of the king’s heir.

The lord’s daughter is said to have bloomed, and the man chooses to announce it like this. 

A tournament is for men to boost their strength, fathers sell their daughters like mares and for affairs to happen.

I saw you on the stands today, my lord. But you did not participate on the games.

My brother wishes to dance with you, my lady. He is all too shy to ask himself.

You were injured. Have you allowed someone to heal them or are you too stubborn to let them?

Princess, you must not stray too far away. 

Mother is too drunk and annoyed to care, she won’t mind. 

[jacaeryse]

you should write more youre good at it 🍓

aw, thanks! I don't get on here as often as I should, but if you're ever interested I also have an indie and write on discord as well.

[awinterswolf]

His prince’s smile was as deadly as poison. As potent as acid, all it did was melt and gnaw on his resolve. Jacaerys’s affections were a hungry wolf and all it had done in the last few moons of his presence was lick clean the resistance that still clung to his bones. Cregan was a man unmoving, and a word many men would grasp for when describing the wolf of the North was resilient. Not even his late lady wife, Arra, had undone him so. It was not to say Cregan did not hold some love for her, then and even now, but his affections had been restrained to those one may hold towards a friend. He cared for her, as deeply as a man could, yet she roused little in him. Their union and his son was one marked by a certain duty, and Cregan had always been a man of duty, even as a whelp. And yet his feelings of duty had begun to wean. Was it not a sin to feel such things? Perhaps so, many would declare such a thing, and boldly too. Cregan held the Old Gods close to his heart, as befitted a Northman, and yet he could not bring himself to part with his base emotions. The Old Gods had never materialized before him, had never caused a spur in his heart or lit a flame in his belly that refused to extinguish no matter how much he tried to smother it. Yet Jacaerys had. The prince had been nothing but steadfast since his wretched beast had first landed in his courtyard.

It was angering, almost. Jacaerys did him as easily as if he were unwinding a thread from a spool of wool, and it warred Cregan's thoughts. Perhaps it was purposeful. Royals liked to play their games, and no matter how desperately he may like to think otherwise, love had not brought Jacaerys to the North. War had brought him here, and Cregan and his men merely served as a step for the Queen to tread upon so she may reach her throne. A large step, but a step nonetheless. It caused a strange twinge within his chest whenever he thought of it in that light. Had the Usurper not seized the throne, Cregan would have never seen Jacaerys’s face. That made him uncomfortable, that perhaps the relationship he had cultivated may not have even existed, had things been just slightly different. And yet a strangely hopeful side of him wondered if, just maybe, this behavior that Jacaerys presented to him was not so purposeful. Perhaps it was real. It felt real. Felt so real, that Cregan could reach out to touch him and he was assured that he would not pull away. He hoped he would not pull away. Cregan did not dream often, and yet lately, his were filled with visions of soft touches and murmurs of things he could not hear, but comforted him nonetheless. Some nights, he thought he may be dreaming of Arra, but most nights he was positive it was Jacaerys he dreamt of. No woman nor man he knew had eyes so gentle nor hair so dark, and damn his gentle eyes. Damn him, and whatever game he played, if any at all. 

Cregan could see his lips moving whilst he talked, but whatever words he spoke fell on deaf ears. His voice was little more than a distant hum, a delicate lullaby that would have made him sleepy, had he not been so unpleasantly hot and flustered beneath his eyes. Cregan had taken a hope-filled note that Jacaerys hadn’t touched a drop of ale, but the torchlight gave a gleam to his eyes that suggested he may be drunk on the thrill. And yet, Cregan did not feel thrilled. What settled in his belly was hardly a thrill or even lust, but something akin to… confusion. He ought not be doing such a thing, cozying up with a prince before his people. He ought not be doing these things or feeling these things, but he could not help it. Gods, he simply could not help that Jacaerys set his heart ablaze. Jacaerys even had the gall to touch him. It was not a touch meant to be shared between men, yet he did it anyway. He laid his hand onto his chest, chest above the rapid stuttering and throbbing of his heart. A startled, strangled sound began in his throat, and only sinking his teeth into the soft, velvety flesh of his inner cheek stopped it. He could hardly think of his actions before he was moving, settling his own hand above the prince's hand, fingers twitching as if he wished to lace together their fingers. “Not likely.” He replied, and his voice sounded strange and breathless to his ears. “Yet I may be inclined to bite.” His throat went dry and tight at his own words, and he found himself inclining his head towards Jacaerys, exhaling forcefully through his nose like the breath of a dragon.

[jacaeryse]

"It's unbecoming to tease a prince." Jace replies, watching as Cregan settles one of his large paws over his own. They fit perfectly together. Two broken pieces joined together once more. "If you don't bite I'll be compelled to do so, and dragons can be quite ferocious." Jacaerys didn't know that he would be able to stop if he indulged himself. He had spent his entire life restrained, weighted down by his duty as heir to the throne. Courting Cregan Stark had been of his own volition, and the prince desperately wanted to consummate their budding relationship. With the wolf looming over him, Jace bravely stepped forward into still unknown territory. It infuriates the prince that he has to step on the very tips of his toes to even try to kiss Cregan. He licks over his lips, shuts his eyes, and anticipates what would be his very first kiss. If only Cerwyn hadn't called out to Cregan below. Over the music he can hear the man stomping upstairs to gather his lord and their prince. Jace stumbles backward, face flushed with color and embarrassment. Not that they had almost been caught, but that he had thrown himself so willingly to Cregan. "Aye. What's taking you two?" Cerwyn stood at the top of the stairs, looking over the pair who looked absolutely mortified. Jace falls back into his princely air quickly. It was as if he hadn't been willing to risk it all for just a taste of Cregan moments before. "I had misplaced my sword. Cregan was helping me find it." He comes up with a quick excuse that he knows Cerwyn won't question. "Now lead the way, ser." Jace follows after the man, giving a smile of acknowledgement to Cregan who would no doubt have to gather his wits. Jace had discovered that the northern lord was a lot more sensitive than he let on. Being nearly discovered by Cerwyn of all people would have shaken Cregan to his core. Downstairs Jace fell into the revelry without skipping a beat. He joined in on a dance, that required switching partners often. When he spots Cregan he tugs the man onto the dancefloor, refusing any objections. The bards sang loudly, strumming their lyres, and beating their drums while the crown prince dance amongst his people. Jace's attention didn't stray from Cregan from long. Even while a pretty maiden twirled with him, he thought of the northern lord. They would catch each other's eyes while dancing with another, and Jace silently promised that he would return to Cregan in time. Hours passed, and finally the inn was quiet. Several wolves were asleep at the bar, while others had taken to bedrooms and to their own homes. Jace, on the other hand, stood outside of Cregan Stark's room. He opened the door slowly as to not make noise before stepping into the dark. "My Lord?" Jace calls out into the gloom, stepping out of his shoes so that he can climb upon his bed. There is a massive shape on the bed, one he can only assume is his wolf. "Going to bed already? I'm sorry if I wore you out." Jace teases, settling a hand upon Cregan's shoulder. His mouth is dry, knowing what will happen well into the early hours of the morning. "But if you'll indulge me, ser. I would very much like to be held by you."

[nixscriptum]

[awinterswolf]

All this fault fell on the shoulders of Jacaerys, not that Cregan would ever allow himself to bare his deeper feelings to him. Not that Cregan thought the prince unworthy of knowing, he could hardly admit to himself that it was the opposite of that. It was a strange sense of… fear. A thought that would have caused him to laugh a mere few moons before, but it was now his startling, new reality. His new reality of longing. Longing for someone he could not have, or perhaps he could have Jacaerys, but never truly. An affair of that nature would never be looked upon with a kind eye, and Cregan knew that, and had known that for weeks. No matter how much Cregan liked to imagine him otherwise, he was not such a dolt that he could forget that Jacaerys was a man. Prince of Dragonstone. Prince or princess, what royal would abandon their crown in favor of some icy, stern Northern lord? Not one with their wits about them, surely, and Jacaerys had a steady head on his shoulders with a deep sense of purpose that even he could admire. Admire, albeit quietly. Whatever gods had played their hand in his creation must have looked down upon and found some twisted, sickening amusement in making this way. Cregan would always have a tender spot in his heart for the Norrey girl, his late wife, his late friend, but her memory was but a whisper now. Some nights, when the day had tired him and worn him down to his bones, he could almost see a sliver of Arra in Jacaerys. The eyes, perhaps. Maybe the smile. The tenderness was the emotion he thought most likely. 

If only Jacaerys could know how deeply and terribly he undid him. Cregan’s resolve was little more than a spool of yarn, and every night and every day was another thread pulled loose, more of his restraint pulled impossibly thin. So thin, it had begun to fray and twist at its edges. Cregan had, for the better part of his life, been surrounded by other men. Men his age, men his seniors and men his juniors. Maesters and soldiers, bannermen who were once sworn to his father, now sworn to him. He had known many men in his life, yet none had made him feel quite so soft and taken aback as Jacaerys did. At first, he had blamed the tenderness on their friendship. On the camaraderie that he had not wished for, but the prince and his constant company had caused anyways. He had thought that he had allowed himself to soften, that the close contact of one he called friend had stiffed Lord Stark and instead brought out the man beneath the lordly facade. In the beginning, perhaps that had been the case. Yet Cregan had never thought of any friends in the light he thought of Jacaerys. He had never once pondered about the softness of their skin, if his sun-kissed flesh bruised as easily as he may have hoped. If he would blush and shy from him like a delicate maid, or if he would look him in the eye like a man might. Cregan had never looked upon his friends and desired to make any of them his lady. Perhaps the solitude had finally begun to fray and rot his typically steady mind. Perhaps he missed his dear Arra more than he allowed himself to admit. He did miss her, in certain aspects. And yet, what was the mere ghost of a girl in comparison to a living man who could see through the lord to the man beneath?

Nothing. He tried to think, his self-reassurance feeling as weak and flimsy as straw. It is nothing. Perhaps before. Once, it had been nothing. But he did not feel nothing anymore, he felt everything. Jacaerys continued to stroke his thumb against his wrist, his touch bordering on intimate. His fingers were warm, but Cregan felt nothing but heat. Heat that spread across his cheeks like a splatter of blood, that tinged the tips of his ears and seeped all the way to his Adam’s apple. Perhaps if Cregan was less composed, if a few tankards of ale had loosened him up, he would have gripped the back of Jacaerys’s neck. He would have liked to scruff his neck as if he were some misbehaving pup, he would like to see the look of astonishment on his face. Perhaps he would nick at his throat with the point of his canine tooth, or perhaps he would just smash their lips together to see if his lips were as soft as they appeared. The fantasy made his breath catch, and the hitch in his throat made his fingers twitch. Without hardly looking or feeling, his index finger shifted, scarcely brushing their fingers together. The touch was as gentle and fleeting as a summer snow, but it burned all the same. “It would be impolite to cast out a prince.” He reasoned gruffly, though his heart was once again set ablaze with every word he spoke.

  The smile that was offered to him was shy, but no less… cute? Cregan could hardly find the word for it, he was too busy watching every movement being made. The lanternlight made the deep, rich hues of his irises look like amber. Or honey, perhaps. If he looked hard enough, he swore he could see tiny flecks of gold. Perhaps he would allow Cregan close enough to see. The skin of his wrist felt cold as ice once Jacaerys pulled away, and if they were alone, Cregan surely would have taken hold of his hand. “If you had overstayed, you would have been halfway to Dragonstone by now, prince.” He husked out, a strangely reassuring statement from a man typically described as cold and formidable. In an awkwardly boyish manner, Cregan tipped his head ever so slightly to the side, a single streak of dark, chestnut brown hair falling across his brow. “I would like to see you try harder.” He murmured quietly, leaning ever so slightly forward so Jacaerys may be the only one to hear the severity of his words. This close, he could smell him. Something that Cregan could only describe as a salty seabreeze mixed with the essence of flowers. A stray thought made him question if his scent would be as strong if he could nestle his nose into his hair or in the crook of his neck.

[jacaeryse]

 "It would be very improper." Jace agrees, a smile playing on his lips. Do it, Cregan. Cast me out so that I might never return. Before I do something we both regret. Jace wouldn't need the help of ale to act upon his whims. He was restrained by gilded chains, forever forced to play the pristine and perfect crown prince. Being so far away from Dragonstone, outside of the shadow of the brewing war, Jace was compelled to act boldly. Even if the act of rebellion was as small as taking Cregan by the wrist, Jace felt more alive than he ever had in his entire life. When Cregan returns the touch, it takes all of the prince's strength to not become a puddle upon the floor.

Jace's own fingers twitch, compelled to take the hand that was so close to holding his own. How much large would Cregan's hand be than his own? Everything about the wolf was absolutely singular. He towered over the crown prince in terms of stature, and could command a legion of wolves with a booming voice. Jace had heard Cregan issue orders in that northern accent in a way that made him weak in the knees. He was blushing now. Jace could feel the pink color staining his cheeks and flushing all the way to his ears. He hoped it wouldn't be noticeable in the candlelit glow of the inn.

 He lets out a huff, " I've a feeling you wouldn't put up with bratty princes. How fortunate are you that I am nothing of the sort. " Jace responds, mouth going dry as Cregan tips his head down at him. Gods. He was handsome. If Jace had been taller he might have been able to meet Cregan's gaze head on . Instead he had to crane his neck upward to marvel at the winter wolf. The act was humiliating in the best of ways. One day he would rule the entirety of the seven kingdoms, yet the gods had decided to make him so slight. Cregan had the build that a proper king should have. Tall, muscular, and sure of himself. Jace had the build of a Targaryen, and that should have been enough. He was much prettier than Alicent's brood and couldn't deny that his body was perfect in its own right.

" Careful, Cregan. You'll bite off more than you can chew. " Jace settles a hand upon the man's chest, just over his heart. He can feel the soft rhythm of the man's heartbeat beneath, and the sensation comforts Jace. This was bold. Too bold from the subtle glances and fleeting touches that they had both employed thus far. But Jace needed to know that Cregan shared his interest. The wolf could have just been playing the part of a polite host, indulging Jace no matter what his indulgences were. " Unless you don't mind having a mouthful. I certainly wouldn't. " And Jace was going to lay it on thick. If Daemon Targaryen had taught him anything it was to act with absolute certainty and deal with the reprocussions later.

[jacaeryse]

been super busy lately. but things have been slowing down at work, so I hope I can be here more often. :)

[lcveblossomed]

"Thank you." Baela says before she looks at the shopkeeper. The man seems so happy with all of this. She realizes her quiet mood is nice to no one. So she flashes the man her warmest smile. It feels fake to act nice when she feels like this right now. Still she feels the need to do this, to be friendly now. "It is a beautiful piece and I am grateful to call it mine. The craftsmanship is so beautiful."

Baela shrinks back into herself after that. Her smile is gone and she's back to just nodding to everything. It's easier that way. She seems like she's part of the moment and is active. Meanwhile her mind can relax for once. Nothing to fix, no one to help. She's going to be okay.

Jace asks if she's okay and it surprises Baela. Of course he cares he's a sweet young man. She's reminded of that often. Of how lucky she is. She loves Jace and she even thinks she's in love with him. The only problem is the title. Could she be a queen? Was she worthy of such a task? Did she even want it?

Baela lets go of Jace's hand and walks ahead. She has to put some distance between them because she cannot face him. She instead looks out at the water. "You will make an incredible king one day, Jacaerys." She's avoiding his question altogether. "The people already adore you. They yearn to see you as their leader."

[jacaeryse]

Something was bothering Baela. Jace could tell by just glancing at her. They had spent enough time together in quiet contemplation, lively conversation, and atop of the clouds while on dragonback. Knowing that he would spend the rest of his life with her, Jace had made it his mission to know her well. Other kings had only viewed their wives as a means to an end, bodies that would produce heirs and be cast aside in favor of concubines. No. Jace would be better than that, and Baela deserved the absolute best. They were both victims of circumstance, their lives decided for them before they could even comprehend the weight of their destinies. The least he could do was make sure she was comfortable. When Baela eases away from her Jace allows it. Tugging her back and insisting that she tell him what was bothering her wouldn't help matters. But he does follow after, allowing her space before joining at her side. Standing beside his future queen Jace looks out at the ocean. It was one of his constant companions. It surrounded them at Dragonstone and even offered him comfort at King's Landing. No matter how frightening she could be, the sight of the open sea was comforting to Jace. "I thank you for thinking so." Jace brushes his pinky against hers, daring to loop them together. "--Do you worry that the people will not accept you as well?" Jace turns his focus away from the sea and back at Baela, offering her a sympathetic look. "Between you and me? I think you'll be an excellent queen."

[mournfulroses]

Makenzie Campbell, from a poem featured in "Room of the Mind: Poems" originally published in 2021

[awinterswolf]

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.

[jacaeryse]

   Jace doubted that he would ever truly tire of Cregan. There would soon be a great distance between them, one that would make him long for Cregan. He had finally acknowledged that very same feeling the night prior when he had woken in the middle of the night and wished Cregan was there. Jace strongly disliked this feeling of longing that made his entire being ache. He didn't know why the northern lord inspired such feelings in the prince, and it did nothing but irritate him. This irritation was softened by thoughts of Cregan's stern expressions, and that gruff northern accent. He realized, laying upon the cold floor, that he was swooning over Cregan like a maiden. There were worst fates than being attracted to the same sex, Jace supposed. Like being a bastard, for instance. He cursed the gods for giving him yet another unsurmountable  odd to overcome.    This was all Cregan's fault, really. He could have gone his entire life denying his attraction to the same sex, thinking of those errant thoughts as nothing but passing fancies. Now there was no denying it. His heart surged when standing in close proximity to Cregan, and he wanted desperately to touch him. To be held by him. To be kissed. Jace had already pondered what it must be like to kiss a mouth unfamiliar with any sort of expression. It must have been uncomfortable, he reasoned. For he hadn't seen Cregan do much more than smirk. Their own concerns over what the other felt were distracting them from the truth, and their undeniable pull to one another. But in this moment, standing a few steps behind Cregan, Jace had dared to touch him. It was a reverent touch, no matter how fleeting. Beneath his fingers he can feel the other's warm skin, and the pulse beneath. Jace follows that wrist up an arm so powerful not even the lord's tunic could hide it. His eyes travel upward past mighty shoulders and a thickly muscled neck, settling upon Cregan's boyishly handsome face.    Jace finds himself drawn to the soft pink that blossoms on Cregan's cheek. Absently his thumb strokes the other's wrist while brown eyes meet stormy grey. He steps closer, leaving only a few inches between them now. Jace wasn't thinking. He couldn't with Cregan looming over him like a formidable beast. "I'm very eager. You're a gracious host, my lord. I'd be a fool not to indulge myself." And he so desperately wanted to indulge. Jace reluctantly eases his fingers of their hold upon Cregan's wrist. "Truth be told I don't think I will ever tire of you, my lord. You've led an interesting life and have treated me with nothing but kindness. Any other lord might have cast me out upon hearing my demands. Yet you've done no such thing." Jace gives his wolf a shy smile, "It is I who worries that I have overstayed my welcome. But I can't leave, not yet. Not until I've won you over." There's a short pause, "I'm wondering if I have? Or must I try harder?"

[jacaeryse]

test test test .

[gameofthronesdaily]

“A bastard had to learn to notice things, to read the truth that people hid behind their eyes.” — Jon Snow, A Game of Thrones

“Once Jon had meant to prove them wrong, to show his lord father he could as good a true son as Robb Stark.” — Jon Snow, A Storm of Swords