Chapter Text
Jacaerys considered himself well-traveled a fortnight ago, before he felt a cold deep enough to frost his bones as he stood atop the Wall, staring into a frozen wilderness that not even a dragon would dare venture into.
The North had always remained distant as ever, the only kingdom he’d yet to visit.
There were endless invitations for his mother, eager for the presence of the true Realm’s Delight. She enjoyed bringing her sons along, even after the Green Queen’s vitriol set all gawking eyes on the black-haired Velaryon boys.
Jace squired at the grandest spring tourneys at Highgarden. He became popular at Casterly Rock’s Golden Ball where he gave every young Lady a dance with the Crown Prince. He attended a full night’s celebration under the stars in the Eyrie for the Moon Mountain Yeartide. He went on several hunts led by the river lords and storm lords.
The invitations came from every direction but north. It seemed there was no occasion worth traveling above the Neck.
Apart from perfunctory lessons, Jace heard little of the North among the Crownland nobles. It was regarded as a land a thousand leagues away, where nothing fruitful grows in the ground, where the deadliest enemy is the cold, and the people are reclusive brutes who worship the trees and fear naught but winter.
As with the other kingdoms, Jace expected to share a sense of being amongst his countrymen. But he felt unmistakably like an outsider in a foreign land, despite being greeted by a host of bearded and bearish Northmen.
Jace distinguished the Lord of Winterfell among them by the greatsword on the man’s back, a weapon as tall as the prince that could only be the fabled Ice of House Stark. The lord was fit to bear it. He stood broad beneath heavy furs, even as his company staggered back and balked at the dragon landing before them.
With eyes the color of steel and an expression hardened to the same likeness, the young lord watched Jace dismount Vermax.
At first impression, Jace misjudged the cold resolve of Lord Cregan Stark.
Bringing Vermax was a statement: no message delivered by a prince on dragonback could be taken lightly. But Vermax made known his displeasure for the snow, and his aggression was too threatening for the Northmen to properly receive Jace nor any message he carried.
‘We are far from home now, my boy,’ Jace calmed Vermax in their mother tongue, ‘You are no spoiled hatchling, you must endure away from Dragonstone’s teat.’ Once Vermax reluctantly flew toward the forest a distance away from the castle, the Northmen welcomed the prince and introduced their lord.
Then Lord Stark alone led Jace through the grounds. The harsh line of his brow eased a slight on the way, saying mildly that it was only a late summer snow when Jace mentioned how brilliant it looked from the sky, though the white nearly blinded him as he flew in.
Lord Stark brought him to the battlements overlooking the grounds, showing him each tower and the Godswood and the Glass Gardens, precious green growing from the ground that Jace never thought such a harsh place could breathe life into. Lord Stark spoke in high regard of Winter Town that lay outside the walls, where the smallfolk had already begun to gather to endure the oncoming winter together.
Jace followed Lord Stark through the courtyard where preparations were underway, amongst stewards carting grain to the stores and crafters curing leather for pelts.
“Furs are for more than looking fancy here, my prince,” Lord Stark noted Jace’s southern-tailored cloak, his Targaryen pendant shining as he shivered. The prince would’ve taken offense if not for the lord’s promise of a warm chamber and proper northern furs awaiting him.
Jace’s purpose here felt more futile with each northerner that halted their preparations to bow to him, a prince who had never gone cold or hungry a day in his life. Jace was here to remind House Stark they are pledged to Queen Rhaenyra, and when he did so, he was quickly reminded that Starks do not forget their oaths.
Jace felt his duty was further yet from complete, only left to negotiate for aid and the North seemed entirely out of his realm to do so.
By the time Lord Stark showed him to the guest tower, Jace took the offer to rest and get warm after his long journey.
He felt no guilt having servants provided during his stay at the Vale, nor while negotiating with the Manderlys at their grand castle in White Harbor.
Winterfell was different.
Jace felt surely there were more dire tasks for the servants than drawing him a bath. He doubted the Lord of Winterfell, the stern and solid oak of a man, was having his every need tended to. Jace loathed to be a coddled princeling, so he dismissed the servant and declined having food brought to him. He'd bathe himself and feed himself in the Great Hall with everyone else.
It was the first step Jace felt he’d taken rightly here.
His presence at dinner was unexpected but welcomed. He was given a seat at the high table with Lord Stark and his company. Perhaps the histories should write less of how mannerless the Northmen are and more of how highly they honor guestright. Among them were the castellan from House Glover and kinsman to Lord Stark, as well as the captain of the guard. Jace heard the men referring to the master-at-arms as "Mount Griff", an apt nickname given the size of the man, a Harclay of the mountain clans.
There were noblemen present at the dinner old enough to recall when King Jaehaerys visited Winterfell, telling stories of Queen Alysanne's time at the Wall that delighted Jace to hear. He felt confident then, to propose a toast to Queen Rhaenyra, pleased and relieved that Lord Stark raised his goblet with a slight nod. Then as the feast went on, Jace was asked to accompany Lord Stark to the Wall with one last rabble of Night’s Watch recruits before winter.
Though honored to be offered the same venture as his predecessors, Jace thought it counterproductive. Surely Lord Stark was eager to finish negotiations and be rid of the prince and his dragon. There was none of the urgency as with his peckish aunt in the Vale, where the threat of Vhagar loomed so close, or even with Lord Manderly, who was quick to make a demand for one of the Queen’s sons to wed his daughter.
Jacaerys was no stranger to politics. His earliest memories were sitting on his Grandsire's knee while he held court. Once older, Jace served as the King's cupbearer in small council meetings just as his mother had, listening and learning unlike his drunken uncle off indulging his whims.
While living at Dragonstone, Jace never left his mother's side during meetings. He'd even act in her stead while she was in the birthing bed with his younger brothers, with Daemon's guidance. His stepfather's lessons were always much less diplomatic, but Jace learned from him all the same. Luke did not absorb it all as diligently as Jace, but Jace ensured he paid attention when their Grandsire Corlys held court at High Tide, and when Rhaenys ruled in his absence. Jace had seen all manners of ruling.
Since birth, he'd been primed to be the perfect heir. Charming and bold, a clever mind, a skilled negotiator, a dragonrider, a fighter, a leader.
Yet with Lord Stark and the northerners, Jace was feckless on where to begin to bargain. Traveling with them seemed the best way to learn them.
It would take precious time, but the war had not reached the battlefield. Battle lines were being drawn as of yet and Jace intended to further his Queen’s reach here.
—
Nearly two weeks on the road.
Two weeks of Vermax circling the skies. Two weeks with Northmen who were ignorant to court manners, who mocked the petty quarrels of southerners over flowery seats, who seemed proud of this frozen wasteland and the way it weathered them. Two weeks of Jace unable to speak for himself over the chatter of his teeth. Two weeks of Ser Domeric Cerwyn’s boisterous laughter as he piled more furs onto the prince.
Two weeks of, “Leave the summer boy be,” from the gruff voice of Lord Stark.
Two weeks and it wasn’t until Jace stood atop the Wall that he finally understood these people.
Here, where they have survived and persisted, standing steady as the stone peaks of the Frostfangs for thousands of years. Of course there’s pride in that.
Here, where the only gods are winter and wilderness and neither knows a thing of mercy. What does a throne a thousand leagues away mean? Nothing.
“Winter is coming, Prince Jacaerys,” Lord Stark told him with the same grave weight that Jace had begun to recognize in the gaze of every northerner, looming over this place and inside all of its people.
Lord Stark was not as pleased as Jace by the thought of standing in the very place where their ancestors stood and negotiated a peace. Even still, Lord Stark spoke with reverence of duty and sacrifice, both to the North and the South, but his duty to his people was even more dire than that to the throne.
Jace braced himself for a rejection, to have failed to secure aid for his mother, to have failed the most crucial task his Queen entrusted him with.
But when Jace insisted that the South also has a duty to the North, there had to be reason beyond fear that would bring the King of Winter to kneel, and without the throne there was nothing to keep the realm unified against all that the 700-foot wall was built to keep out, Lord Stark paused, not expecting such a response.
He stared at Jace for a long moment, as if while standing atop the world on a mountain of ice, it was Jacaerys that impressed Lord Stark the most.
Then he agreed and suggested they renegotiate their mutual duty when they returned to Winterfell.
—
The two weeks on the journey back were lighter.
Jace could hardly feel the cold, down to but one pelt and his Targaryen colored cloaks.
The traveling party took a liking to Jace once he was fit enough to hold conversation. He recognized their sigils and houses to their surprise, Glover, Cassel, Norrey and Harclay among them. He answered all they wished to know of dragons and court and his travels to the other kingdoms. Northmen enjoyed mocking southern lords, and though Jace did not share their opinion, he was not often allowed to express his disdain for the Hightowers and Lannisters in particular. He settled into their ways, mimicking their crude honesty, bluster that his mother would forbid outside the training yard.
They seem surprised also when Jace returned their questions. He listened intently to stories of fighting Wildling skirmishes, a petty feud between the forester clans over a chestnut grove in the Wolfswood, and who among the newest Night's Watch recruits was fit to be a ranger. Matters that would not seemingly interest a young prince, but Jace was keen, always gathering what he could learn that he might someday need to know.
Ser Domeric, bearded and robust, looked like a Northman directly from the history pages Jace once studied. Rather than the dark features of the First Men, he had a golden wheat-like mane. The knight, whom Jace learned was the head of Lord Stark’s guard and his closest friend, marveled and envied the inner warmth Jace seemed to radiate. He claimed it was the prince’s dragon blood and suggested they all huddle round him like a fire.
While the men were growing charmed by Jace, Lord Stark only seemed to observe at a distance. It's odd for Jace, accustomed to lords who eagerly sought his attention, arse-kissing to garner the favor of the Crown Prince or aiming to sink their claws into a supple young heir. Jace found that he preferred Lord Stark's way of silently perceiving him. When he told an unflattering story of Tyland Lannister gifting the king a lion skin rug he claimed to have slain himself, but Prince Daemon knew the Pentoshi merchant who sold it to him, it felt somewhat like a victory when he caught Lord Stark snorting along with the rest of the men.
There was but one who gained more contempt for Jace. A ninth-born son from the Dreadfort around Jace’s age, another household guard, a position given only by the grace of Lord Stark to honor a favor owed to the boy's father. The Boltons had a reputation that reached far enough for even Jace to know they were a vile lot.
The Bolton boy had already been warned by Lord Stark to stop his insolence, and was struck once by the flat of Ser Domeric’s sword.
Jace never cared to be adored by all, he could tolerate dislike, but not disrespect that grew bolder by the time they made camp halfway through the journey.
It was one remark about Jace’s hair, a question of whether he’s sure he’s a dragon and not a lump of coal, an all too familiar question of where such strong genes came from, an insult that Jace refused to allow so long as he had a hand to rip tongues from throats.
“Speak one more word to me. I dare you.”
Jace is not proud of his temper. He’s not sure if it’s the blood of the dragon or the vicious bastard blood of Breakbones that comes roaring out of him at times, but once the Bolton boy opened his mouth, Jace unleashed it on him. Numb in blind rage, not slowed by any of the return blows, Jace didn’t stop until he was hauled off by Ser Domeric.
Once his temper cooled and he calmed Vermax from torching them all, Jace felt he owed an apology for the outburst unbefitting of a prince.
However, Ser Domeric was only amused that, “Someone finally gave the Bolton brat what he needed,” while the others agreed and clapped Jace on the back for handling it himself. A fair fight, instead of demanding the Bolton boy’s head.
The northern way, it seemed.
Across the campfire, Lord Stark had stayed seated watching the ordeal. His gaze met Jace's over the flames for a moment.
It was then that Jace thought he caught the first glint of a smile when Lord Stark told them all once again to leave the prince be, “Unless you dare.”
It no longer felt mocking when Lord Stark called Jacaerys the summer boy.
—
After a day's rest upon return to Winterfell, Jace stows himself away in the library.
Baela would accuse him of pouting and drag him away from the books for a ride over the sea. Luke would avoid him, lest Jace insist he study as well. His mother would tell him to lighten the burden on himself, that he doesn’t need to learn it all in one day, unless he intends to depose her as queen soon.
This is what Jace does when feelings of inadequacy arise, whispering to him that no black-haired bastard is suited for the throne and his unworthiness is plain for all to see. As of late, they whisper that no northern army will march for a princeling who’d never seen snow a month prior.
If he cannot look the part of a ruler, he must school himself strictly to have the competence of one.
He’s nearly fluent in High Valyrian. He can name all the houses, their words and their place on the map quicker than any of his peers. He spends more time poring through the histories than the maesters who wrote them. It’s his duty to honor his forebears by knowing the land and the people he will reign over.
While in the North, he intends to learn all he can.
As it’s written in the Winterfell library, the Starks were conquerors in their own right. They gained control over every house in the North to become the Kings of Winter, long before Aegon arrived.
The blood of the First Men is as important to them as Valyrian blood is to the Targaryens, for the Starks also had an interest in breeding magic into their line. After overthrowing the Marsh King and the Warg King, they wed the daughters of greenseers and skinchangers.
It seems the Starks only marry within northern nobles now, those with ties to the First Men. Perhaps a Targaryen princess with ancient blood magic in her veins would persuade Lord Stark to march south. Though Jace has no unmarried women in his family. Neither does the lord seem keen to be remarried, nor particular about which woman will replace his late wife.
The most notable thing of value to the North are resources to survive the winter, but the crown’s resources are tied with the war. Jace has nothing to offer apart from future prospects, which requires a degree of trust that simply can’t be built with the time they have left.
Lord Stark hasn’t often sought out Jace, not even to introduce his son. The lord seems to use any spare moment to traverse the Wolfswood, drawn to the endless wilderness for reasons Jace cannot fathom. Though from their conversation at the Wall, he remains open to Jace’s cause, and interested in political gain despite gritting his teeth through such talk.
The Wolf of the North, he’s called, and Jace can only guess why. All he knows for certain is that Cregan Stark is a man of honor and tradition foreign to Jace. While they witnessed the Night’s Watch recruits swear an oath to a tree that sounded like a life sentence in a cold hell, Lord Stark told them it was a sacred duty they should be honored to serve.
Jace sighs, flipping through pages of the last 50 years of records, looking for nothing and everything all at once.
“It seems the blood of the dragon has warmed Winterfell.”
Jace turns at the sound of Lord Stark’s voice, his tone absent of any bother, but Jace is surprised to see him there in the threshold of the library. He moves to stand respectfully but Lord Stark nods for him to stay as he is.
“You were missed at dinner, my prince. Dom claims we all shivered in your absence, as if the great hearth’s fire had gone out.”
Jace feels a tired smile on his lips, the words felt even more generous coming from Lord Stark, if not his directly.
“Such compliments from Ser Domeric after how much ale, I wonder.” Jace jests lightly. “My apologies, the night falls earlier here than I’m used to. I blame the wolves howling endlessly for the moon.”
Lord Stark walks slowly into the room, less tension than usual across his brows and shoulders. As if returning the jest, he says, “My father threw me over his knee for better excuses than that.”
“Is that what brings you here, Lord Stark? You’re going to throw me over your knee for missing dinner.”
Jace worries he’s become too lax with northern banter when Lord Stark pauses by the furthest table, his gaze heavy on Jace for a moment.
Then he lifts what he’s carrying beneath his thick cloaks, parting them to reveal a small cauldron of stew presumably.
“I thought you might be hungry, my prince.”
Jace feels terribly rude as Lord Stark places his missed meal on the table for him. Though diplomatically, he knows it’s a good sign the lord is seeking him out to grant him favors.
“Thank you, my lord. The hour escaped me, truly.”
“I would’ve sooner searched the skies if the maester hadn’t said to find you here.” Lord Stark comes around the table, giving a curious look at the books in front of Jace. “Entertaining yourself with northern history of all things.”
It’s fair curiosity. Jace knows most men would avoid the library once their schooling finished, nevermind such dull texts.
“The Valyrian scrolls first drew my interest. It’s a comfort to see my mother tongue here, so far from home,” Jace says truthfully. “It’s an impressive library. Maester Belmore takes great care of it. He locked the scrolls on the highest shelf as if they might burst into flames from my gaze.”
Lord Stark only hums, as if he’d already heard complaints from the old man, though Jace had tried not to be a bother.
“He doesn’t get many visitors here, even less southerners digging through our histories.” Lord Stark flips the cover of one, eyeing it. “Did you think you’d find the key to the North hidden in these dusty pages?”
Sensing the type of conversation unfolding, Jace gestures to the seat next to him. Lord Stark remains standing, looking down at Jace with slight suspicion. It’s not unfounded. Though Jace has no ill intentions, he obviously has motives. He hasn’t come here for mere entertainment.
“I did not know what I would find. I was always told the North is too wild for the intricacies of politics, yet I see hundreds of years of politics on these pages.”
“Wild,” Lord Stark repeats, not sounding offended but pressing Jace to elaborate. “You must be disappointed I’m not a bloodthirsty savage raring to go to war for you.”
“I think you are strategic, Lord Stark.” Jace redirects. “You use it to your advantage when others underestimate your mind, but I see you as you are.”
It’s no easy thing to hold steady under the weight of Cregan Stark’s gaze, but Jace manages.
“Then you see I don’t care for political games.” There’s no sharpness to Lord Stark’s straightforward words. “Speak to me man to man, my prince.”
Northerners appreciate bluntness and Jace is beginning to share that appreciation. For it takes nothing short of brazen nerve to mention what is surely a thorny subject with Lord Stark, but relevant here nonetheless.
“I see that you did not execute your uncle for attempting to depose you. That is a crime more than deserving of death and yet… he lives. Why?”
The line of Lord Stark’s brow hardens at the topic, speaking low with a stiff frown, “He and his sons rot in prison. The Wolf’s Den is no place of mercy.”
It’s certainly not. Jace saw the wretched prison in White Harbor, a pile of crumbling black walls and cold damp stone.
“I do not mistake you as merciful, my lord.”
Jace’s eyes trail up the imposing man standing over him, the look on his face prompting Jace to say what he means.
“You allow your uncle to rot in a cell, rather than his grave, because kinslaying is most egregious in the North,” Jace explains deftly. “Even with cause, executing your uncle would tarnish your lordship in the eyes of your people. Otherwise, I have no doubt a man like yourself would take any traitor’s head, regardless if he shares the name Stark.”
“A man like myself.” Lord Stark remains impartial to all the rest, which is proof enough of the truth. “What sort of man do you know after so short a time?”
Jace answers with sincerity. “One who keeps his honor untainted by cruelty or cowardice. A just lord with the love of his people. A strategic man of clever politics.”
Shadows settle between them before Lord Stark speaks again. His voice is as forebodingly quiet as the approaching hour of the wolf.
“And you, Prince Jacaerys, will you remove your uncle’s head from your mother’s path to the throne?”
“If I am so fortunate to have the chance." On this, Jace does not falter. "I’m not of the North.”
“No, my prince, you are not.”
It’s agreed flatly and Jace feels the need to counter.
“It’s no longer a family dispute. It’s war.”
“Aye.” Lord Stark turns away, both hands on the table. His eyes are closed as he lets out a breath that drifts through his long stray hairs. “A war with dragons on both sides is coming with haste. It’ll hit as harsh as winter.”
He sounds weary. Young. A rare show of his true youth. Jace hadn’t felt how close they are in age until that moment.
“Before I send my entire army south, I have to consider the fate of the North should our Queen’s forces fail,” Lord Stark muses, his profile cast in candlelight. “My people would be left defenseless. Yet if I march, it should be with enough men to win the war and be done with it. That may take more time than we have.”
Though Jace doesn’t doubt his mother, it’s fair for any decent ruler to take all into account.
“The odds are better if all our allies raise their banners,” he reasons, having already informed the lord of their other forces on the march.
Lord Stark nods silently as Jace continues.
“As for dragons, the Queen has many that are experienced in battle. The Usurper has but one.”
“The largest one, isn’t it?”
Jace rolls his eyes, looking away as he grumbles. “A hoary old bitch that won’t withstand all of us descending on King’s Landing.”
The North has weathered the prince’s edges too roughly. His eyes shoot over at the amused hum from Lord Stark, surprised to see him with a slight tilt to his lips.
“You have a busy mind, summer boy.”
Jace knows that’s not a compliment among Northmen. To be a boy of summer is to be green as the grass and frail as a frost-bitten flower. Yet it seems to carry no insult from Lord Stark, coming naturally in a way that Jace doesn’t mind how improper it is.
Still, Jace felt somewhat chafed, warm pinpricks climbing the back of his neck.
“Come, my prince, show me what’s kept your nose in these books all day.”
Lord Stark motions to the tome in front of Jace, still open to a page of recent records.
Jace stands and clears the scatter from the table, more interested in the map painted on the wood below. It’s decently sized, but not comparable to the 50-foot span of the Conqueror’s table in the Stone Drum. Jace must stand close to see it.
He feels Lord Stark’s eyes on him, following his hand as he pushes his unruly curls out of the way, probably urging him to get on with it. Jace takes a moment to gather his thoughts on the matter he’s been pondering, if it’s any significance at all.
“Before last winter, your father gathered half a thousand men at Moat Cailin…” Jace begins, his hand hovering over the map as he searches for said castle. He knows where it is, he’s schooled himself as a prince should. But his eyes are tired, his head still aches dully from his scrap with Bolton, and Lord Stark is watching him, making it difficult to spot.
Sighing frustratedly, his breath stalls when Lord Stark reaches for his hand, guiding it down to the right place on the map.
Jace assumes he must have grown impatient, but his sword-calloused touch is featherlight around Jace’s wrist. Neither is there impatience in his voice when he speaks next.
“They marched to the Bloody Gate to aid the Eyrie against the Hill Tribes.” Lord Stark trails Jace’s hand down the Kingsroad to the Vale and holds it there, a simple gesture. A needed one, Jace inwardly scolds himself for taking too long.
The prince swallows before continuing. “The Knights of the Vale beat the tribesmen back into the mountains with ease. Yet not a single northman returned in the spring.”
Lord Stark is standing close behind him, close enough for Jace to faintly feel the hum he gives in response.
“And the winter before that, my grandfather sent three hundred to defend Greywater Watch from Ironborn raiders.”
He brings their joined hands up the map to the Neck, seemingly following the same path as Jace to the same end in more ways than one.
“Many Northmen were lost trying to find the castle on the floating island." Jace finishes where Lord Stark left off. “The marshes swallowed them along with the raiders.”
He looks over his shoulder at Lord Stark, finding his eyes are not on the map at all.
There’s little space between them. Jace sees the candle flames flickering in the dark center of Lord Stark’s gaze, but neither of them step back. They’re close to reaching an understanding, right at the tipping edge and Jace won’t risk offsetting it.
Even Lord Stark keeps his voice down when he breaks the silence.
“I know the stories.”
“Then you know it’s a pattern,” Jace murmurs back, “Northerners march south before winter, usually for some hapless cause. Not young men, but the old with one fight left in them.”
Unexpectedly, Lord Stark agrees with a solemn nod. “Greybeards who've seen too many winters.”
“That’s not written on the page, but I think I know the true cause as well as you do.”
“I’d like to hear what you think, my prince.”
He’s yet to let go of Jace.
Still holding him there, his larger hand over Jace’s, his palm rougher.
Yet he’s just as warm to the touch, despite their entirely opposite natures.
“I think we come from the same vein,” Jace says what comes to mind while looking down at their tethered hands, “For us with the spirit of conquerors, the blood of winter kings and dragonlords, souls full of fire or ice: a passionless death is a death we dread most.”
Lord Stark says nothing but looks intrigued when Jace turns back.
“While you decide if this war is worth raising your banners, send your greybeards to honor northern tradition,” Jace says with one last daring push, “Let them spare their families a mouth to feed this winter. Let them die fighting for their Queen rather than shivering to death in their beds.”
In the silence that follows, Jace worries he’s truly overstepped this time. His heart beats harder the longer it stretches. He swears he feels his skin heat up where they’re touching when Lord Stark leans closer.
“What your hair lacks in silver, your tongue pays twice the due.”
Perhaps it’s meant to be a compliment, but it's only a stinging reminder that even here, where no one has laid eyes on a Targaryen since the days of The Old King, it’s clear to see what Jace lacks.
He slips free from Lord Stark’s hold, stepping away and folding his hands in front of him like a shield.
“Are we in agreement, my lord?”
Faltering briefly at the sudden shift, Lord Stark straightens himself as well.
“We are. I sent out ravens this morning to gather the greybeards.”
“This morning, lord?”
“I’ll have a number to expect soon.”
Jace’s brow furrows. “You’ve already… of course you have.”
“Aye, it's tradition, you were right about that.” While Jace frets that his grand proposal was all for naught, Lord Stark dignifies it at least. “If it wasn’t our way, you would’ve persuaded me.”
A bit wryly, Jace replies, “Perhaps you’re fond of political games after all.”
“Or I don’t mind helping you ripen up.” Lord Stark taps his knuckles against Jace’s stack of books. “Next time we’ll talk about the throne’s part in this. Keep searching these pages for another clever bargain, Prince Jacaerys.”
He turns to leave and his fur cloaks billow behind him, bringing all to a flat end that Jace cannot sit with.
“I’m not merely looking for leverage to use, My Lord Cregan,” he calls after him, taking a measured breath when faced again. “Being in the North is not wasted on me. Your land and your people are part of the realm I serve. While I’m here, I only want to understand you all so I may serve well.”
After a long and considerate gaze, Lord Stark lowers his head respectfully. “Then you’ll join us for a hunt. The full moon is coming, it brings out the wildest of the forest.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“Rest well tonight, my prince, and eat your dinner.”
With that, Lord Stark is gone, and a knot that Jace hadn’t realized was tight in his chest unwinds.
—
Jace rises early in the morning to tend to Vermax. The dragon has mostly resigned himself to a cave near the Wolfswood, away from the snowy winds.
As Jace grows accustomed to the North, Vermax’s ill-temper wanes also. He no longer needs to be coaxed out to eat and stretch his wings, nor does he snarl about Jace flying him deep into the forest to hunt. Though it’s impossible for the dragon to understand why he can’t take from Winterfell’s hunting grounds, Jace feels he understands anyway.
The rest of the evening, Jace resides in the library once again, mindful not to miss dinner this time. He has no visitors that night, only the maester steps in for a short moment after Jace returns from the Great Hall.
Grumbling under his breath, Maester Belmore gives Jace the Valyrian scrolls he locked away from him the day before.
Astonished, Jace thanks him. The Maester only mutters something about Lord Stark before giving Jace a stern warning not to damage the ancient parchment.
It dawns on Jace a while later. The stubborn old Maester would have never given him the scrolls unless ordered by Lord Stark himself. Jace mentioned it so briefly, he hadn’t intended for Lord Stark to take note, nor act on his behalf.
He feels a faint smile on his lips, reading Ayrmidon’s Engines of War in the comfort of his mother tongue.
The hour is late by the time Jace is ready to retire.
As he’s walking along the parapet to the guest tower, he sees the smallest light flickering across the way.
It’s a single candle, oddly placed in a window sill of the Broken Tower.
Jace senses something amiss, but as he’s heading that way, the candle goes out.
Only a moment later, a figure emerges from the tower. Jace squints suspiciously, recognizing the Bolton boy once he steps into the lantern light along the pathway.
Jace calls for him to halt, questioning what business he has in the Broken Tower, to which he receives a trite one word explanation of patrol.
“Lighting candles?” Jace retorts.
He glares hard into Bolton’s icy blue eyes. The boy’s skin is as pale as the snow and still marked from Jace’s fists. Bolton’s mouth stretches into a tight, teeth-gritting smile that makes Jace’s grip tighten on the handle of his sword.
“The night is dark, Your Grace, anything could be lurking in the shadows.”
That could be a veiled threat, if not another snide remark that earned Bolton the bruises he bears now.
Even though Bolton stands taller, Jace stares him down harder. While debating if he has reason to pummel his smug face again, a sudden roar rips through the air and Bolton leaps back.
Jace looks up just as the shadow of a dragon soars past the moon.
The sight floods Jace with fiery warmth amid the frigid cold. It’s as if Vermax doesn’t simply sense Jace’s distrust for Bolton, but he’s feeling it also. Their connection feels stronger. It must be. Jace had never summoned Vermax solely through their bond until that moment.
When he turns back to Bolton, seeing how fear had replaced the arrogance on his face, Jace decides it’s sufficient. He orders him to leave and steps aside to watch as he hastens away.
Jace lingers momentarily, long enough for Vermax to calm and retreat to his cave once more. Then Jace takes the lantern from the nearby pillar and heads for the Broken Tower.
He wonders if he should tell Lord Stark about this, but what is there to report other than insolence? Everyone’s well aware Bolton is an arseling. Jace only has suspicions of deceit. Yet when he searches the Broken Tower for a sign that Bolton was there for reasons other than patrol, he finds nothing.
Not even the candle he was so sure he saw alight.
There’s only dust, crumbling stones and a single dark feather of a raven on the window sill.
Jace eyes it curiously for a moment before sighing and shoving it into his tunic to contemplate later, after a night’s rest.