Chapter Text
Cregan Stark
The snow fell hard, like the world itself was crying. The clouds overhead hung dark and heavy, swallowing the sun and all its warmth. Cregan hadn’t expected the storm to roll in this quickly, though he should have. The North was always unpredictable; that was the only thing predictable about it.
Yet this time it had caught him off guard. Jace had wanted to go hunting, and they’d been out for two days now. Cregan never imagined the crown prince would want such a thing. Jace always seemed too… regal for it. Too polished. Yet he had begged—truly begged—to go. A trip into the woods. Just the two of them.
Just to enjoy what, exactly?
Outside the cave, the wind howled. Branches cracked. Leaves scraped against the rocks like restless fingers. The world beyond had vanished into white and grey—no trees, no stones, not even the faint path of their footsteps from earlier. But they were safe in here. Jace was safe. The dragon, however, was decidedly not pleased.
Vermax lay off to the side, curled into a tight, irritated ball, green wings pulled over his face. Smoke curled lazily from beneath the arch of his wing. Firelight flickered across him and across Jace, who sat dozing on a cloak, bundled in blankets, resting on a smooth rock by the flames.
Cregan had never expected to stand so close to a dragon, let alone be tolerated by one. Vermax adored his son, Rickon, but remained ill-tempered toward nearly everyone else—and toward the cold most of all.
Cregan let out a quiet huff of laughter at the memory of how fiercely the dragon hated snowfall, how often he refused to leave the warm crypts beneath Winterfell at even the slightest shift in the wind. His rider wasn’t much different. For all Jace’s desire to explore the Wall, the forests, Winterfell itself, he despised the cold. Always bundled in furs, nose red, lips pouting at even a mild breeze.
And those moments—those small, human moments—were what scared Cregan most. He wanted to laugh with Jace. Wanted these quiet hours with him. Wanted to see those brown eyes spark with delight over a sweet treat. Because what was this feeling? Familiar, yet not. Dangerous in its softness.
He didn’t want Jace to leave. Didn’t want to send him back into a war that grew darker every day. Some dread in his gut whispered that if he let Jace go… he would never see those curls again. Never see that pout. Never hear Jace’s laughter as he spun Rickon through the air.
The fire had begun to die low. Cregan tossed a few sticks onto it and nudged them until the flames breathed again, rising warm and strong.
His father’s vows had been for Rhaenyra Targaryen. But where did his vows lie?
He looked over at Jace, curled beneath the blankets, lips parted slightly, breath soft and steady.
Maybe he already knew.
For the Prince of Dragonstone.
Not for alliances or promises of marriage or gain.
But for something quieter. Something warm and joyful. Forbidden and tragic.
Nothing would ever come of it. For one reason or another, it could not.
But a man could still be loyal.
And he would be—until his last breath.
Jace stirred, blinking awake. “Cregan?” he murmured.
“Hm?” Cregan answered softly.
“Come lie down… it’s late.” Jace yawned, burrowing deeper into his makeshift pillow.
“Not yet.”
“Come on, you broody wolf. Nothing’s coming in. We’re safe.”
We’re safe. The words echoed through him.
Maybe here—only here—they truly were.
Cregan sighed. “As the Prince commands.”
“I do command,” Jace smirked, curls falling into his eyes like a curtain.
Outside, the storm raged. But inside, wrapped in warmth and firelight, they were untouched. Safe. Maybe this was what Jace had wanted all along. Not the hunt—this.
Cregan lay beside him, burying his face into Jace’s curls, breathing in smoke and dragon and heat. Comforting. Steady. Real.
The prince’s breathing softened under his arm.
They were safe here.
And Cregan would hold this memory close—until his last breath.