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Chapter Text

It was remarkable how a single raven could completely shatter one’s world. Ravens were the bearer of news, good or bad, but Cregan had never thought he would be so shaken by a letter brought by a single raven.

“What is it, mi’lord?” One of Cregan’s advisers, a second son from the Bear Island, asked, his heavy accent resonating in the empty hall of Winterfell.

“Bad news, Mormont.” Cregan closed his eyes for a brief moment to calm himself, before throwing the parchment into the raging hearth fire. He didn’t need to share the letter, since Mormont never had the patience to literate himself.

“The Southerners lost, eh?” Mormont clicked his rotten teeth, fat fingers climbing up to grab his war axe, “Puny motherfuckers they are.”

“Not yet.” Cregan replied, his own hand clenching into a tight fist, “They lost a battle, not the war.”

The Blacks had suffered a tremendous loss in the battle of the Gullet. The formidable Velaryon fleet was nearly destroyed, Driftmark was sacked, and most important of all, Prince Jacaerys was reported dead in the battle. An arrow hit the prince’s dragon, knocking him off, and more arrows claimed the young prince’s life. Prince Jacaerys fought to his last breath defending his mother’s cause, brave and noble like the true heir he was.

“What do we do, mi’lord?”

“Nothing yet.” Cregan said simply, “Our oath to the Queen still stands. We will not be turncloaks just because the Blacks lost a battle.”

“Mi’lord.” Mormont bowed his head.

“However, I need you to call the banners and give me a manifest of men we can spare. The Queen will most likely ask our troops for support, and we need to be prepared.” Cregan looked out the window, to the snow-covered courtyard, where Prince Jacaerys’s dragon had landed a few months ago in a snowy afternoon.

Mormont grunted an agreement before exiting the hall, his footsteps unusually light compared to his large form. It was not until the footsteps had completely died down did Cregan finally allow his calm mask to crack. He drew a sharp breath, letting the cold air run through his lungs before breathing them out as slowly as possible. He repeated the practice for a few moments, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to escape. He couldn't cry, not here, not now, and certainly not over the death of a Targaryen prince.

This was not the first time Cregan had lost someone. His parents died when he was young, and he had lost his wife to a tragic childbirth complication. Fortunately, his son, Rickon, had survived, his only kin, the future lord of Winterfell. These losses had aged Cregan beyond his years, making his face hard and his eyes dull. Death was not a rare thing in the North. Everyone had lost someone, either to the unforgiving weather or malnutrition. Cregan had long since learned to make peace with death, but the tragic news of Jacaerys’s passing still shook him to the core. It was like reopening an old wound that never truly healed. Cregan’s heart ached at the news, as if someone had drilled a hole in it, letting his blood run dry. The pain was dull, persistent, and overwhelming. He hadn’t felt this way for so long that Cregan thought he had already lost the ability to grieve. It seemed he was wrong after all.

Cregan slammed his fist onto the cold stone wall abruptly, as if the wall was the Triarchy fleet that had taken Jacaerys’s life. Cregan cursed himself for not accompanying Jacaerys to the South. Fuck the winter. Fuck the Wall. Fuck his duty. What was the meaning of his oath if he couldn’t keep Jacaerys alive? What kind of a loyalist was he? Cregan could only imagine how helpless and desperate Jacaerys was when he succumbed to the enteral darkness. These despicable men who called themselves the Triarchy were nothing but traitors and cowards. They were the one deserved the traitor’s death, not the honorable prince.

“Is everything all right, my lord?” Cregan’s guards asked, stopping at the entrance after sensing their lord’s fury.

“Nothing to worry about.” Cregan replied. It took all his self-control not to lash out. Now was not the time to let out his anger at innocents. He better preserve this fury for future use.

The guards looked at each other, clearly not convinced.

“Leave me.” Cregan commanded coldly.

“But my lord-”

“I said leave me.” Cregan repeated, his voice growing colder, “I am going to the Crypt. I am not to be disturbed.”

The Winterfell Crypt was a mysterious place. It was the final resting place of all Starks, its history dating back to the Age of Heroes. Legend had it that there were more than just the remains of House Stark that resided the Winterfell Crypt. There was something else, something powerful and ominous that was passed down by the Stark ancestors as the family legacy. The legend was never proved true, but one thing was clear: only the Starks were allowed in the Crypt.

The guards scattered to make a way for their lord. Cregan walked down the winding stairs until he reached an inconspicuous door made of stone. The door was made of the same material of the castle wall, easy to miss if one wasn’t looking closely. Cregan took off the Valyrian Sword Ice from his back, and pressed the sword’s hilt into a small dent on the side. With a soft click, the door opened in front of him, the unique smell of dust and death invading his nostrils.

Cregan lit a candle before walking in. The Crypt always gave him goosebumps no matter how many times he had visited. Cregan walked past numerous statues of his ancestors, making no stop until he reached the end, where a statue of himself stood. This would be Cregan’s final resting place after he died. Every Stark lord would have their own statue commissioned as soon as they came of age, so their images could be captured in their prime. Cregan looked at his younger self, so wild and arrogant that he almost didn’t recognize it. The statue captured him in full armor and a fur cloak, the heavy Valyrian sword Ice on his back, two daggers hanging from his belt, the direwolf emblem on his chest. The statue also wore an amulet around his neck, the small token resting on his chest, just where his heart was. The amulet was passed down by his late mother, and Cregan had been wearing it since his mother’s passing.

He remembered his mother’s words vividly when she pulled the amulet off her neck on her death bed and gave it to him.

There, have it, Cregan my boy. This may help you escape death.

I’d rather you use it on yourself, mother. Cregan remembered himself saying. Death cannot reach me yet, but it may get to you any moment now.

My time has come, my son. She said. This amulet has been passed down in my house for generations. I am told it possesses the power of the Old Gods.

Cregan was a Stark, whose House kept the faith of the Old Gods rather than the Seven. However, Cregan himself was never a religious man. He respected the faith, and practiced the rituals required of him, but he never truly believed in something as intangible as gods. If the Old Gods were so powerful, why did they allow the harsh winter to claim thousands of their followers’ lives?

Cregan’s mother shoved the amulet into his hand before she drew her last breath. The amulet was made of weirwood, smooth to the touch because it had been held by too many people. Cregan wondered if anyone had prayed to it to show its power, and if anyone had succeeded. Cregan’s mother certainly failed, because she died eventually. Cregan never prayed to it, not even when his wife was bleeding to death in the birthing chamber. It wouldn't work anyway. It was just a token that Cregan kept in honor of his mother.

Not anymore though. Cregan had gifted the amulet to someone else in a very childish and impulsive move. He pulled the amulet off his neck and gave it to Prince Jacaerys just before the prince was about to mount his dragon and flew back to Dragonstone.

“There, have it.” Cregan said, spreading Jacaerys’s palm and placing the amulet on it. He subconsciously repeated his mother’s words when she passed the amulet down to him.

“What is it?” Jacaerys asked softly, his voice almost carried away by the howling wind.

“Something my mother gave to me. I am told that it has the power to escape death.” Cregan replied, enveloping Jacaerys’s hand in his own, “I want you to have it.”

“I can’t accept it,” Jacaerys said, trying to give the amulet back, “It’s too valuable.”

“It’s just a token.” Cregan tightened his fingers around Jacaerys’s hand to stop the prince’s attempt, “Consider it a call for good luck.”

“It belonged to your mother.” Jacaerys murmured, his eyes hidden behind the windswept curls, “I cannot take her memory from you.”

“I insist.” Cregan wasn’t going to back down. He took a quick glance around to make sure no one was eavesdropping before taking a step closer and cupping Jacaerys’s cheek with his free hand, “I cannot go with you, my prince, so please, at least take something to remember me by.”

“You sound like this is our farewell.” Jacaerys joked.

“We Northerners are not naive enough to believe there will always be a second chance, Jace.” Cregan slowly let the prince’s nickname roll off his tongue, enjoying the little shiver of the prince’s hand, “We take whatever we can, here and now.”

“Do you think we will lose? I will lose?” Jacaerys asked in a voice so soft that Cregan nearly missed it. It was rare for the prince to ask something like this. Jacaerys might be young, but he was confident in his cause. The Northerners never took those puny southern lords seriously, let alone a prince so young and inexperienced. However, Jacaerys had won the North’s heart with his honor and eloquence, and Cregan might be the first to fall for the prince’s charm. Jacaerys never talked about the possibility of failure, as if putting it to words would make it real. Cregan only saw Jacaerys’s perfect mask crack when the prince got the bad news from Dragonstone.

“No.” Cregan replied firmly, his thumb sliding over Jacaerys’s smooth cheek, “I have utter confidence in you, my prince. Your mother’s claim is noble and justified, and so are yours. Whoever sits on the throne other than your mother or you is nothing but a usurper.”

“I wish I could share your confidence, my lord.” Jacaerys’s lips curled up into a smile so warm that it was able to melt the eternal ice of the Wall.

“That's why I want you to take this amulet with you, Jace. As a token for good luck.” Cregan wanted to kiss the prince, just like he had done in the dusty Crypt of Winterfell, but there were too many prying eyes around. They probably should end their intimate gesture already, but neither of them wished to part just yet.

Jacaerys stared at him for a solid minute before nodding. He looked down at their gloved hands, his own elegant one perching neatly in Cregan’s large palm. Their hands fit perfectly, like two matching puzzles that finally found their missing part.

From this angle, Cregan could see Jacaerys’s long and delicate lashes, shivering slightly in the biting wind. Jacaerys’s nose was pink from the chill, some cute freckles scattering around his cheek, like chocolate icing on a cake, so delicious and appealing that Cregan wanted to lick them clean.

“Thank you, Cregan.” Jacaerys said, tightening his grip on the amulet, “I hope I can return it to you personally one day.”

“I will wait patiently for that day to come, my prince.” Cregan gave Jacaerys’s cheek a final pat before stepping away, letting Jacaerys’s hand slip from his palm.

He shouldn’t have let it happen, Cregan thought regrettably now. He shouldn’t just see Jacaerys off and do nothing except giving the prince a goddamn amulet that likely wouldn't work. The amulet failed to save his mother, so why did he think it could save Jacaerys?

Fool. Cregan cursed himself silently. He walked up to his statue, and cast his eyes down at the statue’s base, where a carved chest sat on the stone floor. The chest was made of a special material, not stone, not wood, the slick surface more like steel. There were dragon scales carving all over it, a pattern foreign to the North. Cregan crouched down and removed its lid, revealing an oval shaped object inside. The object looked as slick as the chest, with a green sheen to it. Cregan placed his hand on it, feeling the uneven scales under his palm.

The object was cold and hard, almost like a stone, but somehow, Cregan could feel something living inside it, like a fire enveloped in ice. How peculiar it was to rest his bare hand on a dragon egg.

Prince Jacaerys flew to Winterfell to ask for the support of House Stark and the North, but it was not his only purpose. He was here to deliver something as well. A dragon egg.

“Are you sure?” Cregan asked the prince when they descended into the Crypt.

“Yes.” Jacaerys nodded, “Since my firstborn daughter will marry your son and become the Lady of Winterfell one day, I think I can at least have her egg ready.”

“Is it true that all Targaryens have a dragon egg placed in their cradle?” Cregan asked curiously, his eyes glued to the egg.

“It is a custom invented by The Consolidator.” Jacaerys explained, running his hand over the dragon egg affectionately, “The practice isn’t that old, actually, and it doesn't necessarily have to be carried out for all Targaryen babies.”

“But you and your brothers all have a dragon egg in your cradle?”

“That is correct.” Jacaerys raised a mocking eyebrow at Cregan, “It seems you are very well informed, my lord, despite residing in the edge of the world.”

“It is a well-spread tale of Princess Rhaenyra, no, Queen Rhaenyra’s children all have their dragon eggs hatched. It proves the purity of her grace’s blood.” Cregan said. It was not lie, though such tale had never been treated seriously in the North, at least until now. Cregan could tell all Winterfell dwellers were mesmerized by Jacaerys’s dragon Vermax, a young and powerful drake with light green scales and a streamline body. Cregan himself was among them, though he was mesmerized more by the prince rather than the dragon.

“Thank you, Lord Cregan.” Jacaerys nodded respectfully, his lips curling up into a soft smile.

“What for? I don’t think I have said anything worth your gratitude, my prince.”

“For not calling me a bastard.” Jacaerys stopped at the end of the path, where Cregan’s statue stood, “Looks like we have arrived.”

For some reason, Cregan felt his cheek begin to burn as Jacaerys looked up at the statue with curious eyes. Thank God that the Crypt was dark enough to hide his burning cheek. Cregan would die of embarrassment if Jacaerys saw him blushing like a maiden.

“I am not sure the Crypt is the best place to keep a dragon egg.” Cregan said after clearing his throat to hide his embarrassment, “It’s usually cold down here.”

“As long as it is secure, the egg will survive.” Jacaerys said, cradling the egg to his chest like a mother cradling her newborn child, “No need to worry, my lord. The dragon egg can preserve heat on its own. It will go dormant in a colder environment, and go back to life after being exposed to enough heat.”

Cregan watched the prince as Jacaerys carefully placed the egg on the silk lining of the chest before closing the lid. He ran his hand over the dragon scale carvings and murmured something in a language foreign to Cregan. High Valyrian, most likely.

Jacaerys stood back up and offered Cregan a gentle smile.

“A dragon egg and a marriage pact for your troops and support, Lord Cregan.” Jacaerys said in his most regal voice, “Let’s seal the pact.”

Cregan didn’t know what the prince meant by sealing the pact. Should they write it down and put their seals on it? Should they swear an oath in front of God? But which one? They worshipped different gods, right? How could they possibly find a way to seal the pact?

Fortunately, Cregan’s confusion didn’t last long. Jacaerys unsheathed the dagger from his belt, took off his glove and slashed his palm with the sharp blade. Blood began to spill immediately, dripping from the prince’s hand to the cold stone floor.

“Jace-” Cregan called, baffled by the prince’s action.

“Slash your palm.” Jacaerys demanded, handling the bloody dagger to Cregan.

Cregan had so many questions to ask, but he knew he wouldn’t get his answer if he didn’t obey the prince. He shoved off his glove roughly and grabbed the blade with his bare hands. With a dull pain, Cregan’s palm began to bleed as well.

Jacaerys pulled the dagger from Cregan’s grip and replaced it with his own hand, pressing their bleeding palms together and letting their blood blend.

“Pledge your loyalty with blood, Cregan Stark, in front of all your ancestors.” Jacaerys said, his voice firm and determined, “Swear to support Queen Rhaenyra under any circumstances.”

Cregan finally understood why Jacaerys insisted going down the Crypt with him. The prince wanted to have a blood oath with him, with Cregan’s ancestors as witnesses. Oh, Jacaerys. What a cunning and clever move.

“I, Cregan Stark, pledge my loyalty to Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will support Prince Jacaerys and his mother, Queen Rhaenyra, from this day until I draw my last breath.”

Jacaerys looked a bit taken back by Cregan’s words. He didn’t expect Cregan to pledge loyalty to him, Jacaerys, instead of his mother. However, it was too late to alter the oath now. Cregan intertwined his fingers with Jacaerys, pressing their pulsing wounds together, their heartbeat slowly merging into a harmonious rhythm.

“Cregan,” Jacaerys spoke after a long pause, “thank you.”

“I think we have one more ritual to perform to seal the pact.” Cregan said, and before the prince could react, he leaned in and sealed their lips together.

It was an impulsive move, something Cregan hadn't done since he became the Lord of Winterfell. He couldn't afford to be impulsive; every decision needed to be made carefully in order for his people to survive. Cregan shouldn't just kiss the heir to the throne like that. What if Prince Jacaerys view this as an insult and decide to rain fire down Winterfell? Though Vermax was still young, Cregan had no doubt the dragon was able to burn Winterfell to ashes without much effort. Cregan shouldn’t test his luck, really, but all the risk was worth it as soon as their lips met.

The prince tasted like the perfect combination of sweet and spice. Jacaerys’s lips felt incredibly soft even though he had been exposed to the biting cold for quite some time. The prince’s breath was warm, almost scorching, as if he could produce heat on his own, like dragons. Cregan shivered as the warmth of the prince spread from his lips all over his body. His entire body relaxed, every pore singing in exhilaration, as if he was immersed in the hot spring on a snowy day.

Jacaerys’s breath hitched, but he didn't push Cregan away. Their bleeding hands were still intertwined, and now their bodies were also pressed tightly together, leaving no room for the coldness to invade. Cregan kept grinding his lips against Jacaerys’s, his tongue running over the prince’s lips over and over again, tasting, breathing, and worshipping the prince’s warmth.

“Cregan,” Jacaerys managed to blurt out when they parted to catch their breaths.

“My prince.” Cregan whispered back, their faces still close enough for him to feel Jacaerys’s warm breath on his skin.

“Call me by my name.” Jacaerys said, his voice soft not his tone commanding.

“Jacaerys.” Cregan murmured, gaining a disapproving frown from the prince.

“Try again.” Jacaerys said, giving Cregan’s bleeding hand a punishing squeeze.

“Jace.” Cregan corrected himself, calling Jacaerys by the nickname that had been lingering on his tongue for so long but never had the chance to leave his mouth.

Jacaerys finally cracked a smile, untainted by grief, untouched by the cruelty of the world, pure, innocent, and genuine, more beautiful than the finest winter rose. Cregan wanted to seal it in the eternal ice and keep it for himself.

How cruel it was for a single raven to destroy such breathtaking smile. Shortly after exchanging the oath in the Crypt, a raven came from Dragonstone, bearing the bad news of Prince Lucerys’s death above Shipbreaker Bay. Cregan witnessed firsthand how Jacaerys’s face fall, how light disappearing from his eyes, and how pale the prince suddenly became. Cregan himself had lost a brother, not in a tragic event as this one, so he could only imagine how devastated Jacaerys must be. Cregan could do nothing but see Jacaerys’s lips quiver, as if he was holding back something that threatened to shatter his regal appearance. Eventually, Jacaerys regained his composure and made an urgent depart from Winterfell.

Cregan never heard from him again. Until today.

Jacaerys died. He had succumbed to the eternal darkness and never to return. Cregan would never see him again, not even his corpse. Jacaerys was gone forever. The prince who had captured Cregan’s heart from the moment they met was gone, taking Cregan’s heart with him.

Cregan felt a sting in his eyes, his chest tightening as if a giant hand was squeezing his heart. The realization that Jacaerys was truly gone slowly settled in, the enormous pain that followed was almost too much to bear, even for a tough man like Cregan.

In the dark coldness of the Crypt, witnessed by all his ancestors, the Lord of Winterfell finally allowed his grieving tears to fall, mourning for the prince he had sworn to protect but failed miserably.

He was cold, so cold that he couldn't feel his limbs. There seemed to be something heavy on his chest, as if he was buried alive six feet under. Strangely, even though he felt like he was restrained, he didn't find it hard to breathe. No. Wait. Was he even breathing?

Jacaerys opened his eyes abruptly, but all he could see was darkness. The darkness seemed to be moving, rocking back and forth like waves of the sea. Jacaerys had spent enough time with his father Laenor to recognize the rhythm of waves. Judging by the heavy pressure and the gentle movement of the darkness surrounding him, he must be under water.

But how? How could he stay under water without suffocating?

Jacaerys tried to move limbs, but to no avail. He should have gotten used to the coldness by now, but why couldn't he feel his arms and legs? Jacaerys tried again, still nothing. He kept floating in the water, like a leaf carried away by the waves.

The thing was, Jacaerys couldn't be carried away. He had duties to fulfill, battles to win, throne to take back. He couldn’t just lie there and do nothing. How was the battle? The last thing Jacaerys remembered was him urging Vermax to dive down and spread fire among enemy ships. What happened next? Did they win? Did they destroy the Triarchy fleet? Where was Vermax?

Jacaerys had too many questions, but firstly, he needed to move his limbs and get out of the water. The prince squeezed his eyes shut and willed for his limbs to move. If he could only curl his fingers and kick his legs, Jacaerys was sure he could swim to the surface. After failing repeatedly, with an incredible amount of will, Jacaerys managed to regain some control of his arms and legs. He dragged himself up, little by little, slowly but persistently, until he finally broke out of the water.

Just as Jacaerys guessed, he had been floating in the sea all this time. It was a cloudless night. The Moonlight shone upon the sea surface, broken by the waves into numerous pieces of silver. Jacaerys was soaked, but somehow, he didn't feel cold anymore, even when the night wind swept pass his damp curls. He was still clumsy, his limbs heavy like lead, but he managed to bring himself onshore.

The world felt strange to him. Jacaerys looked down at his hands. His skin was pale, his fingers swollen, which was not uncommon after immersing in the water for so long, but what confused him was the numerous cuts over his hands and arms, some of them deep enough to see bones, but none of them were bleeding. Jacaerys poked one of the open wounds on his left forearm, digging his fingers into the pink flesh. He should cry in pain now, but Jacaerys couldn’t feel a thing no matter how deep he dug his fingers in. Jacaerys checked the rest of his body confusingly, and found a deep gush above his pelvis, three arrows penetrating his thigh, and another on his neck. Jacaerys pulled off the arrow that pierced through his neck, still, no pain, no blood.

Was he dreaming? Was this world created by his dying mind? Or was he already dead?

Could be. Jacaerys rested one hand on his chest, but he couldn't feel his chest rising or his heartbeat. He was not breathing, either.

What was he then, a corpse, a ghost, or a walking dead? Was it even possible for this to happen? Jacaerys looked frantically around, trying to look for signs of friendly troops or civilization, but he couldn’t find any. He was completely alone, forgotten by this world, with nothing but the arrows on his body as company.

Where was he and what was he now?

Chapter Text

“Have you heard?” A lad with greasy hair and shabby clothes asked his companion, “Driftmark was sacked. Someone found a gilded chalice floating on the ocean!”

“No bloody way.” The companion, an emaciated man with a crooked spine, rolled his eyes at the lad, “Driftmark is guarded by the Seasnake’s fleet. There used to be stowaways trying to sneak in, but they were all killed and had their heads chopped off.”

“The Seasnake’s fleet is no more.” The lad said, “There was a battle in the Gullet. The Triarchy obliterated the Velaryons.”

“But the Velaryons have dragons, have they not?”

“Dragons aren't invincible, it seems.” The lad snorted, wiping his palm on his dirty pants, “Even the heir can’t escape the Stranger.”

“The prince is dead?”

“His dragon too.” The lad looked over his shoulder, making sure there was not a soul around to hear them, “I’ve heard that the prince was knocked off his dragon and killed by an arrow piercing through his neck.”

“Excuse me.” A third voice chimed in; a voice so hoarse that it was barely understandable.

The lad and his companion jumped in surprise as they looked around in panic, trying to find the newcomer, but to no avail. The marshy road that they had come was empty, veiled in the misty dusk that was typical of the Riverlands. There were no footsteps, no shadow hiding behind the bushes, no anything. It was dead quiet, not even a shriek of birds, as if there was no living soul left in this world except them.

“Who is there? Show yourself!” The lad raised his voice, in an attempt to scare away whoever or whatever was lurking around. It wasn’t very successful, apparently.

“We better run.” The companion with a crooked spine murmured, trying to pick up his pace, but the soft mud beneath his feet made it impossible to travel fast even for a trained soldier, let alone a crippled man.

“Please, do not panic. I mean no harm.” A shadow emerged from nowhere, “I am just a traveler passing by.”

At closer look, the shadow appeared to be a young man. The young man was shrouded in a black cloak, hiding his body from the neck down, the color so dark that it almost melted into the background. No wonder they hadn't noticed him before. The only part of the man’s body being exposed was his head; dark hair, ashen skin, and a handsome face. The man’s face was so pale and his cloak so dark that his head seemed to be floating in mid-air, creepy and terrifying.

“Who are you?!” The lad hissed, “What do you want?”

“I am just a traveler.” The man repeated. Despite his hoarse voice, his tone was gentle and his accent nice, “I mean no harm. I just want to ask for directions.”

“Are you lost?”

“You could say that. May I ask which path leads to Harrenhal?” The man smiled, or tried to smile. He seemed to have trouble pulling the muscles on his face, so the smile was awkward, more like a snarl than anything else.

“What business do you have in Harrenhal? It’s nothing but ruins there.” The lad replied, taking a step back, “The Regent Prince set his camp not far from the castle. Believe me, you won’t even get pass the camp patrols.”

“I will be my own judge of that.” The man said. He didn’t try to smile this time, keeping a blank face instead, “Could you be so kind as to show me the way?”

“Take the road to your right and turn left after you clear the marshes.”

“Thank you.” The man bowed politely, a few strands of damp curls escaping from behind his ear. He left just as quietly as he had appeared, with no sound of footsteps as if he was gliding through the muddy marshes.

“What was that?”

“A forest ghost, it has to be.”

“There is no such thing as a forest ghost, moron.”

The lad and his companion continued walking down the road, quickly forgetting about the strange encounter he had just had. Unfortunately, they would never reach the destination, because a sudden shower of dragon fire from the sky incinerated them both. They were dead before they even realized what was happening. A mercy, in a way.

The Regent Prince steered his enormous dragon away after showering enough dragon fire down to evaporate the entire marsh, paying no attention to the ants he had just killed.

Jacaerys emerged from the mud after making sure Vaghar had flown away. The marshes were completely gone, leaving only ashes and ruin. The muddy earth was scorched, the lingering heat enough to burn Jacaerys’s feet if he hadn’t lost the ability to feel temperature. He had immersed himself in the swamp to avoid being burned to ashes by dragon fire, now his face was covered in a shell of dry mud, blocking his view and both his nostrils. A normal person would have suffocated by now, but not Jacaerys.

It took him a while to get rid of the mud. By the time Jacaerys managed to make himself presentable again, the heat had largely gone. It was hard to keep a fire going in the damp air of the Riverlands, even if it was dragon fire. There was one merit of Vaghar’s attack, though. With the vegetation and muddy marshes gone, Jacaerys could clearly see the five looming towers of Harrenhal some distance away. He didn't need directions anymore. He could just follow the sight, and it would only be a few days’ travel to get to the stronghold build by Black Harren.

Jacaerys started walking immediately. He didn’t need sleep or rest, for he no longer felt fatigue. He could take the most direct path without worrying about cliffs, rivers, burglars, beasts or any other dangers and inconveniences. He wasn’t doing this out of bravery or resolution, though Jacaerys could argue that he did not lack either. He was doing this because he no longer had to worry about preserving energy or keeping himself safe.

A man could not be killed twice, right?

Jacaerys traveled all night, and reached a small settlement shortly before sunrise. He made sure to stay away from villages on his way here, keeping a safe distance from civilization, for he didn't want to scare anyone. Jacaerys had made peace with the fact that he was now a living corpse, a carcass that no longer breathed, and an empty shell that held no soul. He had no idea why he still roamed the living world, but he knew what he had to do. He fought for his mother’s cause in life, and he would continue fighting in death.

Jacaerys remembered what he had heard from the two travelers about the Battle in the Gullet. It seemed the Blacks had taken a heavy blow, especially for House Velaryon to have their fleet destroyed, their house seat sacked and their fortunes stolen. Jacaerys’s grandfather, the Seasnake, must be devastated by this. Fortunately, there seemed to be no further casualties except for Jacaerys himself. Granted they had lost a lot of troops, but all dragons except for Vermax had survived. As long as they had dragons, they still had a chance to fight back.

Jacaerys took a path that could let him bypass the small village, but the sound of metal clashing against metal made him stop. There was a fight, or one-sided slaughter happening just outside the village. A young girl was waving a pitchfork, trying to fight off a group of those who seemed to burglars. A woman was lying on the ground lifeless, and Jacaerys could see a toddler hiding under the woman’s body.

“Go away!” The girl shouted desperately, “Stay away from our home!”

“What if we don’t? Are you going to fight us with a pitchfork?” One of the burglars scoffed, unsheathing his sword, “Come on. Charge. Let’s see which one is better, your pitchfork, or my sword?”

For a burglar, the man’s armor was too fine and his sword too sharp. As far as Jacaerys knew, burglars didn't have such fine weapons. A rusty sword, perhaps, or an axe, even a blunt dagger, but not a sharp long sword like this one.

Were they truly burglars?

“Don’t kill her just yet.” Another man of the group spoke, “The lads are looking for some fun.”

The girl was shaking violently, tears staining her sunken cheek, but she didn't back down.

“We have some mercenaries staying in our inn. They will come back soon, and they will kill you.” The girl said. She clearly meant it to be a threat, but the burglars only laughed.

“Do you think those mercenaries are any better than us? They kill for a living, girl. Killed by our hand will be a mercy to you.”

Jacaerys had seen enough. He should turn around and leave, heading for Harrenhal and find Daemon before Ser Criston Cole and Prince Aemond’s troops arrived. Jacaerys decided not to go back to Dragonstone, for he had not the heart to let his mother see him like this. Jacaerys could never be king now, since there was no dead king on the iron throne, so it was better not to raise hope in his mother. What if the Stranger decided to take him tomorrow? How could Jacaerys let his mother live twice the pain of losing a son?

He should leave. He had no time to waste on some village girl. Little girls die all the time, especially in wartime like this. In fact, Jacaerys himself had already lost two brothers, Lucerys and Viserys, both victim of this conflict. Vengeance was the main power that kept Jacaerys going. He wanted to avenge his brothers, beheading every single one of the Greens, Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, Daeron, Cole, and Otto, even sweet Helaena could not escape his fury. These vile Hightowers.

One thing Jacaerys noticed after coming back from the dead was that he had trouble controlling his fury. Though being a Targaryen, Jacaerys always prided himself to be among the rational ones. He had to keep a cool head, so that he could lead the council to the right direction. The last time he had let fury prevail was when he saw Stormcloud dying at his feet and his little brother Aegon nearly escaping the Strange. Aegon cried and begged Jacaerys for forgiveness, because he ran away from the battlefield without little Viserys. How could Jacaerys blame him? For flying his drake through rains of arrows bravely? For surviving?

Jacaerys had been so furious at the time that he ordered all warships to sail for the Triarchy and all dragons to join the fight, including himself. How did that impulsive decision end up? Death and destruction. Failure. Ruins.

The fury that had led to his demise only grew stronger after he returned from the realm of death. Jacaerys was no longer rational. He was vengeful, bitter, and coldblooded. He had no sympathy for others, so the desperate cry of the village girl should mean nothing to him, right? Why was he reluctant to leave?

By the time Jacaerys realized what he was doing, he had already intervened by grabbing the burglar’s sword with his bare hand and snatching the weapon from the man. The blade cut deep into his palm, almost cutting it in half, but there was no blood oozing from the wound. Jacaerys didn't even blink as he pulled the blade out and grabbed the hilt with his injured hand.

“W-what are you?!” The burglar’s eyes widened at the wound on Jacaerys’s hand, “What do you want?”

“You are not the first one who asks me this question.” Jacaerys spoke, the arrows piercing through his neck had severed his vocal cord, making his voice hoarse like dry sand. “I have a feeling that you will not be the last.”

Jacaerys didn't let the burglars respond before he launched his first attack. He was a decent fighter, though his sword skills never surpassed his ability to fly. He wouldn’t be able to fight off a group of burglars all by himself if he were still alive, but now, he could utilize his strange condition to his advantage. Jacaerys focused only on attacking, without any attempt to defend himself, as he fought his way through the group of scums. He suffered at least three fatal wounds, one on his chest, one on his lower back, and another on his stomach. A blunt sword embedded deep into his body, piercing through his torso. It would have killed him, but instead of collapsing, Jacaerys didn’t even flinch, neither did he bleed.

“What-?” The man who had stricken Jacaerys with his sword murmured in disbelief, but he didn't get the chance to finish his sentence before Jacaerys slit his throat open, forever imprinting the horror and bewilderedness in his eyes.

Jacaerys didn't know how long he had been fighting, but he did know that he was getting more and more excited with the increasing bloodshed. His pale face was now covered in blood, more crimson liquid dripping from his dark curls and his sword, a few dead corpses scattering around his feet. He looked like the Stranger itself, the executor of death. Those burglars who hadn't fallen to Jacaerys’s sword turned to run. They were smart enough to run in different directions so that Jacaerys couldn't chase them all down. Not that Jacaerys planned to do so anyway.

However, it seemed that death was inevitable for those cowards. A few arrows came from somewhere to Jacaerys’s left, aiming at the burglars and hitting each one the target. Within seconds, the group of burglars were all shot dead.

Jacaerys looked to his left, where the arrows came from. A young lad was walking down a small hill, a longbow in his hand. He was about Jacaerys’s age, maybe younger, with short hair and a childish face.

“Quite impressive, mate.” The young lad looked around the corpses around Jacaerys’s feet and blew an appreciating whistle, “What is a good fighter like you hanging around for?”

“You are not too bad yourself.” Jacaerys replied, wiping the blood off the weapon he had snatched from his enemy, “I am just passing by.”

“Passing by? In the Riverlands?” The young lad raised an eyebrow comically, “You are either mad or lying. No one passes by the Riverlands these days.”

Jacaerys wasn’t sure how to answer to that, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Davos, this man saved me and my brother.” The village girl ran to the young lad and tugged his dirty sleeves, “Don’t be rude to him.”

“I don't have to take orders from you.” The young lad, Davos, it seemed, said harshly, “Go back to the inn and start the pot. The others are coming back soon.”

“But mother isn’t answering.” The girl said helplessly, turning her eyes to the lifeless body of the woman on the ground, “I can't go back without her.”

Davos rolled his eyes and walked to the woman’s body. He poked the woman with his boot lightly before crouching down to test her pulse.

“She’s dead.” Davos said matter-of-factly.

The girl’s face went blank for a moment before twisting with pain. It seemed that she was old enough to understand death, or at least understanding that her mother was not coming back with them.

“Stop whining and go the fuck back.” Davos urged the little girl to go back to the village with her toddler brother, “You are not supposed to leave the village in the first place.”

The girl whimpered and did as she was told, cradling her little brother and running back to the village. Jacaerys saw the scene unfolding in silence. Neither the lad’s harshness nor the girl’s devastated whimper could make him feel anything. The excitement of killing had worn off, leaving him in a cold and indifferent state.

“Are you coming, mate?” Davos turned to Jacaerys after the little girl disappeared into an inn-like shed, “We might be able to spare a stew for you.”

“You don't seem like a careless man to me, Davos.” Jacaerys said, wiping off the blood from his face, “I don't think it is wise to invite a stranger to your party.”

“Yeah, you are right. Normally I would have killed you and stripped that fine cloak off you already, but,” Davos shrugged and bent down to retrieve the arrows from the dead bodies.

“But?”

It took Davos some time to retrieve all his arrows. He rampaged through the bodies before taking a bag of coins and two daggers from the dead burglars.

“But I don't think I can fight you.” Davos said simply, “Fortunately, I also think you are not a threat. You are a Stark, aren’t you?”

The last question took Jacaerys off guard. He knew he didn't have the typical feature of a Targaryen, with dark hair and soft brown eyes, but he had never been mistaken as a Stark. He didn’t have the typical build of a Northerner, if his brief stay at Winterfell was anything to go by. Why was Davos so confident of him being a Stark?

“I am not sure what you are talking about.” Jacaerys replied after a short pause.

“Come on. I am not that daft, okay? You are wearing the Stark Sigil.” Davos pointed to Jacaerys’s chest, where a broken amulet hung from his neck.

Jacaerys has nearly forgotten about the amulet that Cregan gave him before he left Winterfell. The Northerner lord insisted that Jacaerys have it, as a call for good faith and something to remember him by. Jacaerys wore the amulet around his neck, and hadn’t taken it off since. He wore it to council meetings, to training, to flying and to battle. It was as if Cregan was there with him, every step of the way. Jacaerys had lost his dragon, his sword, his armor and his life in the Battle in the Gullet, but not this amulet. It was the only connection he had with his old self. The amulet was broken with a large crack in the middle, just across the direwolf sigil, like a scar on the permanent ice. Jacaerys had no idea why he kept it while discarding all his belongs on the shore, but his decision seemed to be have paid off now. At least Davos was willing to take him in, and Jacaerys could use this opportunity to gather more information and plan his next move.

“You’ve got me.” Jacaerys said, throwing his hands up.

“Follow me. We better hurry before Aeron eats all the meats.”

“I don't think it is wise, mi’lord.”

“I am not seeking your counsel, Dustin.” Cregan said. He jumped off his horse and gulped down the entire goblet of wine brought by a squire. He looked tired, but in high spirits.

“Your duties lie in the north, mi’lord.” Roderick Dustin shook his head disapprovingly, “You are useful, unlike us greybeards.”

“Perhaps, but my oath sends me south.” Cregan wiped off the wine drops from his lips and turned to the old lord, “Do you see me as an oathbreaker, Dustin?”

“Of course not.” Dustin said, “You are an honorable man, mi’lord. That is why you send us down to fight, to give us a chance of dying as a warrior. We forever appreciate your kindness, mi’lord.”

“I promised Prince Jacaerys to support his side in the war.” Cregan walked to the makeshift tent next to a swamp, “I am just carrying out my oath.”

“The prince is dead. Any oath you might have taken should die with him.”

Cregan stopped and forced himself to hold back the anger that kept boiling in his gut the entire way from Winterfell to the Neck. He left Winterfell with only a small group of men, riding the fastest horses non-stop to catch up with greybeards force. Cregan knew his move was impulsive, and arguably stupid, but he couldn't help himself. He had not yet fully acquired the cold-heartedness necessary to become the true Lord of the North. He could still feel, grieve, and mourn for the death of someone he held dear. Cregan arched for revenge. He wanted to set the whole realm on fire to avenge Jacaerys, to burn those who were responsible for the prince’s tragic death. The thought was childish, but sincere. Cregan meant it.

“Anyway, I’ve already arrived, and I have no intention of turning back.” Cregan turned to face the old man after making sure his expression wouldn’t betray his true feelings, “You are still in charge of the command, Dustin. Do not let me disrupt your plan.”

Roderick had lived long enough to know when to leave an argument. He had great respect for the young lord, who was mature beyond his years, but he also knew it was too late to change the lord’s mind now. Roderick never met Prince Jacaerys, but he heard rumors, especially those vivid tales of the northern lord and the dragon prince spending intimate times together. It wasn’t uncommon for two young lads having a go under the sheets, but such relationship was short-lived and often times for novelty. The bond between two men came from the flesh, not the soul.

“We march for the Twins tomorrow.” Dustin told Cregan, “I plan to join the Frey’s force.”

“What can you tell me about the situation in the Riverlands?” Cregan asked, taking off his thick cloak, but left the Valyrian sword on his back. He was fully prepared to fight, Dustin thought.

“Prince Daemon sits in Harrenhal and most of the houses in the Riverlands have raised their banners for Queen Rhaenyra. I have reports saying that Criston Cole is leading a strong army for Harrenhal, and Prince Aemond is with them on his dragon.”

“How strong is Cole’s army?”

“At least three thousand, perhaps more. The Lannisters are also marching from the west.”

The greybeards had two thousand men, all old and beaten despite their battle experience. Their weapons were no match for the Lannisters or Cole’s army. It was going to be a hard battle.

They set out at dawn the next day, and marched for the Twins. They hadn't cleared the Neck yet, the swamps and marshes made it hard for the horses to pick up speed. The sky was gloomy, dark clouds looming over the horizon, indicating the coming of a storm. Dustin commanded the greybeards to hurry, for it was not a good idea to travel through the Neck in a storm.

“Move! We need to clear the swamps before the storm hits!”

Horns were blown to urge the troops forward. Cregan rode to the front to navigate the difficult terrain since his horse was the fastest. The twin towers across the river just came into view when the first gust of wind came. To Cregan’s surprise, the wind was not cold, but scorching like fire.

“Dragon!”

Someone shouted, causing everyone to look up. Cregan lifted his head as well, and was greeted by a scene that was almost impossible to believe. There was a gigantic dragon flying across the sky, its wings so vast that it blocked the entire sky. Cregan realized belatedly that the dark clouds he saw earlier was not clouds at all. It was this dragon flying towards them. Cregan had seen a dragon before. Vermax, Jacaerys’s companion, a young drake with iridescent scales that shimmered under the sun. He had no doubt that Vermax was a capable fighter, but the young drake was no match in terms of size for the beast above.

“Scatter! Scatter!” Cregan shouted after he recovered from the initial shock. He didn't know if his voice could heard in the neighs of the horses and the strong wind caused by the dragon’s wings. He didn’t even know if they could outrun the dragon by scattering. If the dragon decided to rain fire on them, they would all meet a gruesome and painful death. The greybeards would never have the honorable end they deserved, and Cregan’s revenge plan would fail before it even started.

What should he do? How could he lead his men out of this dire situation?

The gigantic dragon, Vaghar, flew above them for another circle, but didn't attack. The short interval of time gave Cregan room to think. Things were not completely to their disadvantage. They were still in the Neck, with swamps and slippery vegetation around them. It was the perfect spot to hide. Perhaps the dragon and its rider hadn't discovered them yet, for their troops were stretched long and now scattered to all directions. If they could stay hidden, perhaps the dragon would leave.

“Take cover and stay hidden!” Cregan shouted again, “Do not blow the horns!”

The north lord jumped off his horse and crouched down next to a wet bush. He spread some mud over his body, though he had no idea if a thin layer of mud could be of any use against dragon fire. Cregan followed the faith of the Old God, but he was not one to pray. He prayed now, for there was nothing he could do in the face of a dragon. He felt helpless for the first time, but his thirst for revenge kept him going.

He couldn't die, not before he avenged his prince.

Vaghar took another circle before it left, flying in the direction of Harrenhal. Cregan managed to escape death this time, but the situation didn't get any better.

“Mi’lord?”

“The Greens are taking Harrenhal.” Cregan said, spitting a mouthful of mud out.