Chapter Text
"I hope our trek has not laden you with undue exhaustion, my prince," the Lord of Winterfell husked as they strolled the high wall of the South Gate, their breaths misting in the morning air.
"A dozen set of stairs and a brisk walk about the castle hardly require an effort," Jacaerys replied, clinging onto the lord's arm for a crumb of warmth. "The real enemy is this frost that fills my lungs with shards of ice. I commend you for bearing it all without a shadow of complaint, my lord."
Below them, the courtyard bustled with glad activity despite the bitter cold that assaulted them all, fresh snow drifting down in pale flakes. Stable youths leading horses, servants carrying firewood back and forth, men-at-arms occupied with swords and a handful of eager alphas in training. Jacaerys marveled at their vitality, and envied it in equal parts. Northmen were cut from a sterner cloth, he had no doubt. A fortnight had gone by since he arrived, and this cold was as much of a cruel sleeping draft to him as it had been when he first visited years past. His own dragon had not taken to the skies once after they landed, preferring instead to curl and sleep near the hot springs.
"It is no merit of mine," Cregan answered. "Habit is wont to make anything bearable."
The lord's remark made him pause, a blackness taking over. Mother. It had been nigh on eight moon turns since it came to pass, yet the ache of her absence weighed no less on him.
Jacaerys sighed. "Would that it were so for the rest of us."
He had not meant to say that aloud. The last thing he wanted was to sour their morning with his dark thoughts, but the words were out in the wind, sorrow seeping through the seams of his fractured being, and his companion noticed.
A steady stream of comforting alpha pheromones rushed to overwhelm his senses, while those grey eyes showered him with loving pity. Greedy, Jacaerys drank it all.
"What befell your family was no work of nature," his gentle wolf said with as much restrained anger as he could. His bitterness came not as a surprise, he had abandoned the fight and bent the knee to Aegon only at his behest, after all. "It was an unnatural tragedy, one the gods themselves condemn. Such blows take longer to soften than a winter's inconvenience, aye. But they do soften, eventually."
"Of course," Jacaerys attempted to sweep the matter aside with a smile.
Their stroll slowed to a halt.
"Forgive me," Cregan muttered. "I did not mean to upset you."
"My life upsets me, Cregan, not you," Jacaerys reassured him, and his own tepid smile was at last met with a reluctant curve of lips softening the alpha's expression. A sudden gust of icy wind blew on their faces, and he could not suppress a shiver.
Cregan moved slightly to keep him from the worst of the draft. "We may turn back inside, if you wish."
"So that I am cold no more and lose the only excuse I have to grab you close? I'd rather not."
The alpha's grey eyes brightened with mirth. "I cannot think to part from you, the gods know it is true. But I realize now it was ill-natured of me to drag you along as I tend to my duties."
"I do not recall being dragged," Jacaerys' hand coiled tighter around Cregan's arm, seeking to feel muscle underneath the thickness of wool and fur, "though I confess, I would not have minded a rough handling if it was yours. These days, I find myself coveting your lordship's company more than any hearth or hot spring."
Cregan's minty scent swelled at that. It was heady, and it made Jacaerys lose sense of the world around them. He stood on his toes and lifted his chin on a mad rush of instinct, his gaze dropping to the lord's mouth.
"Allow me to escort you back to the glass gardens," the alpha said as he turned from him to eye the guard posted a few feet before them. Warmth pooled on Jacaerys' cheeks at his own display of unbridled zeal. "It is warmer there, and you may sample what berries you like best until I am able to join you. It will not be long."
Jacaerys shot him a playful look. "Why, my lord, I did not think you could be so contrary. Not a moment ago you could not think to part from me, and now you are eager to be rid of my presence?"
"Never that," Cregan rumbled so enthusiastically Jacaerys felt his skin flush beneath his garb. The alpha's pleased rumbles echoed with such boldness that he was certain all the guards in their vicinity could not help but hear them. He found he did not mind that as he probably should. "I enjoy your presence more than is wise, and I wish to hoard you close far more than I can rightly say. But you are freezing, my prince."
He was. He could not feel his nose, his fingers or his toes, and the many layers of wool and animal pelt he had bundled himself in could only help so much. The dawn of winter dealt a merciless hand, especially in the North. And yet, the alpha's words sank deep into his chest, warm as summer's sun.
"So," Jacaerys waited for the squire to huddle past them with baskets full of chopped wood before leaning closer. He glanced up at the lord through his lashes. "Will you not remedy that and see your prince is warmed?"
"Will you give me your answer if I do?" The alpha's eyes were full of meaning, his scent rising ever stronger to fully cloak Jacaerys in it.
"I may be tempted to," he purred. It had the desired effect. A soft croon rolled off the alpha's chest. He was gently pushed towards a nearby column of granite, and the Lord of Winterfell engulfed him from view with the sheer size of his fur cloaked frame.
The thrill blurred all else from his mind, troubles and tragedies swirling to insignificant mist. Glad out of his senses, Jacaerys rested his gloved hands flat against the lord's chest-guard, wishing he could feel anything past the thick layers of wool and leather, past this unyielding, brutal cold. He imagined the expanse of hard muscle beneath, the broad shoulders and strong middle, the trail of dark hair down his navel, and he nearly whined in need.
No skin on skin was possible on such an open area and thus far from the heated parts of the castle, but he was no less relieved when Cregan circled an arm around his waist and placed a hand on the back of his clothed neck, the pressure just enough to bring an echo of warmth. He was pulled close and squeezed just the way he liked, and he mewled in welcome of a kissing mouth, hot and wet, as it dragged reverently across his temple, his cheek, his jaw, his chin.
His eyes fluttered shut and he sighed into the kiss, grateful for the tongue that plunged in to breathe fire back into him and the stubble that scratched his sensitive skin oh, so pleasantly.
Cries of horror drifted from the distance and below.
They broke apart, and his eyes shot open. Cregan was already turning from him, grabbing hold of his sword and crying out to his guards, a hand set back to shield him. Jacaerys wished he were tall enough to peek over at the commotion, but he did not have to.
It came from above. A roar reverberated like thunder, shaking snow from the skies. Up high on the vast and colourless horizon, a winged shadow emerged from a cloud of smoke and fire, a shadow large enough to cast half of Winterfell in darkness.
"What dragon is that?" Cregan demanded of him as the castle broke out in chaos.
His throat went dry. "Vhagar."
*
By the time the she-dragon landed on the thick mantle of snow, Jacaerys was already waiting at the bottom of the South Gate, escorted on all sides by Cregan Stark and half a dozen of his men. His face betrayed none of the unease that gnawed at him, and not a hint of the dread that ran through his spine once he saw Aemond dismount, Dark Sister in hand.
As his uncle advanced like he meant to strike them all down, Vhagar let out a deep rumble that promised flame, and Jacaerys rushed out to meet him, to stop him, somehow, anyhow.
Cregan counseled against it, attempting to keep him back with a heavy hand clasped on his shoulder. "Stay here with us, my prince, I beg you."
Jacaerys shook him off. "He will not hurt me."
The reek of alpha aggression and the look of death Aemond shot his way from afar told him otherwise.
On he went, despite the strong pull of Cregan's scent that made his inner omega want nothing more than to run back and burrow in the safety of his arms. He crushed the instinct with every step forward he took, snow cracking beneath his boots. If he wanted to succeed at placating Aemond, he could not afford the luxury of fear, nor the indulgence of hesitation.
His uncle appeared insufficiently dressed for the cold and drenched from head to toe, his single eye burning with edge sharp rage. His scent was so acrid and unbearable with livid displeasure, it made Jacaerys' eyes water even from a distance. The shorter the gap between them grew, the more evident it became that the alpha had not slept in days, nor washed, or done much else besides flying the skies in mad pursuit.
"What are you doing?" Jacaerys hissed at him once they were close enough. "Sheathe your steel."
Almost swaying, Aemond halted right before him with a wild look in his eye, disheveled as he had never been before, his hair unkempt, damp and matted to his skull. Even his eyepatch was crooked.
He stared at Jacaerys in seething silence for a long, excruciating moment, nostrils flaring, his grip on the ancestral sword so tight his entire hand was sure to be bone-white underneath the leather of his riding gloves. He looked as though he might plunge the steel through his chest and leave him impaled on the snow. Jacaerys kept his chin up and his gaze fixed, ignoring every impulse that coursed through his being screaming at him to turn away and flee.
The alpha's smoky scent was so potent and overwhelming it eventually choked Jacaerys and sent him into a brief coughing fit. As he gathered himself, he glanced around and noted the few brave onlookers standing at a less than prudent distance from them, from Vhagar. The she-dragon let out low warnings, dark smoke pouring from her snout and the end of her tail swishing from side to side, dragonfire gurgling in her gut at the ready. That urged Jacaerys to take a step closer and entreat his uncle anew, in the most mellow tone his omegan nature could conjure, to put the weapon away.
Aemond did nothing of the sort. Without a word, his unburdened hand shot out to yank Jacaerys by the collar of his draped fur cloak, pulling him close. Jacaerys stumbled against his chest with the force of it, and his uncle roughly loosened the length of faded wool wound thrice about his throat in a rush to study the skin underneath. Baring his unmarred neck, Jacaerys bit his tongue and allowed the inspection. The wind hit his exposed flesh like a hundred stabs of ice, and though he shivered, he endured the discomfort in subdued silence.
After what felt an age, Aemond released him and reluctantly put the weapon back into its scabbard. "Come along," he growled, "we are leaving."
The bitter waft coming off him made his nose scrunch. "You stink!"
"Shall I tell you what you reek of?" Aemond snapped, fangs bared.
Jacaerys fought the urge to shrink back into himself, his head held high. "I know not what you mean."
"I think you do," the alpha inched closer and gave him a hard look of utter distaste. "I warn you, I will not suffer you to become your mother."
He deserved a slap for that. Jacaerys stilled his hand from violence and regarded him coolly instead. "I am afraid you are mistaken."
"Am I? I think not," he spat, seizing his arm in a bruising grip, "you are the talk of every tavern and hall."
A whine caught in his throat. He swallowed it. "It saddens me to see you brought so low as to let kitchen gossip rule your wits, uncle."
A snarl twisted Aemond's mouth, and the raw hostility behind it made him flinch despite himself. His uncle's wrath had never been directed at him before, he knew not how to navigate it. It ebbed off his scent like permeating fog, trapping him without possible escape. "Proof of your sins dangles right before my nose and still you dare deny it."
"What sins, pray?" Jacaerys managed to bite back. "You will make a fool of yourself and gnaw at shadows, all because you believe a treachery that was never wrought save in the corners of your twisted imagining."
"My imagining?" Aemond seethed. "How is it then, that the whole of the realm knows of his mark on you?"
"You saw my neck, I bear no one's mark."
"Do you take me for a fool? I need not see a mark to know the tales are true, that he has imprinted on you," his fingers dug further into the thick layers of wool on his arm, "that you have been spreading your legs for some brute northerner."
Jacaerys flushed. "It is naught but slander."
"Is it?" Aemond's eye widened, violet a ghostly shade, and his lip curled into a cruel smirk. Far behind him, Vhagar rose her head and roared, the sound carrying mightily through snow and frozen air, sending the onlookers into a run. "Then I am sure you will not mind me cutting past his guards and striking his head off his shoulders before I feed it to my dragon."
Words of ruin, those were. Before he could summon a heartbeat's worth of response, his uncle had brushed past him, hand falling to the hilt of his sword once again.
"Wait!"
Jacaerys dashed to make a grab at him, his cloak, his arm, his hair—whatever he could reach first to make him stop. The tip of his fingers had barely touched the damp fabric of his cloak when Aemond turned against him in a flash of fury, all rabid snarls and growls of impatience. He cornered Jacaerys back a few steps and trapped his wrist in a painful grip, pulling him roughly away, towards Vhagar.
"Ungrateful little cunt," Aemond cursed in a low voice, tugging him along with greater force. "After all I have done for you, you betray me the moment I turn my back. The Seven know I regret not heeding my mother's counsel. Treacherous and wanton, indeed!"
The pace was punishing, snow caught on his boots, and Jacaerys could not keep up. Twinges of pain shoot up his arm. "Aemond, wait—"
"I knew it was true," he rambled on in a fit of ill temper. "I knew it all along, I could smell your debauchery from miles away, plain as day, and you dare laugh at me! When we reach Dragonstone, I ought to have you under lock and key."
Distressed whimpers escaped him. "Halt a moment, you are hurting me!"
"You are fortunate I will not have you stripped naked and whipped."
His uncle was relentless and deaf to his discomfort, truly lost to a black mood, while Vhagar grew larger and more imposing with every painful stride he forced upon them. Jacaerys' mind drifted to Vermax, wondering whether his sweet dragon would hear his call all the way from here, and abandon his nest. He wringed his arm, straining to break free from the brutal hold.
Aemond threw a cutting glance back at him. "Cease your struggle, or I swear I will see you dead!"
The blow of the alpha's incendiary pheromones, combined with the sudden onset of verbal violence directed at him, only served to bring Jacaerys closer to tears that he was loathe to let flow. Much to his chagrin, he began to whimper, making himself appear as defenseless as possible in a pitiful instinct to soften Aemond's severe treatment of him. Yet while his inner omega cried out for comfort and forgiveness, his heart demanded vengeance, springing to life a dark desire to see Vermax burn his uncle to death.
A familiar scent tickled his nose.
"Prince Aemond," called Lord Stark from behind them.
His uncle halted at last, turning back sharply, his hand a claw that promised to never let go of him, his jaw taut with fury and his fist clenched on the hilt of Dark Sister. It was a welcome rescue, but Jacaerys could not breathe any easier for it, his chest constricting with the knowledge that this could turn very badly indeed if he failed to appease Aemond.
"I do not believe we have met," continued his gentle wolf, "my name is Cregan Stark."
The snow covered ground quaked beneath their feet as Vhagar approached heavily from behind them, hissing a low, ancient warning. She brought smoke and cinders with her, and soon the three of them were engulfed by her shadow.
Cregan's face grew pale. To his merit, the lord neither quailed nor faltered, but the twitch of his mouth and the nervous movement of his fingers on his sword belt betrayed his effort. He stood at a cautious remove from them, his scent a calm musk of neutrality, his stance conciliatory but firm.
Though Jacaerys perked up at the sight of him, trepidation rose within him twice as strongly. It was evident in his uncle's spiking scent that he took Cregan's greeting for an affront.
Aemond gave a low hum, his head tilting to the side in mockery. His hand skimmed up the length of Jacaerys' arm and shoulder to clasp at the back of his neck, drawing him closer. "This is the mutt you have been coupling with?" He jeered in High Valyrian. "A sore sight, he looks half a savage. I wonder how he manages to please you at all on your moonlight trysts."
"You will stop at once," Jacaerys said, command dripping off his tone more readily in the tongue of his forebears.
"Why, dear nephew? Does it bring you shame to have your poor taste in lovers remarked? I regret to inform you, but it is undignified, even for the likes of you, to lay with this wretched creature."
"He is no creature," Jacaerys spat the Valyrian slur back at him with a fiery spirit that he could restrain no longer. "He is the Lord of these lands, and you will hasten to show him respect."
Aemond's eye drifted up and down Cregan then, "I will show him my blade."
Vhagar grumbled in earnest assent above their heads, puffing out hot smoke.
"Do anything rash," Jacaerys kept his voice level, "and it will sooner be my cold ashes that return to Dragonstone with you."
His uncle eyed him sharply at the warning. "You mistake your place. It is my right to choose whether you live to see another day, and you are mine to take where I will."
"Cast a look at my neck once more. You forget, I have not been claimed yet."
"It is no matter," his lips tilted in a thin smile full of scorn, "you are mine by rights and law, by the King's decree—"
"Do you stake your claim when it is but a piece of paper that bounds me to you? I would laugh, if I did not pity your lapse of judgment. Paper has a tendency to burn, uncle."
Aemond's lip quivered, his smile wilting. They engaged in a stare, earthly brown on single violet, until Aemond exhaled through his nose, words cutting through his teeth. "We leave, now."
"I refuse," Jacaerys challenged.
"You are in no position to refuse me anything," his uncle's hold clenched impossibly tight as he tugged him back by the scruff of his neck in one smooth motion, and Jacaerys was startled to feel his knees weaken.
Cregan's voice cut through his rising alarm like still water. "I do not mean to intrude, my princes, but is something amiss?"
"Yes," Aemond turned from him to answer viciously in the Common Tongue, "your head is still attached to your shoulders."
"Please forgive my uncle," Jacaerys rushed to say, making what poor show of composure he could. "The journey has left him exhausted out of his mind."
Though Cregan's scent spiked dangerously, he only gave a careful nod. "I shall send for accommodations to be made."
"That will not be necessary," came his uncle's knife sharp rebuff, "we mean to depart at once."
"Are you mad?" Jacaerys chided in their tongue, and regretted it in full when his uncle's gloved fingers crept beneath the wool, the drag of damp leather gelid against the skin of his nape. A tremor ran through him. When next he spoke, he stirred the fire out of his speech, taking on a soothing, shrewd approach. "I wish you would consider that the King's Peace is frail at best. Lord Stark is a valuable vassal to the Crown, a loyal ally to our House and a generous host, we cannot risk offending him with a premature departure."
"He will not be offended long once I drain his life's blood."
Jacaerys ignored him. "You have need of rest, my—," he could not bring himself to say it, "uncle." He stepped closer into his side despite the stench of him, and forced his body to release a rush of placating pheromones. With a jolt, Aemond let go of him, as though his hand had been burned or worse. He stood stiff, his eye narrowing in suspicion. "I will not fly with you as you are in your present state," he told him. "It would please me to see your needs tended first. Let us stay—"
"No."
"It will be a day. Two, at most."
"No."
Daor, daor, daor. Far from deterring him, the childish refusal only served to fuel Jacaerys' determination further. Under more favourable circumstances, he had seen the effect his softness had on his uncle, and knew it held power in no small measure.
Thus he sought out his uncle's hand, and was satisfied to note the corner of his mouth trembling at the gesture. "Grant me but this one thing, uncle, for your sake as well as mine, and I am yours to do as you command of me."
There came a pause, swollen and sharpened with suspense. His uncle's smoky scent swirled crossly before it softened, and the stubborn set of his jaw seemed to loosen even if the rest of him did not. Dark lines of exhaustion littered underneath his sunken eye. It was plain he was worn out beneath his burning anger, his pride keeping him upright where his strength could not. Jacaerys knew this to be to his advantage, and he kept his stare unwavering, not pleading, never so; but he would not be denied.
At last, Aemond averted his eye, and that was deemed agreement enough.
With triumph sizzling in his veins, Jacaerys turned to Cregan and declared: "My uncle shall be grateful for a bed and a pillow to rest his head on."
Cregan nodded in acquiesce, though his steely gaze swept between them and Vhagar, back and forth as if to ascertain safety, wary in his stillness much like a hunted animal. His caution was overdone, but Jacaerys could not fault him for it. The lord knew nothing of dragons' silences, nor of the signs that marked their soothing.
He was brave as few could be, his gentle wolf. He had shown no common courage to stand before Vhagar as he had done, and for him. Jacaerys would be sure to acclaim the alpha for such a feat later, if the gods were good enough to grant them a moment to themselves.
Aemond straightened to address the lord in brittle courtesy. "I hope I am not a nuisance."
His uncle's words fell flat and wooden. To Jacaerys' immense relief, Cregan was most gracious in his reply: "Not at all, my prince. Welcome to Winterfell."
The matter finished, the three of them made their trek back to the castle in unpleasant silence, hostility and apprehension bleeding through their respective scents despite the mask of civility they strove to uphold. Jacaerys kept pace at his uncle's side, his hand in his like he was shackled to it; Aemond seemingly preferring to have it cut off than slacken his grip.
Vhagar rumbled in the distance, a disgruntled sound. She had burrowed in a nest of cold snow like a giant rock fallen from the sky, as prying eyes set on her from afar with equal awe and terror.