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Jojen’s grin was wide and it pulled at something deep in Tommen’s belly, spreading warmth through him that had nothing to do with his embarrassment. He watched as Jojen picked up an apple, tossed it in the air and caught it, then let it roll to the end of his fingers — an offering.

Tommen met Jojen’s eyes and wet his lips, then reached for the apple. When his fingers touched the top, he said, as clearly as he could manage, “Taing dhut, Jojen.” He closed his fingers around the apple and took a bite, grinning as his teeth split the skin.

He chewed for a moment, considering. There was another word he heard often, not just from Jojen. He had the impression it was a derogatory term, but the tone of it was frequently more teasing than cruel, which made Tommen wonder. He swallowed the bit of apple and took a breath.

“What about ‘Sassenach’?” he asked, meeting Jojen’s eyes once more.

can’t believe my bones when they say so many things | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

“Does ‘madainn mhath dhut’ mean ‘good morning’?” Tommen asked. The words were garbled in his attempt at recreation – consonants in Gaelic did not behave as they should under the King’s English. Gàidhlig moved as easily between the rolling lyrical tones of French and the harsh, guttural tones of Irish Gaelic as an abhainn moved from land to sea. Tommen managed the words, but barely.

“To ye,” Jojen corrected, swallowed another mouthful of food. “Good morning to ye.” He waited, watching Tommen’s expression go pink around the edges as he realized Jojen had translated for him. Jojen caught his eye, smirking.

“Madainn mhath,” he said, still grinning as he swiped a few bannocks off a platter, “now that’s just ‘good morning.’”

“To ye,” Jojen said. “Good morning to ye.” His gaze didn’t waver and Tommen felt his cheeks heating, embarrassment crawling up the back of his neck. Jojen had translated the words, but— Jojen grinned, reached for a few bannocks and said, “Madainn mhath. Now that’s just ‘good morning.’” 

Tommen’s tongue darted against his lips and he nodded, the flush lingering around his ears and cheeks. “I walked into that, I suppose.” He laughed softly. “What about—” He paused, trying to get the sounds right, knowing he wouldn’t. “’Taing dhut’?” He wet his lips again. “I gather ‘dhut’ means you, but what’s the first word?”

Tommen took another spoonful of oats, trying to tamp down his flush.

can’t believe my bones when they say so many things | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

can’t believe my bones when they say so many things | february, 1806

The English prince had been at Loch Lagan a week. He was, Jojen both saw and heard, a hard worker. The Maesters were impressed with his knack for memorization of flag signals, battlefield positions, and terminology. The learning end of training, it seemed, Tommen took to like a fish to water.

Jojen, Jon, and Arya were (perhaps a bit begrudgingly) impressed on the physical end as well. He was not very good at any of the tasks they assigned to him, but he did throw himself at them until they were complete. This, Jojen supposed, was all they could ask of the lad. It was all they could ask of any of the young Corpsmen in their care.

Perhaps most promising, however, was that the lad had been at Lagan for a week and no messengers from Dover or London had arrived making fuss about the great number of Lagan’s Corspmen that wore kilts or spoke Gaelic. Which had resulted summariily in both Jojen and Jon very confidently wearing their respective family tartans during the hours they were not training.

In fact, there were no inquiries at all about Tommen from court or headquarters. This, Jojen noted with melancholic interest — the lack of interest from the royal family, combined with Tommen’s sudden arrival at the Aerial Corps’ door painted a picture that Jojen could not help but want to dechiper.

At the beginning of Tommen’s second week in the Corps, Jojen found himself falling into a seat beside Tommen in the mess hall, early enough that Pyp had yet to lumber out from their shared room. Jojen himself was an early riser, conditioned to light, somewhat fitful, sleeping from his time on the front. Tommen, though he had the tired eyes of a new recruit, smiled brightly at him as Jojen took his turn scooping a large helping of parritch onto a plate.

“Madainn mhath dhut, Sassenach,” Jojen said, somewhat groggy with sleep, before beginning to shovel his breakfast into his mouth. Feeling eyes on him, he looked up to see Tommen staring in confusion. The Gaelic. Jojen swallowed the spoonful of parritch. “Good morning to ye.”

“Madainn mhath dhut, Sassenach,” Jojen said, sounding half-asleep still. Tommen arched an eyebrow over his cup of coffee and waited. Jojen swallowed his breakfast and translated, “Good morning to ye.”

Tommen had no Gaelic, though he’d started to pick up certain words from context clues, if nothing else. He knew what to do when Captain Snow or Ygritte called out commands, at least, though he didn’t necessarily know the direct translations. Jojen spoke to him in Gaelic constantly, however, seeming never to remember that Tommen didn’t speak the language. It clearly wasn’t malicious — if anything, it made Tommen feel somewhat flattered, to be treated the same as everyone else in the way Jojen spoke to him.

But it was frustrating, not to know what he was saying, especially because he didn’t always take the time to translate.

“Does ‘madainn mhath dhut’ mean ‘good morning’?” Tommen asked, tilting his head as he traded his coffee for another spoonful of oats.

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can’t believe my bones when they say so many things | february, 1806

On his second day at Loch Laggan, Tommen woke feeling as if his limbs were made of wood. He was stiff and sore as he got out of bed and Pyp looked up from tying his boots with a sympathetic wince. He taught Tommen some basic exercises — ones that pulled his muscles and made him feel like his lungs were expanding beneath his ribs — and told him to do them every night before bed and every morning when he woke, to ease the soreness.

On his third day in the Aerial Corps, Tommen woke feeling as if he might die from the pain. Though he was always an early riser — often waking before the sun itself — he laid in bed for some time, moving individual fingers and toes in an attempt to find any part of his body that didn’t hurt. Though he protested, Pyp forced him out of bed and again made him stretch, which made Tommen wince and pant at first, but ultimately seemed to help.

After six days, Tommen’s limbs no longer felt like they’d fall off, nor did he question whether it would be less painful to simply have them amputated. He could feel himself slowly getting stronger and he could tell his stamina was improving, as well. When he flexed his arms as he washed, he could feel the muscles strain in new ways. The speed of it surprised him, but he suspected he would never be as hulking or muscular as Jojen or Captain Snow. He was too wiry for that, narrow-shouldered with sharp hips. But although he couldn’t necessarily see his body changing, he could feel it, and he was relieved. A week of hard, manual labor was just a week, but it was more than Tommen had ever done in his life, and he held a quiet sense of pride for making it through the most painful days — at least, so far.

This morning, he rose before Pyp, stretched his tired limbs and shaved in the basin before his bunkmate so much as stirred in his bed. Comfortable with the route to the mess hall by now, Tommen left on his own, eager to get a start on the day.

He found another of Ghost’s midshipmen slumped over a cup of steaming tea at the far table and Tommen slid onto the bench across from him with a short greeting. The midshipman gave a grunt in response and Tommen reached for a bowl of oats, spooning some onto an empty plate. He hesitated before reaching for the coffee, rather than the tea, pouring some into a cup and adding milk until some of the bitterness dissipated. He spooned oats into his mouth, barely lifting his head when someone sat beside him and reached across his person for the coffee. Tommen simply leaned back a bit and ate another bite, before turning to greet his new breakfast companion.

Jojen gave him a little grin and Tommen smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. “Morning,” he said, reaching for his coffee once more.

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oh it’s a big old place for me | february, 1806

Once the lad had two feet on solid ground, he seemed to waver, wobbling in the dark. In the lamplight, the wind-beaten flush that had spread across Tommen’s thin cheekbones evaporated, leaving behind flesh the same pale shade of the moon. Jojen was already moving to catch him when his hands flew out onto his thighs, a steadying attempt.

Jojen found himself exhaling in relief even as he caught a few of the crew eyeing Tommen, muttering snidely in Gàdhlig as they walked past, assisting the ground crew in breaking down Ghost’s rigging. To the nearest, he shot a deadly glare. To Tommen, he offered a hand laid flat between his shoulder blades and the flask of whiskey from his belt.

“Seo, gabh deoch,” he instructed. “Drink.”

A wide, flat palm laid between Tommen’s shoulder blades and a familiar flask appeared at his eye level. Jojen’s voice was low and kind, though Tommen only understood the last word. He reached for the flask with a shaking hand and took a sip, then nearly spat it out when the liquid touched his tongue.

With some effort, he swallowed, feeling a slow, smooth burn as the alcohol hit his stomach. Tommen took another sip, this one going down easier than the first, then slowly lifted his head as he handed the flask back to Jojen. Their eyes met and Tommen felt warmth spread through him, likely from the drink.

“I don’t know if that helped, but thank you,” he said, with a small laugh. His knees weren’t as shaky, he noticed, but he still felt a bit dizzy — though he wasn’t sure if that had changed at all, with the addition of Jojen’s hand on his back and whiskey in his system.

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oh it’s a big old place for me | february, 1806

Jojen caught Tommen’s eyes hovering on the flask, wide and the color of the whiskey inside the small thing. He found himself taking a wee nip himself before returning it to his belt, seeking anything to wet his dry tongue. He considered offering the flask to Tommen briefly, before thinking better of it – let the lad adjust to the dragon and the sounds of gunfire without whiskey’s influence. He did not think Tommen had the tolerance of a Scot. In fact, Jojen was curious if the lad could hold his drink at all. He seemed to slight and prone to discomfort.

In fact, Jojen realized with some great amusement, this was the most comfortable he’d seen the English prince since his arrival this morning.

Smiling at this, he listened as Tommen spoke. “Heights don’t bother me. Though,” he added with a laugh, “I do feel a bit like my insides have been rearranged, so perhaps when we’re back on land, I’ll feel differently.”

Jojen joined him in laughter at this. “Aye, weel Sassenach, do yer best to keep from vomiting on my sister’s boots – she does nae forget verra easily.”

--

The rest of the maneuver passed easily. Jojen was pleased to see Tommen flinching less and less with each practice volley. He was also please to hear Ygritte had the lads hitting thirty plates out of thirty shots by the end of the night. The lass, despite her rough edges, was rather brilliant at getting the best out of riflemen, though she’d been schooling this particular crew for near the last six years, he hoped she’d be able to have the same affect on Tommen, eventually.

He waited for Tommen as the lad climbed down the rope ladder, off Ghost’s side, curious to see if his prediction would come true.

By the time training was complete and Ghost landed back on her feet in the valley, Tommen was hardly flinching at the sounds of each volley. His ears rang a bit, from the repeated launching of the ceramic plates and the rounds of gunfire, but he found himself sinking into the rhythm of each volley and expecting the sounds, which made it all much easier to process.

He was surprised by how good he felt as he climbed down the rope ladder, off Ghost’s side. Despite Jojen’s teasing and Samwell’s own obvious nausea, Tommen hadn’t thrown up. His limbs felt heavy with exhaustion and stiff with cold, despite the layers he wore, but he assumed that with enough time, he’d get used to that, too. 

When Tommen’s feet hit the ground, his knees wobbled, and he bent over to plant both palms firmly on his thighs as he took a careful, steadying breath. He didn’t vomit; he didn’t even feel like he needed to vomit. Rather, he felt as if the Earth itself were moving underneath him with the same undulating grace of Ghost’s flight, but then the feeling abruptly stopped and it left him feeling more than a bit dizzy.

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Jojen just looked at him for a moment and Tommen looked back. Then Jojen seemed to take a breath and he said, “It’s a bonny thing, lad.” He adjusted his plaid, pulling it up around his shoulders and neck to guard against the wind.

Tommen pushed his hair out of his eyes, reaching to adjust the leather band that was supposed to be keeping it back. It was a lost cause, he was sure, but still he bit his lip in concentration as he tugged his hair into any kind of order, hoping it at least wouldn’t whip him too badly in the eyes again.

“Ye dinnae look verra green in the gills,” Jojen said suddenly. Tommen looked up and met his gaze. “I thought Meera was going to kill me, on my first turn. I vomited all over her boots.”

“I was ill for days,” Samwell added. He looked a bit like he’d be sick right then, and Tommen gave him a sympathetic look as Jojen handed him a flask. Samwell winced as he sipped at it and Tommen eyed the flask, curious, as Jojen took it back.

“Heights don’t bother me,” Tommen said, looking between them. “Though I do feel a bit like my insides have been rearranged, so perhaps when we’re back on land, I’ll feel differently.” He laughed, the sound carrying on the wind.

oh it’s a big old place for me | february, 1806

When Jojen arrived at the navigation deck, Tommen was grinning wildly. “That was incredible!” the English prince cried, a dimple forming in one cheek, deep enough for Jojen to stick his finger into. His teeth were bright in the light of the lamp that hung above Sam’s navigation table. He found himself staring, struck dumb. 

“Aye,” Jojen breathed. “It’s a bonny thing, lad.” This last he added somewhat louder, though still found his breath short. 

The wind, now shifted as the dragons began the move towards home, lacerated Jojen’s cheeks. He busied himself with re-adjusting his plaid. He brought it around his shoulders like an overcoat, rucking up the heavy tartan around his neck as a shield. Tommen’s hair was beginning to fly free form the queue it was kept in. Samwell’s breath formed wisps of smoke in the air. Jojen focused on those for a moment before speaking again.

“Ye dinnae look verra green in the gills,” he said. “I thought Meera was going to kill me, on my first turn. I vomited all over her boots.” Jojen smiled fondly at the memory. 

“I was ill for days,” Samwell added. He did look a little green. Jojen took his flask off his hip and offered it to Sam. He took a brief, wincing pull. Sam, as much as Jojen liked him, had never taken to Scottish whiskey. He did, however, look a little less wan when he returned the flask to him. 

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Jojen laughed too, his mouth curling up in a loose, easy grin. He patted Tommen on the shoulder again. “Aye,” he said. “Though, a battle’s much louder.” He smirked and pushed his fingers into Tommen’s hair, roughing it up.

Tommen felt a deep spark of unexpected warmth at the touch, despite the bitterly cold wind whipping at his cheeks. Jojen’s fingers were rough with callouses and Tommen felt his spine contract when they skritched against his scalp, brief and playful and strangely intimate. He felt his mouth curve into a lopsided grin and bit his lip to rein it in, certain Jojen would notice the dopey expression and take offense to it.

He ducked his head as Jojen pulled back and turned to Samwell before leaving. Tommen lifted his head once Jojen retreated and leaned in. “What’s the turn?” he asked.

“The worst part,” Samwell groaned. Captain Snow called out a command and Tommen’s eyebrows crawled into his hairline, nerves jangling, but Samwell heaved a rough sigh and showed Tommen how to clip the second set of carabiners on his belt to the nearest line. “Brace yourself!”

They were climbing. Ghost was flying impossibly higher, beating her great wings, and Tommen clung to the navigation deck and ignored Samwell’s low, fervent prayers as he looked around, trying to glean context for the maneuver. Then he realized, all at once, that they were upside down, and the weightless sensation of it filled Tommen up with unexpected elation. He held his breath, then inhaled on a gasp when Ghost leveled back out, hardly noticing when another round of gunfire went off.

“That was incredible!” Tommen said as he followed Samwell’s lead and unclipped his second set of carabiners. The words were high and breathless, child-like.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

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Knowing they had little time before another volley – this one, Jojen knew, would be coming from another dragon, most likely one of the middleweights in the angled arms of the triangle – he chose not to speak and instead gave Tommen a good natured clap on the back of his shoulder, nodding and grinning while he did.

There was the next volley – loud, but not nearly as explosive, due to the good distance between them and the nearest middleweight. Ygritte shouted again and more plates were thrown, an answering volley, while simultaneously, another middleweight’s crew joined in, testing their own marksmanship. The training pattern was one they used with new crews, when the youths aged up into serving on a dragon. Jojen had stood through such shock training himself.

He leaned in to shout over the din, “How are ye holdin’ up, lad?”

Before Tommen could answer, however, a great roar shattered across the Highland air. Nervously, Jojen turned his head to the sound – the dragons were instructed to be silent when practicing maneuvers at night. Usually, these night maneuvers were stealth practice. He reached for the spyglass he kept on his belt and side-stepped around Tommen and Sam, searching for the source of the sound.

His eye immediately turned forward, seeking Losgann’s signal officer. The sound, Jojen was sure, was not the Longwing – he knew the sound of her cries as well as he knew Ghost’s or his own sister’s – but he still felt relief when he saw her signal officer waving the flags for stealth and silence. He turned his attention towards the Spanish dragon – the only one in their formation left large enough to utter such a piercing cry. It seemed, he began to realize, that it had not been in formed of the protocol. Turning, still using the spyglass to aid his sight in the dark, Jojen sought out the Ghost’s signal officer, who had also noticed the Spanish dragon, and was frantically signaling for silence as well.

Jojen noticed, before tucking the spyglass back to its home on his belt, that Arya and Jon were both doing the same, each of them scowling into their spyglass. He snapped the device shut and brought his attention back to Tommen, though he found the answer to his question yet still delayed as another series of volleys cracked and smoked.

Jojen clapped Tommen on the shoulder and grinned, nodding like they were in on some kind of joke together. His heart still pounding, Tommen stared back, open-mouthed, and twitched when he heard that same metallic snap, followed by another explosion — though this time, the sounds were further away.

“How are ye holdin’ up, lad?” Jojen shouted, leaning in to be heard. 

It occurred to Tommen, all at once, that this was why Ygritte wanted him to get used to the sound of gunfire before he shot a rifle himself. He closed his mouth to swallow, so he could answer the question, but he didn’t get the chance.

A great, terrible roar came from somewhere beside them and whatever the gunfire had made Tommen feel, it was nothing compared to the way the dragon’s call rattled his teeth and shook his bones. The look on Jojen’s face went from congenial to concerned and he pulled a spyglass from his belt, searching for something before he returned the instrument to its holster.

Their eyes met once more before another series of snaps and explosions went off. This time, Tommen laughed, leaning into Jojen unconsciously. “Is it always so bloody loud?” he shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the great flap of Ghost’s wings, the wind, and the continuing noise of the crew.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Tommen has his head dipped low over the map as he squinted to make out the lines in the dark. Samwell prattled a bit, pointing out landmarks and noting how the dragons navigate through tricky terrain, especially during war. He was occasionally drowned out by the shouts of the crew, but Tommen got the gist anyway.

Then he heard a sound unlike anything else, a metallic snap that rattled his teeth. Tommen jerked up, his eyes wide, but before he could find the source of the noise there was another loud sound, this one more like an explosion, and he nearly lost his footing as he looked around.

Captain Snow’s voice boomed through the dark. He was answered by Lieutenant Stark as the smell of smoke hit Tommen’s nostrils and he wondered, perhaps stupidly, where they’d lit the fire.

Jojen appeared beside him then and Tommen looked at him, still wide-eyed.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Despite this insistence of Jon and his lieutenants that Tommen should not be apprenticed to Master Tarly, Sam was a good person to pair Tommen with as the lad got his legs and head under him. Sam, though he had also joined the Corps as a youth, had joined later than most, arriving at Loch Laggan from England at the age of twelve. He’d had a difficult journey in the Aerial Corps. His constitution was not suited to extended flight, and for years the sound of gunfire sent him to near hysterics. Trust and friendship with Jon, long before he was a captain, had brought Sam around eventually – and his head for navigation was unparalleled.

Master Tarly would be a far more empathetic companion during these first flights, Jojen had argued rather successfully to Jon and Arya before the lad’s arrival.

Laughing, Tommen said of his sea legs easily, “I suspect I’ll need them soon, though.”

This was punctuated by a gentle roll of Ghost’s back and a sway of weight to the right as she picked Jon up for boarding. Used to this movement, Jon and Sam moved with the dragon’s weight. Tommen, meanwhile, rocked hard into Jojen’s side. He caught the Englishman, easing him back upright as Jon made his way down Ghost’s back towards them. “Eesht, eesht,” he said, steadying him with his hands, “Sin sibh.” Then, remembering the lad had no Gaelic, he translated, “There ye are.”

It only took Jon a few quick, powerful strides to reach them. “Ensign,” he said, giving Tommen a hard nod – once aloft, Jon became much more dour, more Eddard’s son than Benjen Stark’s protege. “You’ve met Master Tarly, good. You’ll stay be staying with him whilst we practice maneuvers.”

There was the sound of shouting, and then the heavy, oppressively loud slow beating of wings – Losgann was lifting up. The arms of the triangle followed. The energy of the night shifted in a rapid moment.

“Let’s go,” Jon said, giving Jojen and Arya two commanding nods. They each set down the long lines of Ghost’s wings, shouting as they went. He clapped one of the midwing men on the shoulder as he moved, shouting, “Thig beò! Come alive!”

A few meters away, he heard Ygritte shout, loudly, “Tulach Ard!” Just before whatever sounds were being made on the back and belly of the great beast were drowned out by the force of her wings as she – and the Spanish dragon beside her – took flight.

As the dragons lifted off the ground, beginning their flight – at transport pace, slow, steady, to warm up the dragon’s joints – towards the far end of the clearing, the open end of the ‘C,’ Jojen found himself looking over his shoulder, searching for Tommen beside Sam’s navigation deck.

While Jojen and the others – even Sam, his large form moving as gracefully as a lily pad over water – moved with the shifts, twinges, stretches, and pulls of Ghost’s muscles as she flew, Tommen gripped the navigation stand with knuckles so white they shone even in the darkness. He could also see Sam’s mouth moving, clearly trying to talk the lad through whatever anxiety was running through his body.

This was not helped when Losgann, at the head of their formation, reached the cliff’s edge. She took the drop sharply, dropping at a neat, eighty degree angle and to a distracted eye, it would almost look as if the dragon disappeared – if they were not beginning to pick up speed and hurtled towards the drop off themselves.

There was a shout in Gaelic, from Arya, as they approached, a warning for the drop and Jojen, along with the crew members beside him, shifted his weight back, setting an easy hand on the nearest solid mass and rode out the drop, his hair whipping against his temples, the wind singing in his ears.

The wild Highland moors opened up below them, mostly hidden in the dark, but Jojen knew they were there – could smell the snap of cold Highland air, taste the salt blowing off the sea to the south west on his tongue. As the formation took shape, the dragons leveling off, they began to rush and work once more.

Ghost’s massive form swayed and Tommen tilted, unprepared for the sudden movement. He landed against Jojen’s side, his skin burning beneath his many layers when Jojen caught him and eased him back upright, helping him get steady on his feet. He said something in Gaelic, then seemed to remember, all at once, that Tommen didn’t speak the language. “There ye are,” Jojen added.

“Thanks,” Tommen said, but the word was lost to Captain Snow’s appearance before them.

“Ensign,” he said, with a nod. Tommen returned it, straightening his shoulders. “You’ve met Master Tarly, good. You’ll stay be staying with him whilst we practice maneuvers.” Several shouts hit the air and then the slow, incredibly loud beat of wings. Captain Snow nodded toward Jojen and Lieutenant Stark, who left with him to traverse the great beast’s massive wings.

Tommen stepped up next to Samwell Tarly’s navigation deck and grabbed on, clinging for dear life as Ghost rose into the air over the valley. “Move with her,” Samwell said, raising his voice loud enough to be heard. Tommen met his gaze and was heartened to see Samwell looked as green around the gills as Tommen felt, though he seemed to have much firmer footing. 

It was oddly comforting to hear Samwell’s English accent among the shouts of the Scotsmen surrounding them. Tommen nodded along and tried to copy the navigator’s movements and body language to the best of his ability. Samwell told Tommen to bend his knees, so he did, and that helped immensely. It was easier to keep his balance and rock with Ghost as she flew, her movements graceful in the freezing cold wind.

Then there was a loud, warning shout, and Samwell said, “Now lean back!” He braced one foot behind him and held the navigation stand. Tommen did the same, and just in time, because Ghost went into a drop so steep and so sudden he felt his insides rearrange and the air leave his lungs. Tommen’s hair whipped into his eyes, the ends sharp enough to sting. Eyes watering and lungs jammed against his spine, Tommen still felt a strange rush of exhilaration unlike anything he’d experienced before.  

“You’re still standing!” Samwell said, giving Tommen a broad grin as Ghost leveled out once more. Tommen returned the smile, relief pouring through him even as his knees shook. “Well done. You’re already doing better than I did, if that’s any comfort.”

“A bit,” Tommen admitted, and Samwell nodded, looking pleased.

Tommen loosened his grip on the navigation stand as he began to get his bearings, though he didn’t remove his hand completely. Samwell gestured him forward, indicating the map he had before him. “I’m a bit useless during training, because Jon knows the grounds like the back of his hand, but it’s a good time to study the maps.”

Glad for the distraction, Tommen took a deep breath and studied the map with Samwell, focusing on what the navigator told him as he continued to try to balance as Ghost flew through the air.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Jojen watched carefully as Tommen fussed with his own buckles, not expecting him to attempt to then practice the motions Jojen had unconsciously modeled for him – he’d assumed, given his testing of the harness, that Pyp had fastened it together for the lad and that they would leave it at that. Instead, Tommen began to unloop his own harness buckles in the low light of the late evening.

Whatever Tommen had planned to say in reply was drowned out, however, by Jon’s bellow: “Ready for flight?”

Jojen found his shoulders straightening out of discipline and conditioning. “Aye!” he, and every other member of their crew – save, of course, for Tommen – called back, at volume. “Climbing!”

His eyes found Tommen, who was staring with a look that mixed confusion and what Jojen presumed to be anxiety. He reached for the lad’s shoulder and brought him alongside. “That’s our signal Sassenach,” he said, finding himself grinning despite the pale look on Tommen’s face. There was little else that Jojen loved than flying.

He directed Tommen towards the auto-belay, showing him with quick and well-practiced motions, how to tie into the device that would keep him attached to Ghost, and then led him up the rope ladder and onto the dragon’s back. He pulled the ladder up once they were done, tucking it into the place in Ghost’s rigging it belonged.

The dragon’s back was busy with crew – there was Ygritte, leading the other riflemen down the center of Ghost’s back, towards her middle – where they would wait until Ghost would spread her wings. Arya stood, alongside Samwell Tarly, closer to the bend of her neck, at what could be called her ‘helm’ if one were to liken the dragon to a ship. It was there Jojen led Tommen.

“Tommen,” he said, as they approached, “meet Samwell Tarly, our chief navigator.”

Captain Snow’s bellow was loud and unexpected, though the rest of the crew appeared ready for it as they straightened and called back. Tommen looked around, bewildered, as anxiety crawled up his windpipe and lodged in his throat. 

Jojen clapped a hand on Tommen’s shoulder and led him toward Ghost. “That’s our signal, Sassenach,” he said, grinning wide. Tommen attempted to return the smile but couldn’t quite manage it, his stomach too knotted with the sudden reality of his new life, here, an ensign in the aerial corps.

The feeling didn’t dissipate when Jojen showed him how to tie into the device that would keep him attached to the dragon during maneuvers, nor when Tommen realized just how many crewmen (and women, he amended) were aboard Ghost’s back. He climbed up a rope ladder and watched Jojen tuck it into the rigging, then followed the lieutenant toward the bend of her neck, where Lieutenant Stark stood next to a plump man with bright eyes who instantly made Tommen want to trust him.

“Tommen,” Jojen said, “Meet Samwell Tarly, our chief navigator.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Tommen said, reaching to shake Samwell Tarly’s hand once he had swallowed the rock in his throat. Samwell’s grip was firm and he gave Tommen a kind, welcoming smile as he repeated the greeting.

“Welcome aboard, Tommen,” Samwell said. “Got your sea legs yet?”

“No,” Tommen said honestly, shaking his head. He laughed. “I suspect I’ll need them soon, though.”

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Jojen caught Tommen’s gaze once more and patiently explained the difference between their harnesses. Then he tugged his own free and said, quite seriously, “Now I’m dead.”

He moved his hands back to Tommen’s thighs and gave another sharp tug, pulling Tommen off-balance. He put both hands on Jojen’s shoulders, their eyes meeting as Tommen steadied himself. His knees felt a little wobbly, which he stubbornly attributed to the abrupt jerking around of his legs.

“See, yer straps are double backed, ye ken?” Jojen said as he stepped back. He began fixing his own harness, with such fluid movements that Tommen couldn’t help but be caught by the way his hands flicked over the leather and buckles with practiced ease. Then he slowed, clearly demonstrating how to double back the straps, and Tommen nodded his understanding. “They cannae slip out o’ their buckles if ye were to take a fall.”

“I see,” Tommen murmured, and he did. He undid the ends of his own harness straps and then tucked them back through the buckles, repeating the motion he’d learned from both Pyp and Jojen — but this time, fully understanding the necessity of it.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Jojen returned his smirk and nodded, which made that streak of heat in Tommen’s blood stretch into something languid and warm and satisfied, the feeling of a job well done. “Aye, that’s verra good,” Jojen said.

With a quick motion, Jojen tugged at the buckles of his own thigh straps. “Now — what’s wrong wi’ mine?”

Tommen lowered his gaze to Jojen’s thighs, which were thick and muscular beneath his breeches. His hands hung beside them, reminding Tommen of just how big he was all over, and he paused to push away wildly inappropriate thoughts. He stared at Jojen’s buckles, then looked at his own. They looked the same.

“I’ve missed something,” Tommen admitted, deflating.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

“Pyp explained them,” Tommen answered, sounding hoarse. Clearing his throat, he finished, “If you’d like to quiz me, I could probably use the practice.

Jojen’s shoulder felt warm, where Tommen’s hand had lain as the lad steadied himself, caught unaware by Jojen’s quick tugs at the straps of his harness. Jojen fought the urge to touch the place where Tommen had touched him. Instead, he focused on the task Tommen laid out for him, distracting his hands by tapping the buckles on each of Tommen’s thighs. “These?”

Jojen tapped the buckles on Tommen’s thighs, sending another inappropriate jolt of heat through his body. “These?” he asked, perfunctory.

“For sizing the leg straps,” Tommen said. “That one’s easy,” he teased, offering Jojen a small smirk.

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Jojen found himself clamping down hard on the back of his tongue with his molars, fighting to hide a smile that might be read as cruel as Tommen stiffly greeted Jon. There was something about Tommen’s movements that looked like a bairn’s playacting, as if the lad were trying to seem as if he knew what he was doing. As far as Jojen was concerned, it only made the gaps in the lad’s knowledge seem wider, with sharper edges.

There was little time for them to linger and needle the Sassenach prince for it, however. The moon was high and the night was black – Jojen only saw Tommen by the light of braziers on the floor of the valley and the few lanterns hanging from the dragons’ rigging. Jon gave Jojen a nod and he set to work wordlessly checking over Tommen’s carabiner belt  as Jon and Arya walked off with Pyp to begin work elsewhere. Jojen’s hands sought out the canvas and leather straps at Tommen’s waist and thighs, checking for double-backed harnesses, any twists in the looping canvas or hidden spots of wear in the leather. He gave the material at Tommen’s thighs sharp tugs, and then did the same for the wide band sitting just at the crests of his hipbone.

“Aye,” he said, mostly to himself before straightening up. “Ye ken the parts of the harness, Sassenach?”

Captain Snow acknowledged him briefly, then turned and nodded to someone else. Jojen appeared in front of Tommen then, wordlessly reaching toward him with broad hands. Pyp had demonstrated how Tommen should put on his harness by putting on his own, not once but three times, to make sure Tommen got all the straps right. He was a quicker study than that, but he also understood the necessity for safety. If his harness failed, Tommen would plummet to his death. The stakes were very high — literally.

Pyp walked away with Captain Snow and Lieutenant Stark as Jojen pulled at the straps adoring Tommen’s waist and thighs. He was methodical about it; there wasn’t anything erotic or even familiar to the touch, but Tommen still felt hyper-aware of every brush of Jojen’s fingers, too focused on the minimal space between them.

The first sharp tug to the straps at Tommen’s thighs made him sway forward, nearly losing his balance. He clapped a hand on Jojen’s shoulder to stay upright and felt the muscles beneath his hand moving in time with Jojen’s hand, which kept up their work. Tommen exhaled slowly, trying to keep his wits about him even as he strived to think about anything but Jojen’s large, warm, calloused hands.

“Aye,” Jojen said softly, then straightened up. “Ye ken the parts of the harness, Sassenach?”

Tommen met his gaze, thankful for the darkness that hid his flushed cheeks. “Pyp explained them,” he rasped, then cleared his throat. “If you’d like to quiz me, I could probably use the practice.”

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806

[ensign-t-lan]

Tommen’s mouth twitched, followed by a brief nod in Jojen’s direction. Well. Perhaps the lad had more steel in him than Jojen gave him credit for. Though they were likely to find out the true answer tonight during training maneuvers.

At the thought, Jon brought the howling rancor to a sharp halt by saying, sharply, “I doubt verra much that the French are laughing right now. We’ve got work to do.”

The reminder cut through the last dregs of laughter like Scottish steel. The war hung over them all, a spectre far taller than Napoleon himself. Jojen was not, if he were to admit to his most private self, overjoyed at the thought of going back into the throws of battle. It was likely that once Losgann’s training was finished they would be re-assigned to the channel. It was this that Jojen dreaded the most – being far from home. He never felt quite as right as he did with his feet on Highland heather or with the brisk wind of the Highlands whipping his hair and the granite.

They all – Jojen, Ygritte, Arya, Pyp, and the rest of Ghost’s crew – began to tuck back into their meal, eating with the earnest of those who knew that these meals were a luxury they would not have on the frontlines. Tommen, though, Jojen was pleased to see, had recalled his earlier warning and kept his meal light.

When their meal had finished, Jojen turned to Tommen and Pyp. “Pyp’ll help ye get ready for maneuvers.” Jojen directed his gaze directly at the older ensign, “No weapons for the lad,” he instructed before looking back at Tommen. “We start at the tenth bell – Pyp’ll show ye where.”

–

Jojen himself had to prepare for tonight’s training exercises. He swapped out his kilt for a set of breeches – if they were to practice their full swing, it included going upside down and a kilt was no good in that situation. He kept the plaid however, wrapped diagonally around his torso, over the bottle green Aerial Corps jacket, knowing the air under the moon would be even colder than it was this morning. To his belt he strapped his broadsword and dirk, tucking his pistol beside the dirk as well, knowing they would be practicing shooting, both for the men’s sake and for Tommen’s to try and acclimate the English prince to the sounds of battle.

He, like Arya and Jon, were early to the training grounds, to assist and oversee as the ground crew worked on Ghost. The dragon was affable, in her typical brusque Scottish way. On the small cliff ledge on the left side of the training ground, Grey Wind’s massive bulk observed the preparations.

The training grounds themselves were magnificent in their brutal, sparse splendor. The mountains formed a open ‘C’ shape, walling off three sides of the clearing that had been stripped of all trees and wildlife and sanded down to make an area for preparations. A guest or new recruit might make the mistake of thinking this was the only space in which they had to train. Like all seasoned hands, Jojen knew that the real challenge was when they were directed by Grey Wind over the ledge that formed the open section of the ‘C’ – the area spilled out into lush Highland valleys, with plenty of open space to practice extended maneuvers.

Sparing a glance to where Meera was in deep conversation with her first lieutenant, looking nervously from Losgann to the massive Cauchador Real, who was as brightly colored as Losgann herself. Jojen wondered about placing the Spanish dragon in Losgann’s formation, considering England could use as many dragons with projectile abilities as they could get. Perhaps, he thought as he looked away from Meera and continued towards his own crewmates, they were to test out the Spaniards, to see if they were as trustworthy as they claimed to be.

Once Ghost was properly geared up, Jojen found himself anxiously watching for Pyp and Tommen’s arrival as the various crews began to make their way through the pass under the mountain and into the training ground.

The mood at dinner shifted considerably when Captain Snow reminded them of their mission. Even Tommen felt his stomach sink, though he finished his plate. As the rest of the crew scraped their plates clean and began to rise to prepare for training, Jojen turned toward him.

“Pyp’ll help ye get ready for maneuvers.” he said. He directed his gaze over Tommen’s shoulder then, to speak to Pyp. “No weapons for the lad,” he instructed, then returned his gaze to Tommen, utterly focused. “We start at the tenth bell – Pyp’ll show ye where.”

“Thank you,” Tommen said, though he was fairly certain Jojen didn’t register the words as he stood and left the table. Tommen turned to Pyp, who arched an eyebrow at him and gave him a wry grin.

“Shittin’ yerself yet?” he asked.

“There’s time yet,” Tommen returned. 

Pyp laughed and stood, leading Tommen out of the mess hall and back toward their bunk. He helped Tommen get kitted out for the cold and for training, teaching him how to layer so the wind wouldn’t cut right through him during maneuvers. He asked if Tommen had questions about training, but Tommen honestly didn’t know what to ask — and after his spectacular embarrassment at dinner, he wasn’t keen to stick his foot in his mouth again.

Before they left, Pyp inspected seemingly every inch of Tommen’s ensemble with an incredibly sharp eye. Tommen thought to tease him for it, but Pyp clapped a hand on his shoulder before he could and said, “Oughtta do fine. Ye won’t freeze, at any rate, and if ye fall off Ghost’s back, there’s not much wools can do for ye anyway.”

On that note, he led Tommen to the training grounds, where several dragons and their crews were already making preparations for the evening. The mountains formed a C shape around a massive clearing and Tommen wondered, as he observed the size of the dragons in Losgann’s formation, just how they could all fly safely in such a space.

“Is this the entire training area?” he asked Pyp, worry taking over his desire not to make a fool of himself again.

Pyp gave him a sidelong look, then shook his head. “No,” he said simply. “We’ve got more secrets than that.”

Tommen hummed as they walked, knowing already that he wasn’t likely to get more information than that from his mildly laconic bunkmate. Pyp led him onto the training grounds and toward Ghost’s crew, where he checked in with Captain Snow and then stepped aside for Tommen to do the same.

“Sir,” Tommen said, with a respectful nod. 

oh it's a big old place for me | february, 1806