#Front Range Timber

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Yours and Mine

Pairing: Abraham (Grantchester) x f!reader Warnings: Mild angst. Mentions of infidelity. Smut. Words: ~6k

Summary: She is bored of her life as the vicar's daughter. Abraham feels trapped in an unhappy engagement that is more obligation than choice. Together they learn that life isn't what you allow to happen to you, but rather what you choose to make of it.

Author's note: Based on this request. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

“How many rounds of ham and cheese have you got there, love?” her father asked, wrapping triangles of egg and cress sandwiches in waxed paper, before he placed them in a wicker basket.

She stopped buttering the slice of bread in front of her, stilling her knife as she paused to count the slices of bread piled off to the side. “Eleven so far, twelve once I’ve finished this one,” she said, before continuing to spread margarine out towards the bread's edges.

“I think that’ll be enough then,” he told her, hefting the second, already full basket for emphasis, “ham and cheese, egg and cress, tuna and sweetcorn. That’ll do nicely.”

She simply nodded. Truthfully, it had been enough several sandwiches ago. There was enough food to serve an army, let alone a traveller’s camp. She wouldn’t mind if there was a genuinely charitable act of kindness behind the gesture, but there wasn’t. It was her father’s attempt to be nosy, thinly disguised as a good deed.

The arrival of the travellers in Grantchester a week ago had been the most exciting thing to happen in the sleepy, little village for ages. Ordinarily, it was the talk of the parish whenever someone took down their net curtains to wash them, so a small community setting down caravans in Mr. Ruskin’s field had set the place abuzz. As the village’s vicar, her father had taken it upon himself to take food up to the camp. On the surface, it was Christian kindness, a warm welcome to Grantchester. She saw her father’s actions for what they really were though; he wanted to size them up, to have information to pass back to his flock when they asked. She found the gesture patronising, it suggested they couldn’t look after themselves. She didn’t want to argue though, her father was not a man to change his mind easily, or be reasoned with, so she simply swallowed down her trepidation and continued layering slices of ham and cheese.

As she suspected, they were met with a frosty reception upon their arrival at the farm. Those that were not in their caravans, stopped what they were doing to stare coldly at her and her father as they approached with their heavy picnic baskets.

There were fires lit, and dogs barked and chased each other playfully. Piles of timber laid in neat stacks, having been chopped for firewood, and laundry hung on makeshift lines between fence posts. They appeared self sufficient, and she cringed, casting her gaze down at the mud that was splattered across her olive green wellington boots as her father’s voice rang out in the eerie silence, punctuated only by the distant clucking of chickens and faint crying of a baby from one of the caravans.

“Hello there,” her father called out loudly, “I’m Father Thomas, the vicar of the local church, and this is my daughter.”

Embarrassment blazed against the surface of her skin, making her feel too warm despite the gentle breeze in the air, as he said her name out loud, laying the blame of this obvious insult at her feet alongside his own.

“We wanted to offer you a warm welcome to Grantchester,” he continued, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere he was creating. “These are for you.”

She dared to glance up as he gestured forward with the picnic basket he was holding, and saw that not one of the people standing before them made a move towards them, or reached out to take it. After a moment that felt like it stretched on for an eternity, a tall, slender man with an axe slung over his shoulder, hinged forward at his hips, spitting heavily upon the ground. Her lips parted in shock, icy cold fingers of fear creeping up her spine as she watched him, an obvious answer to their offering - ‘we don’t want it.’ 

She set down her own picnic basket on the muddy ground, her aching shoulders grateful to be free of their burden, and looked at her father with wide, imploring eyes. “I think we should go,” she whispered, low enough for only him to hear, “this was a bad idea.”

He set down his own basket, with a slight nod, before grasping her shoulder and marching her away. She walked quickly, her heart pounding with fright as her father kept a firm hold of her, but it paled in comparison to the second hand embarrassment that made her want to curl in on herself. They had offended them, she knew they had, and she had done nothing to stop it.

“Perhaps once they try the sandwiches they’ll warm up to us a bit, we just need to give them time,” her father muttered nervously, more to himself than to her, as he kept his eyes fixed ahead as they walked back through the village.

“They don’t want our sandwiches, Dad,” she sighed exasperatedly, “I’m pretty sure we annoyed them.”

Her father huffed, finally releasing her shoulder as their house came into view, the tendrils of ivy that clung to its red brick front a more than welcome sight. His voice blustered with annoyance as he spoke. “Well, with that ungrateful attitude, they won’t last long around here. Good riddance to them.”

She pursed her lips, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. Of course it hadn’t occurred to her father that perhaps the group just wanted to be left alone. However, in a village that thrived on gossip and needing to know the business of absolutely everyone, they had chosen the worst possible place to settle if it was privacy they were after.

“I’ve made a call to Mr. Ruskin,” her father announced, two days later, stepping into the kitchen as she stood at the sink, washing the plates and cups from breakfast. “You’re to go and collect the picnic baskets from our…visitors this afternoon.”

The word ‘visitors’ came out of his mouth as though it were dripping with poison. She knew the word he longed to use in its place, it made her prickle with annoyance, and she squeezed the sponge unnecessarily tight, watching as soap suds expanded out of it, spreading through the murky depths of the warm water in the sink.

“Why did you need to call Mr. Ruskin to let him know that?” she asked, her voice tight as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“I’m doing home visits this afternoon, so I can’t come with you,” he explained, adjusting the white clerical collar of his black shirt as he gazed absentmindedly out of the back door of the house. “Mr. Ruskin knowing you’ll be there will help keep you safe.”

‘Keep me safe from what?!’ she longed to shout at him, but instead she took her frustration out on a teaspoon, scrubbing the silver of it harder than she needed to as she frowned.

“They don’t mean us any harm,” she finally said, raising her head to look at her father as he continued to stare out into the back garden.

“You are kind, my girl” he told her, turning to look at her with a soft smile, “foolish, but kind.”

He turned and walked from the kitchen, his silent way of letting her know there was no further room for argument. It frustrated her endlessly, the way he would silence her, simply by removing himself from the conversation.

When she arrived at the camp later that afternoon, the picnic baskets were both overturned. She thought for a moment that the travellers may have grudgingly accepted the food, until she crouched down to lift them up. The waxed paper inside had been torn to shreds, what little food scraps remained were teeming with maggots. A sharp sound of repulsed shock escaped her throat before she could stop it and she stumbled back from the sight, falling firmly on her backside to the muddy ground.

“Think the dogs have probably been at ‘em,” a gruff voice came from somewhere above her.

She lifted her gaze, meeting a piercing pair of blue eyes that stared down at her. As she looked over the sharp lines of his face, she recognised him as the man that had spat in response to her father offering the sandwiches. He wasn’t carrying an axe this time. He loomed tall over her, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing the tattoos that littered his forearms, his hands tucked into his pockets. 

She quickly looked away, busying herself with righting the wicker hampers. “I’m sorry,” she said hurriedly, her heart pounding hard against her ribs, “it was my dad’s idea.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, and for a moment she thought he would leave her to it, until he spoke again. “Your dad’s idea for you to sit on your arse in the mud too, or you want a hand up?”

Her head snapped back up to meet his icy stare once more, her jaw agape in shock at how he had spoken to her. When her eyes met his again, he had a hand extended out towards her. She hesitated a moment, then reached up. His hand dwarfed hers as he grasped it; his calloused palm was rough, yet warm against her own as he tugged her easily to her feet. She found she only reached his chest as she stood once more, and she hastily stepped back, tugging her hand free of his, to put some space between them.

“Thank…thank you,” she stammered, looking anywhere but him as she attempted fruitlessly to brush her skirt clean.

A lazy smirk spread across his face as he watched her, before nodding down at the picnic baskets. “You gonna be alright carrying those?”

“Well, they’re mostly empty now,” she sighed, stooping to grab one, “so I should be fine.”

He raised an eyebrow, eyeing her curiously. “You sure? Would hate for a spoiled little thing like you to fall over again.”

She straightened, her brow furrowing into a scowl as she stared defiantly up at him, clutching a picnic basket by its wicker handle. “I am not spoiled,” she argued, “but you’re rude!”

He grinned at her, the predatory flash of his teeth stirring something warm and uncomfortable within her, before he stooped to grab the other basket. “I might be,” he said with a shrug, as he stood upright once more, “but at least I can admit to my shortcomings.”

She found herself relaxing as he fell into step beside her, walking away from Mr. Ruskin’s field and back towards the village. He had an easy presence, and she felt vindicated that she had been right to insist to her father that she had nothing to fear.

“Well, at least your dogs enjoyed the sandwiches, even if you didn’t,” she offered with a small smile.

He didn’t return it, glancing quickly over at her before continuing to look in the direction they were walking. “It’s the first time anyone’s ever tried to tell us to sling our hook with sandwiches, I’ve gotta admit.”

“We don’t want you to leave,” she said quickly, turning her head to try and meet his gaze, “that’s not what it was.”

“You might not mind us being here,” he said, “but your old man certainly does. We’re not exactly the sort of people that have the welcome mat rolled out for them when we settle somewhere.”

“It’s not like that,” she insisted, but he cut her off, stopping and turning to face her.

“Isn’t it? What did your dear old dad tell you before you came here today? Did he tell you to be careful, warn you we might be dangerous?”

She opened her mouth, she wanted to deny it, but as she stared at him, she found herself unable to lie. She quickly pressed her lips together, feeling her skin grow warm at the memory of her father’s concern for her safety. If only he could see her now.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, almost triumphantly, as he turned and continued to walk. “I’m Abraham, by the way.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Abraham, I’m–”

“I remember your name, Miss. Thomas, don’t worry,” he said with a wink.

That uncomfortable warmth returned and she quickly looked away, blinking as though the action would clear the sight of his crude gesture from her mind.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re skittish?” he asked her, “sort of like a cat. Miss. Thomas the cat…a tom cat!”

He grinned then, and she laughed. “You’re ridiculous,” she told him with a slight shake of her head, “so what are your plans for while you’re in Grantchester?”

“Got a couple of horses we’ve paid to stable with the farmer whose field we’re staying in,” he told her, “once they’re in racing shape, I expect we’ll sell them and then move on.”

She had always loved animals, and her eyes lit up at the mention of horses. She so seldom ever saw any in the village. “You have horses?!”

His gaze softened at her palpable excitement. “Well, yeah, they’re what pull our caravans. But these ones are special. They’re thoroughbreds, trained ‘em myself. You wanna meet ‘em?”

“Really?! I’d love to!” she smiled widely, stopping and turning to face him as her house came into view.

“This home then?” he asked, holding out the basket he held for her to take.

“Yeah, best not to go all the way to the front door, just in case…”

She trailed off, unable to finish her sentence, feeling ashamed.

“No troubles,” he came to her rescue, seemingly unbothered by the snub, “swing by tomorrow, and I’ll introduce you to the horses, if you want?”

“That’d be nice,” she said quietly, her eyes filled with silent apology as they met his.

“Tomorrow then,” he said with a slight nod “see you later, Tom Cat.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest at the nickname, and she watched him walk away until he was out of sight. Her father had been wrong – it wasn’t Abraham she found scary, just the way he made her feel.

“This is Fergus,” Abraham told her, his voice almost reverent as he ran his palm over the forehead of a large chestnut and white horse, before turning to stroke the crest of an equally impressive grey thoroughbred with a black mane, “and this is Paddy.”

She smiled softly, her wellington boots crunching against the gravel as she moved closer to the open stable door, and reached out a hand to run her palm over the soft, white muzzle of Fergus. It felt like peach skin, surprisingly soft to touch, making her giggle. “Hello, handsome,” she greeted the creature that loomed before her.

Abraham smirked that lazy smirk of his as watched her, his arm stretched over the bottom half of the stable door to rub absentmindedly at Paddy’s withers. “Careful, you’ll make me jealous.”

“Do these ones pull your caravans?” she asked, glancing over at him, an attempt to change the subject and draw the attention away from how his words made her stomach flutter.

Abraham shook his head. “These ones are just for racing, trained ‘em myself. We’ve got vanners that pull the caravans. They’re in the field with us, they don’t like to be stabled, they enjoy their freedom.”

“Bit like you then,” she quipped, turning back to Fergus who had begun to snuffle at her hands as they rested upon the stable door.

Abraham grinned, plucking sugar cubes from his trouser pocket and passing one to her. “Just like me, Tom Cat. You’re good with horses, y’know?”

“I’ve always loved animals,” she admitted softly, watching in fascination as Fergus took the sugar cube from her outstretched palm, devouring it in several loud crunches. “I used to take in injured birds from the garden and nurse them back to health when I was younger. I wanted to be a vet.”

“Don’t you want to be anymore?” he asked, glancing over at her as Paddy took a treat from his hand.

“I do,” she admitted sadly, pushing away from the stable door to lean against the brick wall beside it, “but my dad won’t allow it. Since my mum passed away, I’m all he has, he needs me around to look after the house while he runs the parish council.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Abraham said, frowning slightly, as he stepped towards her, brushing his hands off on his trouser legs.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She felt trapped in Grantchester, as caged as the birds she once tended to, before setting them free again. Her mother’s illness five years ago had been so sudden, her passing even more so. Since then, her father had clung tighter to her than ever, refusing to let her out of his sight for fear he’d lose her too. She understood, but it was a stifling existence, her dreams snuffed out alongside her freedom.

She gave a slight shrug, eager to be rid of the melancholy that had settled over her like a shroud. “It’s just how it is. But what about you? What are your big plans once you sell these horses?”

He sniffed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I’m getting married,” he said. There was no joy or excitement in his voice as he said it though, it was a fact he relayed to her as though she had just asked him what the time was.

“Oh...well, that’s nice,” she smiled tightly, hating the way her heart sank at his admission “So, what’s her name?”

“Luella,” he replied, and again the response was flat, lacking in any enthusiasm. “Need to brush the horses down, you fancy lending a hand?”

Her brow furrowed at his sudden change of subject and she wondered why he was so cagey about sharing any details of his engagement. She decided against pressing the issue, not wanting to make an already uncomfortable situation worse, and accepted the brush that he held out to her.

She relaxed as she worked, enjoying the presence of the horses, but also the easy companionship and conversation that Abraham offered. He made her laugh in a way that meant that by the time the afternoon was over, her cheeks ached from the tug of smiling.

By the time she arrived home, her cigarette trousers were dusty with hay and horse hair. She left her wellington boots in the porch as she pried them off, not wanting to traipse mud and straw across the living room carpet.

Her father was settled into the high back armchair by the fireplace – the place he always sat when he was home, that had been his designated seat in the house her entire life. He looked up from the book he had been reading as she entered, giving her an appraising look from over the rims of his reading glasses as his brows raised slightly.

“And where have you been that’s brought you home in such a mucky state?” he asked.

“I was up at Mr. Ruskin’s, helping out with the horses,” she said, subtly backing away towards the stairs. It was a vague amswer, but honest enough that she hoped it wouldn’t prompt any further questions that he would be upset by the answer to. She was wrong.

Her father frowned slightly, tucking his bookmark between the pages he’d been reading, before he closed his book and placed it upon his lap. “Mr. Ruskin has no horses,” he prodded, sitting straighter in his chair.

“No, they’re Abraham’s,” she said quietly, placing a hand upon the bannister, as if the very action of touching the beginning of her escape upstairs could save her.

“There’s no one in the village by that name,” he studied her closely as he said it, making her squirm with discomfort.

Finally, she snapped, huffing exasperatedly as she threw her hands up in defeat. “He’s one of the travellers, but you knew that didn’t you? You just wanted to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong!”

Her father sighed, setting his book upon the arm of the chair, before he rose and came to stand before her. His features were soft, but there was something steely in his gaze, the look that meant whatever was about to leave his mouth was final. “Your naivety puts you in danger,” he explained, “I don’t wish to scold, I only mean to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“They weren’t dangerous to you when you were forcing your charity on them,” she argued, before shrinking back as the steel in her father’s eyes became fiery fury.

“A kindness they met with hostility,” he said, his voice raising slightly in anger. “They are not like us, do you understand? You’re to keep away from this Abraham, I won’t tell you again!”

“He’s my friend,” she protested, her voice weak even to her own ears. A sense of helpless desperation clawed at her insides, making her feel hopeless.

Her father turned his back to her, moving back towards his chair – his retreat from the argument letting her know that it was over. Nothing she said would matter. “Get a bath,” he said softly, sitting back down again, “you stink like a farmyard.”

It had been three days since she had seen Abraham, three days since her father had told her to keep away from him. She hated how she had been cowed into submission by him. Her compliance to his demands wasn’t through blind obedience, however, more out of fear for what her disobedience would mean for the travellers currently settled in the farmer’s field. Her father held power in the village, he led the parish council, one word from him and Mr. Ruskin would have no choice but to move them on. Keeping away meant keeping them safe, keeping Abraham here.

Her father had been called away to central Cambridge for the day for a meeting with the bishop, leaving her alone in the house, and she had chosen to spend her morning in the front garden. The sunshine beamed gently down upon her hair, warming her from head to toe as she knelt by the flowerbed, her gardening gloves caked in soil as she gently uprooted weeds, careful not to disturb the colourful pansies that decorated the edging of the lawn. The lurid pinks, purples and yellows were a stark contrast to the bright white of the picket fence that enclosed the garden – a very pretty looking prison, as much to her as it was the flowers.

“You avoiding me, Tom Cat?”

Her head snapped up at the sound of Abraham’s voice, her heart pounding as her eyes widened at the sight of him, taking in the way he smirked down at her as he leaned casually against the fence. “You can’t be here,” she hissed.

“Why not?” he asked, eyes narrowing as he stood up straight, almost looking down his nose at her. “Pal says he saw your old man headed up the station road this morning, so I know he’s not home.”

She moved to stand, not enjoying how the imbalance in their positions made him talk down to her, and tugged off her gardening gloves, dropping them into the flower bed. “If anyone sees you…” she sighed, tugging a hand through her hair, hating the way the words felt in her mouth as she said them. “Look, my dad’s told me to keep away, so I am. I’m not doing it because I don’t want to be friends, I’m doing it because I am your friend. He’ll have you run out of the village if I keep seeing you.”

“Alright, so we stop seeing each other then,” he shrugged, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes that set her belly aflutter with nerves.

“What does that mean, exactly?” she asked, folding her arms around her middle as her eyes tightened in suspicion.

He grinned, his fingers absentmindedly tracing over the tattoo of a pin-up girl that adorned his forearm. “Maybe you’re doing something else you’d normally be doing when you’re…not seeing me.”

She rolled her eyes in exasperation as realisation dawned upon her. “So, you want me to lie?”

“Lie is such an ugly word, Tom Cat,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned forward slightly, grasping the pickets of the fence, meeting her eye line. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I dunno,” she mused, pursing her lips, as she poked absentmindedly at the flowerbed soil with the toe of her shoe. “I enjoy going to the library.”

Abraham hummed in acknowledgement, nodding as he appeared to think for a moment. “Alright, so let’s say you go to the library, you check out a book, you happen to bump into me on your way out. You’ve not lied about where you’ve been, have you? We can spend some time together in secret, and if your old man happens to ask anyone if you were, in fact, at the library then the answer’s a yes, and you’ll have a book to prove it.”

She huffed a laugh, unable to stop the way her mouth spread into a grin as she bowed her head slightly, before lifting her eyes back to his. “You’re a bad influence.”

“And yet I’m not hearing you say no to the idea, Tom Cat,” he grinned back.

And she didn’t say no. Over the two weeks that followed, her and Abraham met up in secret twice a week. She would go to the library, check out a new book – and return the one from her previous visit – always something she had read before, just in case her visits prompted any questions, she could tell her father what the book was about. Then Abraham would meet her around the side of the library building and they’d slip away into the woods together. They had found a clearing, away from prying eyes, with an old tyre swing that they took it in turns to mess around on, while they chatted, joked and passed away idle, sunny afternoons together.

“What book is it today then?” Abraham asked.

He was gently moving the tyre so it spun in slow circles as she sat in it, her latest borrow from the library clutched in her hands. She watched as the woods panned slowly around her, a glacially paced kaleidoscope of browns and greens. An involuntary smile playing upon her lips every time he spun slowly back into view.

“Anne of Green Gables,” she told him, “it’s one of my favourites.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it about then?” he asked, placing a hand atop the tyre to halt its movements as she swung to face him once more.

The intensity with which he looked at her was almost too much, and she found herself dropping her gaze back to the floral design of the book cover as she answered. “It’s about an orphaned girl who’s sent to live with a family, and she struggles to fit in,” she explained, running her fingers over the edges of the pages. “She keeps getting into trouble, and there’s this one boy, Gilbert, who she hates to begin with, but they fall in love. They get married in one of the sequels.”

“And is that why you like it?” he asked, dipping his head to catch her eye, making her feel too warm beneath his gaze. “Because of the romance?”

“I guess so,” she admitted, with a slight shrug, suddenly feeling shy, “it’s not something I know much about.”

“No?” he asked, drawing back and cocking his head. “Never had a special someone, Tom Cat?”

She laughed then, finding the very idea ridiculous as she shook her head. “I’ve never even been kissed.”

He stepped closer then, one hand still holding the tyre steady, while the other grasped her chin gently, tilting her face up to look at him. Suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore, and her lips parted as she sucked in a sharp breath, the tips of their noses brushing as that piercing stare of his dipped down to her mouth and back up again.

He pressed at her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, tugging gently, and it made her insides boil, simultaneously wanting to pull away, to flee from him, while also longing to lean forward, to melt into him and stay there forever.

“Tom Cat…” he breathed his pet name for her, little more than a whisper, and that was all it took for her defences to crumble, for her to lean the rest of the way in and press her lips to his. It was clumsy on her part, she didn’t know quite what to do with her lips, but he gladly dominated, his mouth moving against her own in a way that had heat licking between her legs as it pooled in her lower belly.

His hand dipping down, moving to grasp the bare flesh of her thigh beneath her skirt was what broke the spell, fear and guilt washing over her like a bucket of ice water. She pushed him away, causing him to stagger backwards, as she leapt down from the tyre, her eyes wild and heart pounding, as she sought to put some distance between them.

“No!” she shouted, trying to sound angry instead of upset as she planted her feet shoulder width apart, gripping her book so hard that her knuckles blanched with the force of it. “No! You don’t get to do that to me. I won’t…I won’t be a part of your adultery, you’re engaged! How dare you?!”

Abraham blinked, brow furrowing in confusion, steadying himself as he stepped towards her. “You said you’d never been kissed before, I was just–”

“Oh, and you just thought you had the right to be my first?” she seethed, too angry to allow him to finish what he was saying. “I’m just the poor little village girl, trapped in her boring life, who you come along to have some fun with before you go off to be free again, and live happily ever after? Is that it?! Am I a joke to you?”

By the time she finished speaking, her eyes burned with unshed tears and her chest heaved with the force of the emotions that boiled inside of her. She had never been so angry, so indignant in all her life.

“I don’t want Luella!” Abraham shouted back, the words exploding out of him the moment she had said her piece. It made her jump, startling her out of her own upset as she watched his face contort into an angry scowl, his nostrils flaring as he continued. “I never asked for her, and she doesn’t want me either. She’s been knocking off that farmer ever since we arrived here. It’s an arranged marriage, neither of us want it. So I’m not making an adulterer of you…I wouldn’t…I wouldn’t do that to you…”

“Oh,” was all she managed to breathe out, so quiet it was barely audible over the chittering of the birds within the woods. The outrage she had felt had dissipated so quickly, she didn’t know what to do with herself, she felt silly, overwhelmed by the need to apologise, but she held her tongue. Sorry wouldn’t undo any of this.

He exhaled heavily, dragging a hand through his coiffed hair, flattening it slightly. “I might spend my life on the road, but I’m not any freer than you are,” he said, his voice quieter than before, almost sad. “Meeting you…it’s made me the happiest I’ve been in ages, and if me kissing you has buggered that up, then I’m sorry.”

Her heart twinged at his words, her expression softening as she stared at him with sympathy. “You haven’t ruined anything. It was perfect,” she admitted, “I wish…I wish there was a way for me to make this better for you…easier for us.”

“Run away with me, Tom Cat,” he said earnestly, taking another step towards her, twigs snapping beneath his feet as he narrowed the distance between them. “Just you and me, let’s do it.”

The sincerity in his wide, blue eyes was almost too much for her to take, it was a crazy idea, and she couldn’t help the bark of laughter that forced its way from her throat. “You can’t be serious? That’s a reckless idea.”

She hated herself for saying that the moment she opened her mouth, seeing the flicker of hurt that crumpled his features momentarily, before he straightened, clearing his throat. “Yeah, was only joking,” he said quietly, “it’s a stupid idea.”

Her mind raced as she laid in bed that night. She couldn’t shake the guilt at laughing at him when he suggested they run away together. The more she thought about it, the less silly it seemed. They were both unhappy, trapped in lives that neither of them wanted or had asked for, and truthfully, Abraham coming to Grantchester had been the happiest she’d been since her mum was alive. Surely it couldn’t hurt to explore what their lives might be like if they threw caution to the wind and allowed themselves to pursue what their hearts desired? She would be out from beneath her father’s thumb, and Abraham would be rid of an obligation to a woman he didn’t love.

By the time their next meeting at the library came a few days later, her mind was made up. She returned her copy of Anne of Green Gables, not bothering to borrow a new book, too filled with breathless excitement as she rounded the corner of the building to meet her secret friend.

“How would it work?” she blurted, coming to stand before him as he leaned against the red brick building.

“How would what work?” he asked, eyeing her curiously as he pushed away from the wall.

“Us,” she replied, as they began to walk in the direction of the woods, “if we ran away together.”

“Seriously?” he asked, glancing sideways at her. “I thought you said it was a stupid idea.”

“I didn’t say it was stupid,” she sighed exasperatedly, as he helped her over the turnstile into the patch of woodland that had become their rendezvous spot. “I said it was reckless, and it is, but the more I think about it, the more I want to.”

She gasped as he crowded into her space, walking her back through the scattered twigs and leaves of the woodland floor, until her back made impact with the solid trunk of a tree.

“D’you mean it?” he questioned, grasping her chin, his eyes searching hers for any trace of insincerity. 

She nodded, feeling as though she had forgotten how to breathe as a grin spread across his face, lighting up his sharp features with pure elation.

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, making her whine as he pulled away all too soon, just as she’d begun to kiss back.

“I’ll sell the horses,” he told her, before pecking his lips softly against each of her cheeks. “We’ll use the money to buy a little house somewhere. You can get a job at a veterinary office, just as a receptionist until you get more experience. I can get more horses, and earn my living training and selling them on. You could help me look after them, since you’ll be a vet. We could have chickens, and maybe a goat.”

Each statement was punctuated by a kiss, each promise delivered with a press of his lips to her cheeks, her nose, her eyes. It made her stomach flip as the idea of them running away together, building a future together, became more tangible.

“I want that more than anything,” she whispered, her hands balling into fists in the white cotton of his shirt.

“Then that’s what you’ll have,” he promised, nipping at her bottom lip.

This time, when his hand disappeared beneath her skirt, she didn’t stop him. Every nerve ending in her body cried out for his touch, and she clung to him, held up only by the front of his shirt, and the rough tree bark at her back.

“We’ll get married,” he murmured, as his fingertips danced along the inside of her thigh, the calloused skin a hardened juxtaposition to the softness of her own. “And we’ll have babies.”

She moaned, the sound foreign to her ears as he toyed with her knicker elastic, before dipping his fingers inside. She had never been touched like this before, and she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her thighs trembling with the effort to keep her on her feet as Abraham swiped slowly through the wetness that had gathered between her legs. She focused on his voice, and all of the pretty promises he made, afraid that if she dwelled upon the physical sensation for too long then she would bolt like the frightened cat he claimed she was.

“I’ll make you feel like this every day, Tom Cat,” he uttered, his fingers swirling over her sensitive bud, causing her to keen and her hips to buck. “Because I’ll be yours and you’ll be mine.”

As his fingers dipped back towards her entrance, gathering more of her arousal to help aid in the circles he pressed against her, she mewled, the coil tightening in her belly, pushing her dangerously close to a sensation she had only ever experienced at her own touch.

“Would you like that?” he asked, speeding up his movements.

She nodded, her mind too foggy with the impending onslaught of sensation to form a proper answer, but that simply wasn’t enough for Abraham.

“Say it,” he insisted.

“Y–yours,” she keened, before white hot oblivion overtook her. Her body shuddered against the tree as she yelped in surprise, clinging tightly to him as she convulsed against his touch, a pleasant ache bursting forth and making her feel hot all over.

He worked her through it, only stilling his fingers when her hips began to move away from his touch instead of chasing it. “Mine,” he murmured back with a smile.

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[tacticaldiary]

hi hello, if you have the chance, could u write a ghost x reader of an overworked/ burnt out reader who faints or something. just stressed out overprotective ghost to warm our hearts <3

thank you so much xxx

Bone Tired

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort ; Fluff

Ghost knows she's been pushing herself but he didn't think it was this bad. She nearly gives him a goddamn heart attack by collapsing right in front of him.

"Don't make me tie you to the bed."

"Jokes on you, I'm into that." She snickers at the long-suffering sigh he lets out.

Masterlist

Just because they weren't deployed on a mission didn't mean things were any less busy for them back at base. Drills, morning runs, training, paperwork, and more; there was always something to keep them busy.

"Focus." The low timber of his voice snaps her out of her thoughts, dragging her back to the present. "I would've incapacitated you three times by now." Ghost says with a frown. Or at least she thinks he's frowning under that mask. He sure sounds like it.

"Yeah, sorry L.T." She blinks, widening her stance and dragging her tired mind to attention. Everything just felt...off. Her clothes were too itchy, the bright fluorescent lights hanging from the room were too prickly, and the training mat under her feet felt difficult to get her footing into. Maybe she was catching a bug? She'd been feeling mildly feverish the past few days, after all, sporting a headache she opted to power through with painkillers.

Grunts and groans and jeers echo around them as others take their turn to spar with each other. She'd already lost against Gaz once, a rare outcome in itself, and now she was pretty sure Ghost was going easy on her. She's surprised she isn't face-first on the mat right now, actually.

Blinking away the knowledge that her arms feel like lead and her mind foggy, she lunges at him with her fist, an attack easily parried and side stepped by the man.

In all honestly, she's known for a while that she needed a proper break. A few days to herself full of nothing. The last op she'd been on had been long and gruelling, a solo one at that, weeks' worth of trekking through a mountain range far south in the cold to get to an isolated camp where their target had been laying low. It was a success, but she swears she can still feel the snow bite into her flesh if she thinks too hard about it.

The moment she'd got back there had been debriefings with Price to attend, files to be reported to Laswell, all the while keeping up with her usual routine and drills...

Her eyes widen as she's spun around, an arm circling her throat and pinning her in a hold.

"You're sloppy." Ghost clicks his tongue from behind her, and if she were any less exhausted, maybe she would have felt a shiver go down her spine.

Here, they were just soldiers, but in private? That's a whole other story. Their relationship had to be kept under wraps for a multitude of reasons, but Simon was one of the best things that had ever happened to her. Having someone who understood her work, who shared the experience and knew exactly what she was talking about, who knew the best ways to comfort and listen and advise her...it was rare.

A rare and beautiful thing, that's what they had. They helped each other grow, made up for the others weaknesses and blind spots.

But they weren't in private right now, so after she taps his arm to concede, he pushes her away, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"Are you ill?" He asks tightly, eyes going up and down her body as if he could detect whatever was making her pause. She'd seemed fine the last time he saw her, but clearly something was wrong if she was this...dazed?

She shakes her head. "Just didn't sleep well last night." She lies through her teeth. She couldn't afford to be sick right now, couldn't afford the luxury of wasting time resting. She still had to report to Laswell, attend a meeting on what the next steps were to reach their targets close contacts. Then she promised Soap she'd hit the shooting range with him, and then Gaz asked her to help him with that paperwork he had to fill out...

Taking a step back, she stumbles a little.

It all bubbles up inside her, overwhelming and insurmountable, a mountain of work that keeps piling up to reach new heights and-

Was Ghost talking? She blinks, trying to get the ringing out of her ears. It was loud and annoying, and it made the headache she'd been sporting since yesterday stronger.

Ghost's eyes widen. He's definitely saying something. She hopes Simon knows she wasn't ignoring her on purpose. She was always good at reading him, so maybe if her vision would stop spotting and focus, she could actually see his eyes properly and figure out what was wrong.

In the end, the roaring in her ears becomes deafening, to the point where she squeezes her eyes shut. How easy would it be to just...stay like this. Just for one moment. To revel in the nothingness of the dark, where she got just one second of silence away from the list of things she had to keep doing.

Just one more moment.

Another step back, an unsteady sway.

She hits the ground hard, the last thing she hears being the yell of her name from that familiar, rough voice.

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Bleary eyes blink themselves awake, squinting against the warm glow of the lamp by her bedside table. Groaning, she attempts to sit up, only to widen her eyes in alarm when a hand firmly pushes her back.

Instincts kicking in, her hand flies up to latch onto the wrist in a weak grip.

"It's just me." The low voice has her relaxes instantly, hand falling away onto the bed.

"Simon." She says, surprised when her voice doesn't come out as more than a whisper. "Where...what happened?" She winces at the throbbing in her head as she takes in the scene. Simon settled down in a chair next to her, a book laying open faced on her side table.

"You passed out." He says, plainly worried. "The medics said you fainted from exhaustion. Ain't that something to explain, love?" Now that he's ditched the mask, she can see the creases of worry in his forehead, the downwards quirk of his lips. "Damn near gave me a heart attack."

"Passed out?" She echoes, trying to remember. "I...guess I did."

She sure feels like it. Her body feels like lead, as if it's doing everything it can to ensure she stays in bed. Shivering slightly, she looks around for another blanket. When she reaches for the fluffy duvet folded at the foot of her bed, it's immediately snatched out of reach by Simon.

"Give it." She demands, reaching a hand out.

"You have a fever." Simon shakes his head, holding the item out of reach. "It'll break quicker this way."

"I'm fine." She protests, managing to sit up this time under his unimpressed stare. "I'm alright, Simon. Can't afford to be sick right now."

"That's not how it works." He sighs, standing up. "I thought I'd hurt you for a moment." She watches him walk towards the small table near the opposite wall, fiddling with something there while he talked. "Damn near took a year of my life away with how you crumpled onto the mat."

"It wasn't you." She assures him quickly. Some of the tension visibly drains from his shoulder in what she can only assume is relief. Needless as it is, she feels a little guilty. How long had he been thinking her passing out had been his fault? No, this was on her, on her busy schedule and-

Wait, what time was it?

Dread curls up in her gut as she slowly turns towards the small window. The lamp was on when she woke up, of course it was night.

"I was just tired is all." She says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. "But I'm as fresh as a daisy now, and I've got so much shit to do." She lets out an anxious, long breath as her brain kicks in, charting how much time she'd lost, how quickly she'd need to work to get it all done-

"I have that meeting with Laswell...I wonder if Price thinks I just didn't show up to his office..." She doesn't realise she's been muttering her thoughts aloud until Ghost cuts her off.

"You're not going anywhere, sweetheart." He declares over his shoulder. "Get your ass back in bed."

"I can't, there's too much I have to do today." She protests. "And I've already lost half the day-"

"I wasn't asking."

"Simon-" He turns around and she finally sees what he's been doing.

"Don't make me tie you to the bed." His threat is much less effective when he's holding one of her mugs that says 'Bad Bitch' in obnoxious neon pink calligraphy, the phrase surrounded by a flowery border. She'd got it for him as a gag gift for his last birthday and had cackled at the dead, unimpressed stare he fixed her with. It had remained in his room for a while before she'd snatched it, claiming she'd actually appreciate it.

"Jokes on you, I'm into that." She snickers at the long-suffering sigh he lets out. Her laughs morph into a deep chest-rattling cough that wipes the smile off her face and leaves her wincing.

Sitting next to her after tossing the pillow onto the mattress, he brings the warm mug of tea up to her. "Easy does it." He mutters quietly when she grabs it from him and takes a drink.

"Thank you." She sighs, handing it back.

"Talk to me." He orders, not unkindly. Simon wasn't someone who was all lovey-dovey, but he loved just as hard and much as the next person. Just because he didn't choose to flourish it with pretty words and smiles doesn't mean she felt any less cared for.

He was a man of action, through and through.

Little touches throughout the day, silent glances checking in with her. Staying by her side during missions, working in tandem and recognising when she needed space versus when she needed him near.

He was her other half, and it had been eating away at him that he didn't fucking realise she was this unwell until the consequences caught up with her.

Ghost won't admit the primal flash of fear that struck through him when she'd crumpled to the ground like that. He thought he'd hurt her while sparring, that he'd done something to make her pass out like that. Even after the medics cleared her and he carried her here, tucked her in and everything, there was still a nagging worry of 'what-if' in his mind.

The relief of hearing her confirm it wasn't him was tainted by the knowledge that he hadn't noticed her pushing herself.

After a moment of deliberation, she gives in, tucking herself back into bed and thinking for a moment. She tells him everything, tells him how she hasn't had a second to herself in these past few days, telling him about the load she has on her shoulders and the crushing time limit ticking down in her ears for every task she had.

He listens quietly, to his credit, doesn't interrupt her even when she trails off, having to muster up the energy to keep going.

The fact that talking tired her out to this degree made his heart twist uncomfortably.

"I didn't think I had a choice but to take it all head on." She finishes, stifling a yawn. She looks up at him for his response when he doesn't talk, finds him staring at her with a half-lidded gaze, a furrow in his brow.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

"Ask you what?" She asks, confused.

"For help."

That was...a good question. It takes her a second to come up with a sheepish answer. "I...I didn't think of that." She admits, drawing out another quiet sigh from him.

"You're going to be the death of me." He grumbles, but she can't complain when he's gently tugging her to the side and climbing in with her under the covers. "I've sorted things out with Price and Laswell. Do whatever else you need to when you're capable of not face planting into the mats again."

A warm feeling of gratitude washes over her, her heart warming with the kind gesture. It was so...it was so Simon.

When he tangles their legs together and tucks her into his side, she wrinkles her nose. "I'm all sweaty." She tries to argue, tapping at his shoulder half-heartedly when he lays down with her, a strong arm around her waist pulling her in.

"I've had your blood on my hands before, I don't think sweat is going to be a problem." She can hear his voice rumble low in his chest, right under where he head rests, and she hides a smile in the fabric of his shirt.

When he runs a hand through her hair, she practically melts against him.

Eventually, her shivering stops, replaced with a bone-deep warmth that nothing could chase away. Simon. The warmth of him, of his care, of his love. She'd take it over a heatpack any day.

His arms around her make her relax. Nothing would nag at her, drag her away to chain her to a desk under Simon's watch, that much she knows. Safe. Protected. The feeling was rare living the life she did with her job, but Simon made it so easy to believe that she was untouchable as long as she was with him.

Before she knows it, her eyes flutter shut and her breathing evens out, because goddamn did the bastard know exactly where and how to touch her to get her all sleepy and relaxed.

"Thank you." She mumbles against him, words half incoherent.

"Always, love." He rumbles back, brushing his lips over her head.

Requests Are Open! Reblog, Like and Comment!

(16/07/2023)

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood S2 - Ch. 7

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, child murder, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 7: The Winds of the North II

AO3 - S1 Masterlist - S2 Masterlist

35K Words

Morning came to the North in a wash of pale light and silver mist. The sun, weak and distant behind a veil of clouds, cast a cold gleam over the snow-dusted hills beyond Winterfell’s walls. A fine frost clung to the very surface–stone, timber and steel–turning the world into a quiet, glittering stillness. The air was sharp, clean, and bit at the lungs with every breath. 

That morning, Jace walked the grounds with Lord Cregan Stark beside him. There had been no formal summons, no horns blown or court assembled–only a quiet word at dawn. 

Together they moved through the stone corridors and stepped into the wide expanse of the training yard. The stones beneath their boots were rimmed with ice, slick and treacherous in places, but Cregan walked them with ease–sure-footed, as one born to this place. Jace was less sure of his step. The North demanded a certain grace in its cold, one not learned in the milder courtyards of Dragonstone. His heel slipped on a patch of slick frost near the edge of the training yard, the sudden lurch sending a jolt up his spine. He swallowed a startled yep, clenching his jaw as he steadied himself, forcing his body to remain rigid.

Cregan did not turn, though Jace was certain he had noticed. He adjusted his pace, quickening his steps to catch up, the embarrassment simmering quietly beneath his skin. He refused to let it show. Not here, not in front of the man whose trust he sought, whose judgment felt as sharp and cold as the wind curling through the courtyard. The chill was already creeping past his cloak and furs, but he made no complaint. He welcomed it, in truth. It kept him sharp–if not of footing, then in mind.

Men trained in the lower yard despite the cold, as was the northern way. Swords rang against shields, boots struck frost-hardened ground, and the dull thud of practice axes on straw-wrapped posts echoed off the walls. Their breaths hung in the air in thick, white plumes, each exhalation like smoke rising from bellows. 

Jace watched them as they passed, noting the precision of their movements, the hardened look in their eyes as they wearily returned his gaze. 

As they came to a stop at the edge of the training yard, jace folded his arms against the cold, his eyes following the rhythm of two swordsmen locked in a fast exchange–steel flashing, boots crunching across the packed frost, sweat steaming off their brows despite the chill. A low bark of commands echoed across the yard from the master-at-arms as a row of men knocked their arrows and loosened them. 

“Your men fight well,” Jace said, nodding towards the men. “Focused. Disciplined.” He glanced at Cregan, a flicker of admiration in his voice. “Not many lords would keep their men training so rigorously, even in snow and ice.”

Cregan gave a slight nod, arms folded across his chest as his gaze followed the two men locked in a hard clash of short blades. “We don’t stop for snow, my prince. Winter does not wait until you’re ready.”

There was a moment of quiet between them, filled only by the sounds of clashing steel and loosened arrows. Then, Cregan turned his head slightly, regarding Jace with that cool, measured gaze that never seemed to miss a thing. 

“A sword is only as good as the man behind it,” he said, voice calm but edged with meaning. His eyes met Jace’s. “Tell me, my prince–do you train as your men do? Or does dragonriders not have need for steel in their hand?”

Jace’s brow arched, but there was no offence in his expression–only faint amusement. 

“There’s little glory in carrying a blade you cannot use,” he replied, his hand finding the hilt of his sword, feeling its familiar grooves beneath his palm. “I train every day. A dragon is power, yes–but I’d be a fool to think it makes me untouchable.”

He half-shrugged, though the gesture turned stiff as the cold bit through his cloak and jerkins. He exhaled, breath curling visibly in the air before them. “What protection is there in a dragon if I find myself on foot surrounded by men? I’d be remiss if I couldn’t defend myself–or those I love–with steel in hand.”

Cregan was silent, but a flicker of something crossed his features. Approval, perhaps. Or interest. “Then perhaps you’d care to show me how summer boys hold their own against northern steel…”

Jace glanced back towards the yard, where a pair of men were disengaging, laughing through winded breaths. The cold cut through his cloak, but his blood stirred at the idea. He’d prove himself to the northerners, and he was grateful for Cregan for the opportunity he presented. His lips curled into a smirk. “Are you asking for a match, Lord Stark?”

“I am,” Crega replied simply. “Steel tells truth better than words.” 

Jace’s smirk widened, and though the cold gnawed at his limbs, a flicker of heat stirred within his chest–something between pride and anticipation. “Then I will let my steel speak for me, my lord. I’d be glad to test my edge against yours.”

A faint smile made its way onto Cregan’s face. “Tomorrow, then,” he replied. “At first light. The yard will be yours–and mine.”

There was no bravado in his voice, only certainty. He did not speak like a man who needed to prove himself. He simply meant to know the measure of the prince who sought the North’s loyalty. And Jace admired him for it. 

He gave a short nod. “I’ll be there.”

Cregan gave no further reply, only turned and resumed his stride, the heavy fur-lined cloak billowing slightly behind him as his boots crunched over the frost-laced stone. The silence between them was companionable, not cold. 

Jace fell into step beside him once more, his breath misting in the crisp morning air as they descended deeper into the heart of Winterfell. The weight of politics and pledges faded for a time, giving way to simpler talk–stone and snow, family and memory. There was an ease to it, unexpected but not unwelcome, as if the cold itself had softened in their shared silence. The conversation flowed naturally, stripped of ceremony, and Jace found that for the first time since arriving, he was not just a prince seeking allegiance–but a guest, walking beside a man who might yet become a friend.

Cregan led him through the courtyards, pausing at times to share some history–of a tower rebuilt after a fire in the reign of King Aenys, of stones laid by Bran the Builder himself, if the old tales were to be believed. He named the halls and battlements, gave brief histories of them–some grim, some oddly fond. 

They passed through the smithy, where the heat of the forge beat back the morning chill. Sparks danced like fireflies as a blacksmith hammered a length of glowing metal, sweat running down his soot-streaked brow. The heat radiating from the open furnace was almost overwhelming after the icy air outside, and for a moment, Jace simply stood still, letting it ink into his bones. 

From there, they moved past the stables, the scent of hay and horses mingling with the sharper tang of frost and leather. The Bell Tower loomed above them, and from nearby, the warm aroma of roasting meats and fresh bread drifted on the breeze–carried from the kitchens nearby, where smoke coiled from narrow chimneys. 

Cregan led him onward, their boots echoing softly through the winding paths of Winterfell’s inner keep. They passed beneath the shadow of the Maester’s Turret, where the muffled croaks and rustlings of ravens echoed from within the stone rookery high above. The birds stirred in their cages, black eyes glinting in the gloom, as if sensing secrets carried on the wind.

They passed the kitchens next, where the scent of roasting fat and freshly baked bread lingered in the cold air. Outside, a pair of scullery maids were scrubbing potatoes in basins of steaming water, their red hands raw from the cold. A boy hunched over a bench plucked feathers from a row of hens, the down drifting like snow across the stones. The clang of pots and barked commands from within the kitchen carried on the wind, sharp and brisk.

From there, they made their way to the ancient library. Its tall, narrow windows were rimmed with delicate patterns of frost, their panes half-fogged from within. The great oak doors groaned softly as they opened, revealing rows upon rows of shelves heavy with dust-laden tomes and scrolls bound in cracked leather. The air inside was dry and still, smelling of parchment, wax, and the faintest trace of woodsmoke.

Jace made a quiet note to return to the library before his time in Winterfell was done. There was history buried in those shelves–old songs, older truths, and perhaps something more. A fragment of tradition, a passage of Northern law or memory that might lend weight to his mother’s claim. If there was anything to sway Lord Cregan Stark beyond honor and instinct, it might be found in ink and parchment, written long before either of them were born.

As they wandered, they spoke not of war, but of Winterfell itself–of the hot springs that warmed Winterfell’s stones even in the bitterest winters, and how the warmth beneath the keep had preserved it through the ages. Jace listened with genuine interest, occasionally asking questions, not out of courtesy, but curiosity. 

There was history in these walls–a kind that could not be written in books or learned from ravens, only walked and breathed and felt. 

He was beginning to see, with each building, that to win the North was not simply to win its banners. One had to understand it, walk its halls, breathe its cold, and speak with its lords–not only of war, but of what they fought to protect. 

Of all the sights Jace was shown that morning, none surprised him more than the Glass Gardens. 

They came upon it near the rear of the inner bailey, its unassuming stone base giving no hint of the marvel within. But as Cregan opened the thick wooden door and motioned him inside, Jace stepped into a world that seemed plucked from the Reach rather than rooted in the frostbitten soil of the North. 

The ceiling arched high above then, fashioned from panes of green, yellow and clear glass set into an iron frame. The colors caught the pale sunlight and fractured it into soft beams that danced across the ground, casting golden and emerald hues across every leaf, stem, and petal. It was like stepping into a dream of spring. 

Condensation clung to the glass overhead in soft droplets, beading and running down the panes like rain. The air was warm and damp, heavy with the scent of earth and life. Beneath their feet, the ground was rich and unfrozen, covered in beds of dark soil where vegetables thrived–cabbage, leeks, onions, and hardy roots. Herbs grew in neat rows, their fragrant leaves brushing against Jace’s fingers as he passed, Mint, sage, and wintergreen–all things that should have withered long ago in the northern cold, yet flourished here as if the snows beyond the walls had never touched them.

“Your ancestors knew how to wrest warmth from where they can,” Jace murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. The thick, damp air clung to him, seeping past the wool and fur alike until even the inside of his cloak felt heavy with it. He cast a sidelong glance at Cregan, wondering if the Northman, wrapped still in his wolfskin cloak, was quietly sweating beneath its weight–or he was simply too accustomed to discomfort to notice. 

“Built generations ago,” Cregan replied, his tone measured, almost fond. “The heat from the springs keeps the roots fed and the frost at bay. My mother used to call it the gods’ gift–a taste of summer in a land ruled by snow.”

Jace walked slowly down the stone path, taking it all in–the shifting glow of colored sunlight cast through the glass root, the glistening droplets trailing down the paines in quiet rain, the rustling whisper of green leaves brushing against his cloak as he moved. 

It was more than impressive–it was beautiful. 

He paused before a low bush heavy with clustered blooms. Roses–delicate and vivid, their petals an unnatural shade of blue, like frost touched by flame. 

His voice grew softer. “My sister would have loved this…”

Jace looked up from the blue roses. “As impatient as she is, she always had the patience for growing things.”

He reached out, fingertips brushing gently along one of the blue rose petals. It felt impossibly soft beneath touch, like silk against calloused skin. “While my brother and I were off in the yard training with our master-at-arms, she’d sneak away into the gardens. I’d find her elbow-deep in soil, humming quietly to herself like some stubborn little gardener who thought herself invisible. The gardeners were beside themselves the first time she joined them. She had a talent for it, too.”

A soft huff of amusement escaped him as the memories returned–Lucerys laughing while she chased after them, hands stained dark with soil, her small fingers leaving grubby marks upon their tunics. She’d been scolded so often by her septa for spoiling her gowns, but Daenera had never yielded; instead, she’d learned to slip into her simplest dresses, quietly defiant. 

“She had little patience for needlework or etiquette lessons,” Jace continued, voice softening. “But give her a patch of barren soil and she’d coax flowers from the stone. Even on Dragonstone, where nothing but salt and wind survives, she somehow managed to make things bloom.”

Jace’s smile faltered, the warmth of memory giving way to a quiet ache. No matter how hard the gardeners tried–or how diligently Maester Gerardys tended to it–the small garden Daenera had once coaxed to life on Dragonstone had begun to wither in her absence. Leaves yellowed at the edges, their veins fading to pale white. Stems drooped, weary and brittle. The flowers, once vibrant beneath her care, now wilted beneath skies that had always been too harsh.

It needed her touch.

No other hands could quite draw life from stone and salt as she had.

He let the petal slip gently from his fingertips, straightening again as he turned fully to face Cregan once more. “She would love it here,” he said simply. “The moment she’d step foot in this garden, she’d have declared she was staying, if only to learn the secrets of growing roses in the heart of winter.”

Cregan stood in silence, his eyes lingering on the blue rose for a long moment before drifting back to Jace. The flickering light filtering through the colored glass played along the planes of his face, catching the steel of his gaze. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before–measured, thoughtful, edged with something softer. Not pity, not quite, but something close to understanding. 

It caught Jace slightly off guard. 

“I’ve heard of her,” he said quietly. “The Princess of Flowers.”

Jace blinked. His brow lifted slightly, curiosity mingling with a flicker of something else. He shouldn’t have been surprised, not truly. His sister was a princess of the realm, beloved by many, adored by the smallfolk. Still, to hear her name spoken here, so far from home–it struck him in a place he hadn’t realized was tender. 

“A bard passed through Winter Town a few months back,” Cregan continued, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “A southerner, bold or foolish enough to brave the cold with nothing more than a lute and a heart full of courtly verses.”

Jace shifted on his feet, releasing the hold on the flower. 

“He claimed to have sung at court,” Cregan added, tilting his head, “And brought with him songs of dragons and princesses. For a fortnight, your mother’s name filled these halls. Your sister’s too, Princess Daenera Velaryon.”

The names hung between them, suspended in the humid air of the garden like the scent of damp earth and blooming life. The titles once whispered in marbled corridors beneath gilded candelabras, now carried on the breath of a wandering bard into the desolation of the North. 

Jace fell into step beside Cregan as they made their slow path through the warmth of the Glass Gardens. The air was thick with moisture, clinging to him like a second skin. He could feel the damp settling into his clothes, and the back of his neck grew clammy where his hair began to stick to his skin. 

“He sang of your mother most often,” Cregan said, his tone more contemplative now. “The Realm’s Delight, he called her–silver-haired and bright-eyed, force as a dragon and fair as spring. Claimed even knights forgot their vows just for a glance from her during a tourney.”

A faintly bitter taste crept into Jace’s mouth, his heartbeat quickening beneath the heavy layers of his wool and leather clothing. He was accustomed to these subtle barbs, whether intended or not. His jaw tightened slightly, though he kept his expression smooth. As he bit the inside of his cheek, the taste of salt and iron grounded him as the bard’s words echoed too close to old whispers. Knights and vows. Chivalry and scandal. He thought of Criston Cole, of Harwin Strong, and the unspoken questions that had shadowed him all his life. He did not respond.

Cregan, perhaps sensing some subtle shift in the prince beside him, paused briefly, casting a sidelong glance toward Jace. The northern lord’s eyes were sharp, ever-watchful, weighing and measuring every reaction with the same quiet intensity with which he regarded his lands and men.

“He called her the heir of the dragon,” Cregan said, his voice steady, his gaze unwavering. “Named successor by the king’s own decree.”

Jace’s jaw tightened slightly, but his voice was clear when he spoke.

“She is,” He said. “Not merely named, but rightful. Chosen by my grandsire, King Viserys, and witnessed by the lords of the realm. No usurper can rewrite what was witnessed by all.”

They walked slowly beneath the glass-paneled roof, the filtered sunlight casting a shifting mosaic of green and gold across the damp ground. His cloak swept lightly through a cluster of low herbs as they walked, stirring the scent of damp earth and fresh mint. His voice was steady as he added, “The song speaks true enough, in its way. My mother has always drawn loyalty–and love. She inspires both, as any true ruler should.”

Cregan gave a faint huff of breath–close to a laugh, but tempered by restraint. A flicker of wry amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth, the barest crack in his otherwise solemn demeanor.

“Aye, true perhaps–as all songs hold morsels of truth,” he said, his voice low.

His gaze drifted back to the path ahead, where the colored light from the glass canopy spilled across the stone in shifting hues. It touched his face like fragments of stained sunlight–green and gold, then fading to gray as the shadows returned.

“But this one was a southern song,” he went on, his tone cooling again. “Sweet and soft around the edges, soaked in honey like mulled wine. Pretty enough to warm a hearth, but not near sharp enough to cleave truth from treason.”

They reached the far end of the garden, where the warmth of the hothouse gave way to the creeping breath of winter that slipped in through the gap beneath the heavy oak doors. Here, where warm met cold like the clash of two worlds, Cregan paused–half in light, half in shadow.

He turned his head, his expression unreadable, though something flickered behind his eyes as he looked back at Jace.

“Still,” he said softly, “songs have their own kind of power–in what they make men believe. And for a time, even here in the North, your mother’s name stirred a few fires.”

Jace slowed his pace, turning towards Cregan with quiet intent. His gaze searched the Lord of Winterfell’s face–those cool gray eyes that he had come to expect were guarded, unwilling to betray more than they chose. 

“Did you enjoy the song, at least?” He asked, voice low but steady. There was a thread of curiosity beneath the words, a faint edge of teasing that softened the weight of the question. 

Cregan held his gaze evenly, neither flinching nor smiling, though something thoughtful stirred in the sharp lines of his face. For a breath, silence stretched between them–thick as the warm, damp air that clung to the Glass Garden walls. 

Then, slowly, the corner’s of Cregan’s mouth curved–not in mockery, but in something quieter, more genuine.

“Aye,” he admitted. “I did.”

The faint glint of amusement returned to his voice. “But not for the flourished verses or the sweetened melodies. I listened because I was curious–curious to know if there was truth hidden beneath the honeyed words. Southern songs speak kindly, but I’ve seen enough winters to know that truth seldom mirrors the prettiness of a minstrel’s verse.”

His honesty struck something in Jace–an unexpected warmth in this cold, distant place. In the starkness of Winterfell, where few wasted words, Cregan Stark’s were a gift of their own. 

Jace nodded, slowly, deliberately. “Perhaps, one day,” he said, his tone softening, “you'll see the truth that gave rise to those sweetened words–the truth that made men sing in the first place.”

Cregan seemed to consider him for a moment longer, then his smile deepened–still faint, still restrained, but touched with something real. “Perhaps,” he said, with the faintest incline of his head. “We shall see.”

Cregan pressed his shoulder against the door, the old iron hinges groaning in protest as they yielded with a harsh, metallic screech. A gust of frigid air rushed in through the widening gap, sharp and unrelenting, cutting through the lingering warmth like a blade. The breath of winter spilled into the threshold, swirling around their feet and curling beneath cloaks and collars with cruel precision. 

“His song about your sister was just as flowery,” he added, his voice thoughtful as he walked out into the frosty air. “Gentle verses of blossoms blooming from volcanic stone, of a girl who sat to the soil and coaxed life from ash. 

Jace cast a glance toward Cregan as he stepped out beside him, the door groaning shut behind them with a deep, echoing thud. The sound reverberated through the stone, sealing the warmth of the Glass Garden behind them.

For a moment, he lingered in silence, his breath misting in the air. He hadn’t heard it put that way before. And yet… it felt right. 

Cregan continued as he moved through the courtyard. “I remember thinking, even then–if half of it was true, she was no ordinary woman.” He turned his head, meeting Jace’s eyes. There was something steady in his expression, something sincere beneath the iron of his words. “She must’ve been rare. For a time, even our halls held summer in her name.”

Summer was not in Winterfell now. The warmth of the garden clung to Jace for only a breath longer before the northern wind claimed it, slicing through the layers of his cloak and clothes. It seized the sweat cooling at the nape of his neck to ice. 

He drew his cloak tighter around his soldiers, the fur-lined edged pulled up close to his jaw. The path before them was hard with frost, the earth beneath their boots frozen. 

“When did you lose her?”

Jace’s gaze dropped to the frozen path beneath their boots, his brow drawing together in a slight frown. “A few days ago, I suppose.” His fingers twitched at his sides, stiff with cold. The ache was familiar now–tight and sharp in his chest, a knot pulled taut with helplessness. The same gnawing sense of failure. Of not having done enough. “She should’ve come back with us to Dragonstone. But she didn’t. She insisted on staying a little while longer. Just a few more days, she said, to settle her affairs…And we let her.” 

If she had only come with us…

But she hadn’t. And now the gates of King’s Landing stood between them, iron-bound and closed, with Green banners flying where black should have flown.

His breath curled into mist as he looked up again–and found Cregan watching him closely. The Stark lord’s face was unreadable, but there was a stillness to him, a quiet steadiness in the set of his brow and the softness behind his grey eyes. There was sympathy there–carefully restrained, but present all the same. 

“I’m sorry for your loss…”

Jace blinked, the realization drawing slowly, then all at once. 

“Oh–no, wait. I–”he stumbled over his words, the cold biting his face as a flush of heat crept up his neck and into his ears. “She isn’t dead. Gods, I didn’t mean to make it sound like–she’s alive.”

He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how young he must seem. His voice was rougher now, the words tumbling out faster, less guarded. “I should have said it better. She’s in King’s Landing.”

Cregan’s expression remained still, but his brow lifted slightly. 

“She didn’t make it out,” Jace continued, flustered. “Before the usurpers took the city. Before the Greens crowned Aegon and locked her away in the Red Keep.”

The words sat heavy between them. His jaw tightened, the weight of it all pressing against his shoulders like chainmail soaked through. “She’s their hostage now.”

“Then she is not lost,” Cregan said, his voice steady as he led Jace through the arched doorway of one of Winterfell’s turret towers. The thick wooden door groaned shut behind them, sealing out the wind as they began the slow climb up the winding stone steps that spiraled towards the battlements above.

The narrow stairwell was lit by torches bracketed along the walls, their flames flickering in the drafts that slipped through the narrow arrow slits. Shadows danced over the cold, grey stone, rising and falling with each step. The scent of smoke, old stone, and damp filled the space between them. 

Cregan’s voice echoed faintly against the curved walls as he spoke again, firm but not unkind. “So long as she draws breath, there’s still hope. That’s something most men forget, when they speak of loss…”

He glanced back at Jace, his expression unreadable in the shifting light. “And from what you’ve told me of her,” Cregan continued, the faintest trace of wry respect in his tone, “stubborn as the roots of a weirwood tree–I do not doubt she’s forged of stronger steel than most.”

His voice quieted as they reached the top of the stairs, where the final door opened out onto the battlements. A blast of cold wind met them, howling across the high stones and tugging at their cloaks, sharp with the promise of more snow. 

Jace drew in a slow breath, the cold air sharp in his lungs. Cregan’s words lingered in his mind–not lost. Hope, so often fragile and distant, felt almost tangible in that moment, given shape by the certainty in his tone. 

But beneath that flicker of hope lay something far harder to dismiss. A dread stirred within him, deep-rooted and bitter as poison, spreading slowly beneath his ribs. He knew too much. He had been told that she had taken the one-eyed beast into her bed, that she had allowed him close. Too close. The thought of Aemond touching her–of his lips on her throat, of her heart opening willingly to the man who had always been their enemy–was enough to make his blood simmer. 

Yet beneath that anger was doubt, heavy and persistent. It festered inside him, deep in his gut, twisting like a knife. What if she was no mere hostage? What if she’d given herself freely, more fully than he dared imagine?

He forced the thought away, stubbornly holding tight to the comfort Cregan had offered: that so long as Daenera drew breath, there was still hope, still a reason to fight to get her back. 

And fight he would–for his mother, for his family, and for the sister whose choices, no matter how much he might hate them, he would strive to save. 

“She endures,” Cregan said as he stepped onto the battlements, the wind catching the edge of his heavy cloak and tugging it back. He turned, his grey eyes steady as they met Jace’s. “And so must you.”

The words were spoken without flourish, but they carried the weight of expectation–of the North’s quiet, unyielding strength. Not comfort, not coddling–only truth, as cold and steady as the stone beneath their feet.

Jace stepped forward, the cold wind pressing against his face as he approached the edge of the battlements. He rested one arm along the rough, time-worn stone of the parapet, fingers played across its icy surface. He gassed out over the snow-draped landscape beyond Winterfell–the white hills stretching like frozen waves into the distance, the deep, ancient woods of the Wolfswood standing tall and silent, their branches heavy with winter’s grip. 

“The usurpers have taken much,” he said, his voice low but clear, the words carried off into the bitter wind. “But they will not keep it. We will reclaim the throne…and we will bring her home. My sister will not remain their prize.”

He would set it right–he had to.

Cregan stepped up beside him in the silence. For a moment, neither of them spoke, only the sound of the whistling wind slipping in between the stones and the far-off cry of ravens. Jace felt his presence at his side–solid and steady, almost comforting. 

A faint, crooked smile tugged at Jace’s lips. He turned his gaze from the snowbound hills to the man beside him. “I would’ve offered you her hand,” he said, his voice low, words half-lost in the wind. “Had things been different–were she not set to marry the one-eyed usurper.” 

A flicker of bitterness passed beneath Jace’s composed exterior, like a shadow briefly crossing his face. It lingered just a breath too long before he forced it down, banishing it with a slow, steady breath. There was no use feeding that ache now–not here, not before Lord Stark. Bitterness would not win him allies. Not in the North, and not in war.

“A marriage alliance would have bound our houses,” Jace murmured, his voice low, threaded with quiet thought. He offered Cregan a faint smile–small, wistful, but not without warmth. “It would’ve been a strong match, I think.”

He met Cregan’s gaze then, searching the northern lord’s face. There was something there–subtle, but present–in the steely grey of his eyes. Not longing, nor disappointment, but perhaps a quiet recognition of what might have been. 

Cregan inclined his head slightly, the wind tousling the strands of dark hair that had slipped free from his cloak’s collar. “A generous offer,” he replied, his tone even. “And that would have honored House Stark greatly, had the gods willed it.” 

For a moment, silence settled between them again, carried softly on the cold breath of the northern wind. It was a silence thick with understanding; both men aware of what might have been, and the harsh truth of what was. 

Had fate spun differently, he would have become his good-brother. 

That wouldn’t have been so bad, Jace thought, the notion taking him by surprise–not because it was strange, but because he found it oddly comforting. 

He could see it clearly in his mind: the stern northern lord standing proudly at his sister’s side. And in that moment, he knew with absolute certainty that Daenera would have been treated far better here, beneath the frozt-crowned walls of Winterfell, than she ever would at the hands of Aemond Targaryen. Cregan Stark, Jace knew, was carved from honor and duty; Aemond Targaryen was forged from pride and cruelty. 

He turned his gaze back towards the distant tree line, where the edge of the Wolfswood stretched far and wide. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting the heavens in hues of burnished gold and pale amber.  Its light filtering through the soft mist that crept over the rolling hills beyond the walls. The fog curled low through the hollows, coiling like a living thing, and gathered thick between the trunks of distant trees–pale and silent, like a ghost’s breath lingering at the edge of the world.

Silence settled once more between them. The sounds of the castle–the distant murmurs of vices, the muffled ringing of steel in the yard, the faint cries of ravens–were muted up here, softened by distance and snow. Beside him, Cregan remained quiet, a sturdy presence at his side. 

Jace drew in a slow breath, letting the cold air burn through his lungs, feeling the chill settle deeper in his chest. “It’s beautiful here,” he mused, his voice soft as he looked out over the snow-veiled landscape. He offered Cregan a small smile. “I’ll grant you that much. It’s my first time seeing the world like this–blanked in snow and ice. There’s a kind of quiet to it… solemn, but peaceful.”

He paused and brought his hands together, breath misting as he exhaled into his cupped palms, seeking what little warmth he could. It lasted only a moment before the cold reclaimed him. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. 

“Shame it’s so damn cold, though,” he added, wryly. “Winter has truly come.”

At that, a faint smile curved Cregan’s lips, the kind that lit his features with quiet amusement. There was a flicker in his eyes, something dry and knowing, as his eyes met Jace’s. 

“This?” He said, tilting his head towards the frost-covered hills. “This is not winter.”

Jace arched a brow. “Then what, may I ask, is this that has fallen from the sky and shivers my bones?”

Cregan chuckled under his breath, the sound quiet, like snow breaking underfoot. “A light summer snow, my prince,” he replied, the faintest edge of teasing in his tone. “In true winter, it will cover all you see–and all memories of warmth will be forgotten.”

Jace blinked at that, a quiet chuckle escaping him–brittle from the cold yet still hearty enough to warm the chill air between them. His gaze drifted once more toward the distant hills and trees, now half-veiled in golden mist. The cold gnawed at his fingertips, slipped persistently beneath his cloak, and stung sharply at the very tip of his nose. And yet Cregan spoke of this bitter chill as nothing more than summer snow–a mere taste of what true winter would bring.

He wasn’t sure he was made for true winter’s snow, though it was a thought he would never give voice to. His pride forbade him to admit it.

When he turned back to look at the Stark lord again, the fading sunlight caught softly at the edges of Cregan’s dark hair. The slight curve of a smile still lingered upon his lips, softening features more often carved from solemnity and stone. In the gentle gold of dusk, much of the seriousness that defined the Lord of Winterfell fell away, if only for the span of a breath.

In that fleeting instant, Jace saw clearly not just the northern lord, the stern Warden of the North wrapped in duty and honor, but the man beneath–young, proud, and quietly thoughtful, a man not so different from himself.

“Is this the part where you tell me, ‘Winter is coming’?” Jace said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he glanced sideways at Cregan, the tease gentle but clear in his tone.

The smile on Cregan’s face deepened. “No,” he said, “winter has come. This is only the beginning.”

He shifted his weight slightly, hooking his thumbs into the worn leather of his belt, his eyes drifting out towards the hills. “But the words of House Stark still hold.”

There was no jest in it–only the weight of generations behind the words, as ancient and certain as the stones beneath their feet.

“Well,” Jace said, rubbing his hands together again, “remind me not to stay long enough to see your real winters.” 

Together, they began to walk again, following the curve of Winterfell’s battlements. Small drifts of snow had gathered along the foot of the stone walls, pale and powdery against the dark, weathered rock. Braziers stood at intervals along the path, flames burning defiantly in the wind, their light sputtering and flickering as bitter gusts of northern air swept past.

Jace glanced out over the castle grounds below, where shadows grew longer with each passing moment, before he turned to Cregan with a faint, teasing smile. 

“Your ancestors certainly chose an unforgiving place to settle,” he remarked lightly, his tone touched with gentle humor. “To build their home here, in the teeth of endless cold–I have to admire their stubbornness, and their guile to build their keep where they did. Though, truth be told, I’m grateful my forebears made their home in warmer climes.”

“The people of the North are a stubborn breed.”

“And the Starks most of all.”

A subtle note of pride warmed Cregan’s voice, quiet but unmistakable beneath his words. “Stone does not yield–and neither do we. The North breeds stubbornness and resilience out of necessity. Softness doesn’t survive long here. We understand something the south often forgets in the comfort of their warmth.”

Jace raised a curious brow. “And what might that be?”

“That winter always returns,” he answered simply, solemnly. “And when it does, it spares no one–not king, nor commoner. Winter doesn’t care for titles, promises, or pretty songs. In the end, we all bow before it.”

A chill settled in Jace’s chest, colder than any wind that swept the battlements. It wasn’t just the air–it was the weight behind Cregan’s words. Winter, he realized, was more than snow and silence. It came with frost and famine, with long nights and lean years. It was a slow, creeping death that seeped into bones, into hearths, into memory.

The people of the North had lived it, endured it, built their lives around its inevitability. They understood its hunger better than anyone.

But winter was still only a season. And seasons turned.

“Even so,” Jace thought, watching the mist shift over the frozen hills, “spring always follows.” He turned towards Cregan, offering a smile tinged with humor. “When winter comes south, remind me to send for you and your Northmen. I suspect we’ll need someone who actually knows what to do when the snow starts piling up in King’s Landing. I can’t imagine all those southern lords surviving long if they can’t find their way to their wine through the drifts.”

His words carried to a small cluster of Northmen gathered around a nearby brazier, their faces warmed by the flickering firelight. Laughter burst out among the gathered men, deep and hearty, ringing warmly against the cold air. Even Cregan himself chuckled, a rich, honest sound that surprised Jace–and warmed something inside him that had grown numb from the bitter wind. 

“The cold is not so terrible,” Jace mused lightly, even as a shiver went down his spine, “provided you have no special fondness for your toes.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, seeking a fleeting warmth before tucking them beneath the thick folds of his cloak. “Truly, it’s bearable. I’ll get use to it–in time.”

For all his bravado, a small part of him wondered how long it would take to truly adapt, if ever. He was a creature born of fire and warmth; cold did not come naturally to dragons.

Yet, as he matched his steps with Cregan Stark along Winterfell’s frozen battlements, Jace found himself oddly determined to withstand it–not simply for duty’s sake, but for pride. He would endure it, just as the North did.

Cregan’s laughter quieted into a low, amused chuckle as he shook his head, a lingering warmth still glinting briefly in his eyes. “If you think Winterfell is cold, my prince, you’d be astonished at how bitter it becomes farther north.”

“You mean the Wall?”

“Aye,” Cregan nodded slowly, the flicker of mirth fading from his features as solemnity settled once more across his face. “The Wall.”

Snow began to fall softly around them, as if summoned by the mere mention of the Wall–light, thick flakes drifting lazily downward from a sky turning steadily grey with dusk. They spun and danced upon the biting northern wind, catching in the firelight of the braziers, gleaming for an instant like flecks of pale silver.

The flakes settled gently into Cregan’s dark hair, stark and delicate against the black, and caught upon the heavy furs draped across his broad shoulders. His gaze had turned northward again, solemn and distant, his thoughts perhaps already traveling the long roads and frozen paths beyond Winterfell.

Jace watched him quietly, studying the stark lord with thoughtful attention as he continued to speak. 

“Whatever tales you’ve heard of it,” he said, meeting Jace’s gaze, “they fall short. The cold there is not like this. The wind doesn’t just bite–it cuts. Sharper than any sword. And the cold… it burrows deep. Into your marrow. You carry it with you long after you’ve ridden south again. Even the harshest snows here in Winterfell feel like gentle summer flurries compared to what falls at the Wall.” A teasing smile tugged at the corner’s of his lips. “You’d be frozen solid within the hour, the southern prince that you are.”

Jace grinned at him. “You’ve been there, then?”

“Aye,” Cregan answered. “A few times. Every Lord of Winterfell should make the journey, at least once in his life–to stand upon the Wall and look our beyond the edge of the known world, to share bread and ale with the brothers in black who watch upon it.” He drew in a slow, thoughtful breath, his gaze shifting towards the path before them, to the snow that fell from the sky. “Now that winter is truly upon us, it is time I journey there again. To see the Night’s Watch fortified, and to honor their duty and sacrifice.”

The weight of his words lingered, carrying the quiet strength of an oath long-held and deeply respected. Jace felt a newfound respect for the young Stark lord beside him–not merely a nobleman ruling from the comfort of his halls, but a man who understood intimately the lands he governed, the people he served, and the sacrifices demanded by duty. 

He drew in a thoughtful breath, watching the snow deepen as the wind stirred gently around them. “One day, I should like to see it for myself.” He glanced toward Cregan, a quiet earnestness in his voice as he spoke. “To stand upon the Wall…and to give my respects to the Night’s Watch. They’ve kept their oaths, even when so many others have forgotten theirs.”

Cregan turned towards him, regarding him steadily. A faint smile touched the northern lord’s lips, subtle but genuine beneath the snow now dusting his shoulders. “You’d be welcome to join us. I ride north within the month to visit the Watch, to see to their provisions, and renew the ties between Winterfell and those who guard our borders. You would be welcome company on the journey–if you think yourself ready for the cold.”

There was a quiet challenge behind the gentle teasing of his tone, a subtle invitation to prove himself–an opening for trust to deepen, built not by politics or promises alone, but by shared hardship beneath a bitter northern sky. .

“I’d be honored to ride with you,” Jace said. “The cold won’t scare me off–not if it means seeing the edge of the world with my own eyes.” He paused, then added more solemnly, “And the men who keep watch there deserve more than words from southern halls. They deserve to be seen… remembered.”

He looked back at Cregan, meeting his gaze with quiet resolve. “So I’ll come. When you ride for the Wall, I’ll ride with you.”

There was no boast in his voice, only a prince’s promise–and a man’s willingness to endure what lay ahead. Jace tugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders, the wool stiff with frost. He wished, not for the first time, that his hair were longer–anything to shield his ears from the biting wind. They had gone numb long ago, and while the steady walking kept the worst of the cold from settling in his bones, the sting remained at his extremities, a constant reminder that he was far from the soft warmth of Dragonstone.

“How long is the journey from here to the Wall?” he asked, voice muffled slightly by the rising wind.

Cregan didn’t hesitate. “A fortnight, perhaps longer,” he said. His breath curled in the air like smoke from a pyre. “The roads grow uncertain when winter sets in. A storm can turn a day's ride into three. Snow swallows the paths, and the land offers no mercy to those unprepared.”

His tone wasn’t meant to deter–it was simply the truth, plain and cold as the land itself. Cregan Stark spoke of the North as only a man born to it could, with the respect one gives to a dangerous god.

Jace adjusted the clasp of his cloak as the wind whipped across the battlements, tugging at the fur-lined folds with insistent fingers. The snow was falling thicker now, blanketing the stones beneath their feet in a dusting of white that muffled even the sound of their steps. 

“A fortnight, is it?” he mused aloud, his tone light. “Perhaps I ought to take to the skies instead. Vermax would cross that distance in a day, less if the winds favored him.” A faint grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he turned toward Cregan. “And up there, above the clouds, there’s little chance of losing the road beneath snowdrifts.”

He chuckled softly, his breath curling in plumes that shimmered in the firelight from the nearest brazier. “Though, I suppose it would be terribly impolite of me to leave my host behind to brave the roads alone.”

As they walked, his shoulder brushed lightly against Cregan’s, cloaks briefly touching before parting again. “I could spare you the ride,” he said, teasing now, his tone light with playful challenge. “Vermax has grown large enough to bear two–if, of course, you can stomach the sky.”

Their boots crunched softly over the frost-kissed stone as they continued along the battlements, the world around them quiet but for the whisper of snow and the low moan of the wind winding through the towers of Winterfell. The banter, brief and easy, felt like a rare warmth between them–a flicker of camaraderie kindled in the heart of the cold.“It’s not an offer I extend lightly, my lord.”

Cregan’s lips quirked at the corners, his tone steady but laced with dry humor. “Then I’m honored by it…”

“And so you should be,” Jace replied, his brow arching in playful confidence. 

Cregan gave a quiet huff, his smile lingering as he glanced toward the sky, then back at Jace. “Tempting as it is, I prefer to keep my feet on solid ground. The wind has little use for men like me.”

They came to a halt beside a brazier nestled against the inner wall, its flames flickering hungrily in the cold air, its coal burning low but steady. Jace stepped closer, holding his chilled hands towards the warmth, fingers stiff and reddened. The heat bit into his skin like pins and needles as warmth slowly returned to them. 

Across from him, Cregan stood with his arms folded. The firelight danced across the sharp planes of his face–casting shadows beneath his cheekbones, catching faintly in the strands of snow-dusted hair that fell loose around his face. The orange glow softened the northern lord’s features, but did nothing to thaw the steadiness in his gaze. 

“We Starks were never meant for the sky,” Cregan said at last, his tone wry with Northern humor. “I fear the day one of us flies will be the day the dead come walking.”

Jace chuckled, breath misting between them. “A shame,” he said, meeting Cregan’s eyes through the flames. “There’s nothing quite like riding a dragon.”

The brazier crackled between them, firelight painting their faces in amber and gold. Jace shifted slightly, feeling the flush rise in his neck–not just from the heat, but from the flicker of something within his stomach he couldn’t quite name. It was unexpected, unsettling yet not entirely unwelcome. 

“There’s a kind of freedom up there,” he went on, voice softer now, thoughtful. “A moment when the ground falls away beneath you–castles, forests, mountains… all of it just falls away. The world becomes small. Distant. You can see where it rises, where it breaks. The wind becomes yours, and for a time, nothing can touch you. It’s like… like holding the breath of the gods.”

He rubbed his hands together, eyes still locked on Cregan’s. “After flying, horseback never feels quite as freeing.”

Cregan seemed to study him through the firelight, his expression unreadable for a long, quiet moment before a faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again, softer now, thoughtful.

“The North looks different from the sky,” Jace added softly, holding Cregan’s gaze through the dancing flames. “It’s almost gentle. Beautiful in a different way. I think even a Stark might find a bit of peace up there, flying above the snows.”

He let his words linger, then allowed himself a small, playful smirk. “And if nothing else, think of the stories you’ll have to tell your grandchildren. ‘Lord Stark, first of his name, dragonrider of Winterfell.” 

“I’ll have other tales for my grandchildren,” Cregan said, a dry note of amusement in his voice. “Of the southern prince who came to Winterfell with his bones rattling and his teeth clattering, keeping half the keep awake with his shivering–and still had the gall to brave the cold and speak of flying north.”

Jace laughed, the sound bright against the stillness, his grin broad and unguarded. He knew he wouldn’t sway the Stark lord to take to the skies, but that wouldn’t stop him from offering. The image alone–Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, perched atop Vermax–was enough to make him chuckle.

“I’ll hold you to that story,” Jace replied with mock gravity, the edges of his breath misting in the firelight.

Cregan shifted, stepping back from the brazier, the flames casting long shadows behind him. Jace lingered a moment longer, reluctant to abandon the warmth, before pushing himself away and falling into step beside the lord once more. The cold reached for him at once, eager and biting, curling beneath his cloak like a living thing.

“You’re not what I expected,” Cregan said after a beat, his tone quieter now, thoughtful as they resumed their slow walk along the battlements.

Jace glanced at him, brow lifting with curiosity, his breath still fogging the air before him. “I know. I’m more handsome than you expected,” He said lightly, offering Cregan a playful grin. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

The jest hung in the air, light as snow on stone, but Cregan’s only replay was a silent glance–his gaze flicking, just for a heartbeat, upward. It lingered on Jace’s hair for the briefest of moments–shorter than was proper for a Targaryen prince, butchered and tousled by the wind and cold–before returning to his face, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. 

But Jace caught it all the same. 

And gods, he felt it. The heat rushed unbidden to his ears–numb from the cold, now burning with embarrassed warmth. He cleared his throat.

“Don’t,” Jace warned before Cregan could way a word–though the subtle curve at the corners of the Lord’s mouth was answer enough. Jace felt himself flush deeper, warmth rising fast through his chilled skin. “Whatever quip you’re about to make, spare me. I’m perfectly aware of how dreadful it looks. I’m growing it out.”

“Wise choice.”

He gave a rueful sigh and ran his fingers through the offending strands, trying to flatten them–though the wind immediately undid the effort. “It was a mistake,” he muttered. “My siblings remind me of it daily. It wasn’t my choice.”

Cregan raised a brow, saying nothing–though the gleam in his eye invited explanation. 

Jace exhaled, a puff of white breath vanishing into the cold. “My younger brother–Joffrey–decided my hair had grown too long for his lining. I awoke one morning to find him standing over me with a pair of shears, hacking away like he was pruning a hedge.”

He shook his head at the memory, equal parts fond and exasperated. “What was left was a half-ruined mess, uneven on every side. In an attempt to salvage it, I asked one of the grooms on Dragonstone to even it out, thinking I could make it… at least somewhat presentable.” He gave a dry chuckle. “What I didn’t realize was that the groom was new to the keep. Newly arrived, and by his own admission after the fact, he’d never so much as trimmed a horse’s mane, let alone a prince’s hair.”

He offered a crooked smile. “It was worse then,” he admitted. “Far worse.”

At the time, it had been so much shorter than it was now. Cropped close and uneven, nothing like the thick curls he once had, nothing like tradition–and vanity–had long insisted upon. It had since grown back in part, though the ends now curled awkwardly, too short to tame and too long to ignore. A few strands clung stubbornly to his forehead, damp with snowmelt. 

He went quiet for a moment, the memory of his brother’s horrified face flashing in his mind. “Joffrey was inconsolable afterward. Kept sobbing that he only wanted our hair to be the same–his had been cut too, not long before, though, not as short as mine got.”

A small, fond smile ghosted across Jace’s lips. “He made me swear not to tell a soul,” he added with a glance at Cregan. “Made me promise, tears in his eyes.”

The corner’s of Cregan’s mouth lifted slowly. “So,” he said, voice dry and deliberate, “you’re an oathbreaker.”

Jace glared at him in mock offence. “I will have you know I take my oaths very seriously. consider yourself the only man in the North entrusted with the secret of my shame,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “I trust you’ll carry this secret to your grave.”

“The grave, is it?” Cregan murmured, amusement playing in his tone. “Well, now I suppose I must. You’ve burdened me with a great weight, Prince Jacaerys.”

Jace laughed again, the sound rising over the soft hush of snowfall and echoing faintly down the length of the battlements.

Cregan gave a casual shrug, shaking his head slightly, his dark hair brushing softly against the snow-dusted fur around his broad shoulders. “I wasn’t going to say anything about your hair…” He drawled slowly, a teasing note playing at the edges of his voice. His lips curled further into something approaching a mischievous grin–broarder, mor roguish than Jace had thought the solemn northern lord capable of. 

“You’re shorter than I expected.”

“Hey!” Jace exclaimed, laughter brightening his voice. Without thinking, he reached out and gave Cregan a playful smack against the shoulder, feeling the firm strength beneath thick furs. “We can’t all be half-giants, Lord Stark. Besides,” he continued, straightening his shoulders with exaggerated dignity, eyes glittering playfully, “I happen to think I more than make up for my lack of hight in other ways.”

“Mmm, I’m sure,” Cregan murmured, voice dropping low into a thoughtful hum–so quiet and deep it seemed to resonate through Jace’s bones, sending warmth trickling down his spine. He nearly thought he’d imagined it, the words murmured so softly–but then Cregan raised his voice again, clear and certain, a teasing challenge lingering behind the words. 

“You are pretty, for a summer boy… my prince.”

Jace felt warmth bloom vividly in his chest, a flush creeping up his neck, deep enough to rival the heat of the braziers they’d left behind. His heart skipped awkwardly in his chest as he met the northern lord’s steady gaze, aware suddenly of the scant inches separating them on the cold battlements–snow falling softly between them, each flake melting instantly on flushed skin. 

He called me pretty. 

Cregan cleared his throat, the sound soft but grounding, like boots shifting on packed snow. His gaze slipped from Jace and turned toward the path ahead, to the snow that fell from the darkened sky. The grin that had tugged at his mouth just moments before faded with the wind, replaced by something quieter–more solemn. 

“When word came that you were coming north, seeking an alliance,” he said at last, his voice quieter now–no longer colored by jest, but laced with a steady thoughtful sincerity. “I imagined a boy prince, soft with southern comfort. Sons of lords who wear their fathers’ names like armor, mistaking it for their own strength. Pampered and arrogant. We see enough of those–men who expect the North to bow before them.”

The wind stirred snow at their feet, and for a moment, the only sound was the crunch of their boots and the distant caw of a lone raven. Cregan’s eyes returned to Jace then, and the look he gave him was unflinching–clear, assessing, but absent of mockery. 

“But you came alone. No retinue, no grand show of banners. You landed in my courtyard with only a dragon and your resolve,” he continued. “You walk Winterfell’s frost-bitten stones without complaint–”

“Only a little,” Jace interjected with a grin, the wind biting his cheeks. The cold stung his bones more than once, and both of them knew it. 

That earned the barest twitch of a smile from Cregan–brief, but real. 

“Even so,” he said, the edge of humor falling away once more, “you've not come to lord your dragon over us or boast of fire and conquest. You meet a man’s eye when you speak to him, and you’ve asked more questions than you've given commands. You walk our halls not as a conqueror, but as a guest.” He drew in a breath. “You’ve come not only to ask for swords, but to understand who wields them.”

Jace said nothing at first, unsure what reply was fitting, or if one was needed at all. Praise, when it came from a man like Cregan Stark, was not a thing to be paraded or taken lightly. “I admit,” he said at length, voice thoughtful, “you’re not what I expected either.”

Cregan glanced sideways at him. “Oh?”

They came to a stop once more, the wall curving gently outward as it overlooked the castle grounds below. Evening had descended fully now. Along the courtyards and outer walkways, braziers had been lit, their orange glow flickering like scattered embers in the deepening dark, casting long shadows across the snow. The scent of woodsmoke curled upward on the breeze, earthy and familiar. 

“I was told we were close in age,” Jace said, holding out his hand, letting snow land on his palm–for a moment they retained their shape, before slowly melting. “But I don’t know… I expected you to be older. More hardened, perhaps. Stern and silent. Without humor….” He gave a small, crooked smile. “And maybe a beard.”

Cregan returned the smile–small, but unguarded. And yet… there was something beneath it, some flicker of thought behind his eyes that Jace couldn’t quite unravel. Not annoyance, not amusement–something quieter. Something sad. He reached up then, rubbing a hand across the smooth line of his jaw.

Most northern men wore bears with pride–thick and wild, grown long to guard against the cold, a mark of both age and station. To go clean-shaven in the North was almost uncommon enough to mark a man apart. Only boys went barefaced. 

Strange, then, that the Lord of Winterfell stood among his men clean shaven. 

Maybe he couldn’t grow one, Jace thought, studying him out of the corner of his eye. Gods knew he himself could barely manage more than a dusting of stubble–soft, patchy, uneven. He’d tried once to let it grow, only to be teased mercilessly by his siblings until he shaved it off in shame. 

He was handsome, though–broad of shoulder, sharp of jaw, with eyes like storm-swept steel. Jace felt a strange twist coil in his chest, fleeting but undeniable, and he shoved the thought aside before it could take shape.

Daenera would’ve been pleased with him, he told himself instead, the thought tossed like a stone into deeper waters.

“I suppose some of us are cursed to look younger than we are,” Jace added, still smiling. “Though in the South, that’s often seen as a blessing. I’ve never truly had the patience for it anyway.”

Cregan gave a low, thoughtful hum, the corners of his mouth twitching faintly. “In the North, a beard earns respect. But I’ve found that steel in your spine matters more than hair on your chin.”

Still, something lingered in his voice–something unspoken, tucked between the measured words and steady tone. It carried weight, though Cregan neither named it nor gave it shape. And Jace, sensing the boundaries drawn by silence, did not press him.

“I suppose we both defy expectation,” Cregan said at last, his voice low but steady as a mountain wind. His eyes, grey as cold steel, held fast to Jace’s, unflinching.

Before Jace could respond, the hurried crunch of boots on icy stone broke the stillness. A guard approached brisky, snow dusting his cloak and gathering thick upon his shoulders, his breath clouding urgently in the frigid air. The frost had left a brittle glaze upon his beard, and the dark fabric of his surcoat glittered faintly beneath the torch light. 

The guard stopped abruptly before Lord Stark, dipping his head respectfully. “M’lord,” he began, voice crisp yet tense. “A rave’s arrived. Urgent news from Dragonstone.”

The words struck him like a punch to the gut. 

Jace straightened, his breath catching as the guard held out the message–a tightly rolled piece of parchment, still bearing the creases from its confinement inside a small iron capsule. Cregan hesitated only briefly, exchanging a tense glance with Jace before accepting the scroll. 

Without a word, he stepped nearer to one of the glowing braziers, where he unrolled the parchment carefully, gray eyes moving swiftly over the note. With each word read, the northern lord’s brow deepened into a severe furrow, betraying the severity of the news. His silence grew heavier, oppressive even against the chill wind that swept across the battlements. 

Jace watched him closely, the flickering firelight casting shifting shadows across Lord Cregan’s features. The dread coiled in his chest tightened, knotting with every heartbeat as he searched the northern lord’s face for meaning. Cregan’s expression had turned to granite–his jaw set, lips pressed into a hard line, eyes scanning the final lines of the parchment with a tension that spoke louder than words.

The brazier’s flames danced between them, its warmth unable to chase away the cold creeping into Jace’s bones–not the chill of the air, but the far deeper cold of foreboding. He had seen men read ill news before. He had seen the way grief, or fury, or fear ghosted across their faces in the space between one breath and the next.

But Cregan was harder to read than most. His face did not break, but it changed–the faintest stiffening of his shoulders, the narrowing of his gaze, the flicker of something heavy in his eyes. Not surprise. Not uncertainty. Something more final.

When Cregan finally looked up, his gaze met Jace’s directly–grey eyes as hard as northern ice, filled with something dark and troubled, something that made dread pool more ferociously in Jace’s stomach. 

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. 

Something had changed. And whatever message had come on black wings it was not one of comfort. 

“My mother?” 

The question slipped from Jace’s lips, brittle and edged with dread. He could feel it coiling in his gut–the fear that childbed fever had claimed her, that the rigors of birth had proven too much after he’d flown north. It was not unheard of. Queens bled like any other woman when the babe came, and death did not care for crowns. The thought made him sick. 

“No.”

The single syllable offered no comfort. If anything, it deepend the knot in his chest. A mother’s death was the fear he’d braced himself for–but now his mind scrambled to guess what new horrors might follow. 

Was it Daenera? Had the Greens killed her?

Cregan held out the letter.

Jace hesitated only a breath before reaching for it, his fingers stiff and slow with cold. The parchment felt wrong in his hands–too light, too dry, like brittle skin. He unrolled it in the flickering glow of the brazier, the firelight dancing across the inked words. Yet the warmth of the fire did not reach him; it danced across his fingertips but never penetrated the chill that was taking hold of his bones.

His gaze fell to the words. 

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead. 

The air seemed suddenly too thin, his blood roaring in his ears like the wind across snowy mountaintops. His limbs felt impossibly heavy, leaden weights dragging him down towards the frozen stones beneath his feet. Every heartbeat echoed painfully within his chest, throbbing against his ribs, threatening to splinter them apart. 

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead.

He read the words again, desperate for them to shift, to reshape into something else–something less cruel. But each time he read the line, it became sharper, clearer, sinking deeper into his flesh like a blade. 

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead.

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead.

Your brother, Lucerys, is dead.

The parchment blurred in his vision, ink running together as his mind struggled desperately to grasp the meaning behind those terrible words;

Your brother is dead. 

Lucerys is dead. 

Luke is dead. 

The letter trembled in his hands, the parchment shaking softly in the cold wind. Grief crashed over him like an icy wave, stealing the breath from his lungs, threatening to bring him to his knees. The North–the wind, the snow, even the looming shadow of war–meant nothing in that terrible moment. 

A sharp breath tore into his lungs, burning cold, as though the air itself had turned to glass. Jace lowered the parchment, fingers trembling. His gaze lifted slowly, but he saw nothing clearly–only a blur of shadows and torchlight, the shape of Winterfell, dark and unmoved, looming around him. He forced his spine straight, standing taller despite the unbearable weight pressing upon him. He felt as if he were drowning, the grief flooding his chest, his throat, threatening to spill out, and it was all he could do to swallow it down, to let it settle like bitter ice in his gut. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but hollow, stripped of warmth. “Forgive me, Lord Stark. You’ve been a most gracious host, but I… I must take my leave.”

Without waiting for a response, without giving himself a chance to falter, he turned abruptly on his heel, stepping away from the warmth of the brazier into the biting cold. His steps quickened towards the turret tower, boots crunching sharply against snow-covered stone. He was barely aware of the Northman calling after him, Cregan’s voice lost in the deafening rush that filled Jace’s ears–blood pounding violently through his veins, grief roaring within him like a storm at sea.

And then, breaking the night’s silence like a blade cleaving flesh, came another sound–a raw, anguished roar, deep and mournful. It echoed and rolled through the darkness, shaking through his bones, resonating with the deep, ragged wound now splitting his heart in two. 

From beyond the high walls of Winterfell, Vermax howled his fury and grief into the black northern sky, mourning a loss that only he and his rider truly understood. 

Jace descended the narrow, winding steps of the turret tower, his hand trailing the cold, damp stone wall for balance as his boots urgently struck each step. The stone was slick beneath his soles, treacherous, worn smooth by generations of passing feet, but he did not slow. 

He burst from the stairwell into the bitter open air of the courtyard, his cloak billowing behind him like dark wings. The cold enveloped him, but he barely noticed it now–the numbness in his limbs, the bite in the air–his thoughts curbed too violently for the weather to touch him. 

Snow crunched beneath his boots as he strode across the frost-hardened ground, not pausing, not looking back. His eyes were fixed ahead, drawn to the warm glow of torchlight flickering beyond the arches of the guest house. He moved as if on instinct alone, each step heavy with the weight of the letter still clenched in his gloved hand, the words seared into his mind like a brand he could not shake.

The snow, gentle at first, now fell heavily, blanketing Winterfell in a thick and silent shroud. It clung to the stones and settled like pale dust on his shoulders. Jace pressed forward through the drifting flakes, pushing into the guest house. 

The warmth inside hit him like a wall. 

Heat pulsed faintly through the stones–coursing through them like lifeblood. He strode swiftly down the corridor, blind to the flickering sconces, the familiar sounds and scents that filled the hall. His pace quickened, boots echoing hollowly against the floors until he reached his chambers. He pushed the door open so hard it crashed into the wall, the sound reverberating like thunder before he swiftly smaller it shut behind him.

And then he stopped. 

In the sudden stillness that followed, he stood motionless–shoulders heaving, chest tight, trembling with cold, with grief, with fury he could not yet name. The snow trapped in his hair began to melt, droplets trickling slowly down the nape of his neck, beneath his collar, sending chills along his spine. Warmth enveloped him, pressing in against his frozen skin, stinging like a thousand tiny needles across his face and fingertips, yet none of it truly reached him. 

His breath caught. 

And then refused to come.

Jace couldn’t breathe. His chest felt crushed beneath an unbearable weight, his lungs refusing to draw air, heart hammering wildly. He stood there. He simply just stood there. Blackness crept into the edges of his vision, until at last instinct overwhelmed shock, and he gasped sharply, pulling air into his lungs in desperate, ragged gulps. He swayed unsteadily, hands clenched into fist so tightly his knuckles felt as though they would split through his skin. 

He drew in another ragged breath, then another, the warmth of his chamber meaningless, comfortless. A wave of nausea rolled over him, grief clawing mercilessly at his throat, threatening to tear him apart from the inside out. He leaned back against the solid wood of the door, his legs weakening beneath him as the full force of loss settled heavily across his shoulders. 

Lucerys. Luke. His brother. 

Dead. 

Jace squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to block out the world, but even in the darkness the oppressive heat of the stone walls pressed in around him, suffocating him. Home. He had to go home.

Abruptly, he turned towards the heavy oak dresser where his belongings had been neatly unpacked upon his arrival. Without thinking, without truly seeing he ripped open the top drawer. His movements were jerky, almost violent, as he began tearing out clothes, heavy wool garments gifted by Lady Jeyne, fur-lined doublets, the lighter cloak he’d worn when first reaching the Eyrie, the familiar doublet he’d worn when he left Dragonstone. Each piece was flung carelessly onto the bed, landing in disarray, to be stuffed into his bag. 

His breath grew ragged as the drawers emptied, his heart hammering as he finally looked down into the barren dresser as if it might contain some answer, some comfort. But it was just a void–empty, useless. Just like–

With trembling hands, he slammed it shut, the sound reverberating sharply through the room. He stumbled towards the bed, his vision blurred, hot tears stinging fiercely at the corners of his eyes. He fought to keep them from falling, throat tightening with the effort, grief clawing mercilessly at his chest, demanding to be released.  

Instead, Jace turned away from the bed, his breath ragged, and strode to where his satchel and travel bag lay tucked against the wall. He snatched them up with trembling hands and dropped them onto the bed beside the discarded heap of clothing. There was no order to his movements, no thought–only the consuming need to do, to move, to act, lest he be swallowed whole by the weight bearing down on him.

One by one, he began to shove his garments into the satchel–folded or not, it didn’t matter. Woolen doublets, cloaks, shirts and hose, all crumpled and jammed into the bag with wild disregard. He did not care for neatness.

He managed to fill the satchel halfway before his eyes flicked once more to the letter lying askew on the bed, half-unfurled, the edges curling where his fingers had clenched it too tightly. His handles trembled as he reached for the letter and unrolled it again.

It grieves me to inform you, but your brother, Lucerys, is dead. He was slain by Aemond Targaryen after leaving Storm’s End. Your mother has left Dragonstone in her grief, and her return is uncertain. I will send a raven once she returns, but until then, you must ensure that our alliances are solidified. Your mother will need the support of the North and the Vale in this war.

Lay aside your grief and fulfill your duty as her heir.

Jace read the words again. Again. Once more–desperately hoping by some miracle they might change, might soften into a lie or misunderstanding. But each time his eyes traced the cruelly inked letters, their meaning only grew sharper, cutting deeper into his heart until they blurred and became nothing but senseless, smudged stains against pale parchment. 

Luke.

His sweet, gentle brother–still half a boy. 

The parchment trembled in his hand as the full weight of the truth settled upon him like the crushing press of stone. His heart hammered wildly, frantic and painful beneath his ribs, the sound echoing in his ears as grief clawed fiercely at his throat, begging for release. Yet he swallowed the agony, forced it back down, choking on every suppressed sob that threatened to break free.

Lucerys had gone to Storm’s End as an envoy–a messenger protected by sacred laws of gods and men. He had not gone as a warrior. He was never meant to fight, never meant to die. He was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to return home, unharmed, untouched, alive. 

Home, to Dragonstone. Home to family, to safety. 

But now he was gone, slain in cold blood, and Jace had not been there to protect him. He had let Luke fly alone into danger, vulnerable and unprepared. Guilt tore at him, twisted sharply inside his chest, his grief compounded by a bitter sense of failure. He had been the elder brother, sworn by blood and love to shield him from harm. 

Aemond Targaryen. 

He crushed the letter violently in his fist, crumpling it so tightly his knuckles whitened, the bones of his hand aching beneath the force of his grip. Rage surged through him. Had Aemond been waiting for Luke? Had he plotted the murder, lying patiently in ambush, ready to strike at the first glimpse of his prey? Or had it simply been a monstrous impulse–the twisted cruelty of a man who had always despised his brother, always thirsted for vengeance?

Did it even matter now?

Luke was dead. Sweet and kind Luke. His life stolen without mercy, without honor, by the hands of kin turned traitor, by the one-eyed monster who had wished for their deaths since childhood. 

And Jace had not been there. 

The tears he had fought so desperately to restrain finally spilled forth like blood drawn from a fresh wound. A sob tore through him, twisting into something else.

With a strangled snarl, he lashed out, driving his fist against the heavy oak bedpost. Once. Twice. Again and again, until the hollow sound of bone striking wood echoed harshly through the chamber. 

Pain should have followed immediately, but instead, there was nothing but a furious emptiness, a void filled only by rage–rage at Aemond, rage at himself, rage at the gods who saw fit to take his brother from him. He did not stop until his lungs burned and his strength fled, until his strikes grew weak and ineffectual, trembling hands falling limply to his sides. 

He stumbled back, breathing harsh and ragged, the world spinning briefly as he swayed. Slowly, he lifted his hand, blinking away the blur of tears to see the damage he’d done. Blood seeped from his knuckles, seared red over his pale skin, and dark bruises already bloomed along his joints. Carefully, tentatively, he flexed his fingers–pain, sharp and throbbing, surged through his hand. Bones splintered perhaps, but not broken. 

The rage drained from him, leaving only hollow grief in its wake. With a ragged sigh, Jace turned from the bed and sank down into one of the chairs placed before the hearth. The fire crackled quietly, flames twisting and flickering in the silence, indifferent to his pain. He bowed his head, shoulders slumped forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. 

A sob tore from him, deep and wrenching, shattering the silence of the room. He clenched his wounded hand into a fist, feeling the ache of the skin tightening over his knuckles. Tears came freely now, flowing unrestrained.

Jace wept until the tears ceased to come, until the grief had wrought him dry and left behind only a hollow, aching quiet. It was not peace that settled over him, but something close to it–an empty stillness, numbing in its completeness. His head throbbed dully, his throat raw from the sobs that had torn through him. 

He remained where he was, slouched before the hearth, the fire casting long, dancing shadows across the chamber. The warmth had slowly seeped into his bones, driving out the cold that had gripped him since the courtyard. His hair had dried where snow once clung, the ends curling slightly in the heat, and the dampness at his collar was gone.

At some point, he had stripped off his cloak and doublet and let them fall where they may. Now he sat in nothing but his loose shirt, the fabric wrinkled and damp with tears. His arms rested on his knees, hands hanging limp, blood still crusted across bruised knuckles. The pain in his hand throbbed now with steady insistence, a dull rhythm that grounded him in his own body–proof he was still here, still breathing.

His eyes remained fixed on the fire, watching the flames dance and curl in the hearth like living things. They crackled softly, indifferent to sorrow, consuming all they touched. He stared into the heart of the blaze, unblinking, as though it might offer answers–or oblivion.

He felt no closer to either.

Just warm. Just tired.

Just empty.

A soft knock broke the silence, echoing gently against the stone walls of the chamber. 

Jace didn’t flinch at the sound, nor did he stir when the door slowly creaked open behind him. He turned his head just enough to glance towards the threshold, eyes swollen and red-rimmed, to see Lord Cregan Stark standing there. A brief glance, then he turned back towards the flames crackling softly in the hearth. 

“I was told you hadn’t left,” Cregan said quietly, his voice low, calm, measured–as if approaching a wounded beast. He paused, seemingly choosing his words carefully. “I thought…perhaps you shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

“I fear I am poor company right now,” Jace rasped, voice hoarse and hollow. It was a gentle dismissal, devoid of malice or anger–only deep exhaustion. 

“You’ve earned the right to be,” Cregan responded. “I’d worry more if you weren’t.”

The door swung shut with a soft creak, and Cregan’s footsteps crossed the room, slow but steady. From the corner of his eye, Jace saw the large, shadowed shape approach, blurred by his lingering tears. There was a faint scruff of something being placed onto the table at Jace’s elbow–a plate of food, the scent filling the air. 

Cregan moved around the chairs, his footsteps quiet, before settling himself carefully into the seat opposite Jace. “I brought wine.”

 A small table stood between them, sturdy and worn from years of use. Upon it, Cregan placed two cups, the polished silver catching firelight as he poured rich, spiced wine into each. The scent was warm, heady, and mingled softly with the scent of burning wood from the hearth. He set aside the pitcher, gently nudging one of the cups closer to Jace.

For a long moment, Jace only stared at the cup. His vision blurred slightly, eyes stinging with tears. Finally, slowly, he reached forward, his bruised knuckles aching, and took the goblet into his hand. The cool metal felt cool against his skin as he cradled it in both hands.

He leaned forward, resting elbows heavily on his knees, fingers drumming restlessly against the silver as he gazed down into the wine. Deep red, rich, like blood swirling gently against the polished metal. The sight twisted something inside him, a bitter ache in his chest, but he drew the cup upwards regardless, pressing its rim to his lips and taking a slow, measured sip. 

The wine was thick, heavy with spices and the lingering sweetness of southern grapes. He swallowed thickly, the spiced wine sliding down his throat and filled his stomach. He lowered his cup slowly, the rim lingering against his lips before he let it fall back into his hands. His tongue flicked out, catching the last trace of the wine, but the sweetness had already begun to turn bitter on his tongue–like spoiled fruit, like regret. 

He didn’t look directly at Cregan, but he watched him from the corner of his eye. The Stark lord sat much like he did–leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, gaze fixed on the hearth where the flames licked at dry wood, casting a warm glow across the stone floor. Snow no longer dusted his dark hair, but small droplets clung to the thick fur of his cloak, catching the firelight like beads of glass.

Jace wondered idly if Cregan felt the heat of the fire at all beneath all that wool and fur. Did the cold cling to him so deeply it never truly left? As if sensing the thought, Cregan reached up and began to unfasten the heavy clasps, peeling off his cloak in one smooth motion. He draped it over the back of his chair, the furs slumping like the pelt of some great beast. Without it, he still looked formidable–broad and solid, all sharp lines and quiet strength, like a sword sheathed but not dulled. 

Jace turned his attention back to the fire.

And for a time, neither man spoke. 

Silence stretched between them–not the uncomfortable kind that begged to be broken, but something quieter, older. Only the soft crackle of burning logs and the occasional pop of sap within the flame broke the stillness.

“Earlier,” Cregan began, breaking the silence at last, “You said you expected me to have a beard like my kinsmen…” His voice was low and quiet, threaded with a touch of dry amusement, as if the thought had only just returned to him. “It’s not that I cannot grow one. It comes in thick enough.” He looked down into his cup, idly swirling the wine around the curve of the metal, the motion slow, almost distracted, as though the memory stirred something within him. 

The fire licked at the charred logs, the heat pulsing softly against Jace’s skin. His gaze lingered on the hearth, but the flames no longer held his full attention–his focus drifted to the voice beside him, low and steady, touched by something he was only starting to understand.  The mention of beards had been made in jest–half teasing, half observation–but the weight in Cregan’s tone was something else entirely. Something more personal.

“Before we wed my wife told me she would not marry a beast.”

The words drew Jace’s gaze from the fire. He turned slightly, his eyes settling on the Stark lord, watching him more closely now. He hadn’t seen the Lady of Winterfell–neither during the feast, the morning after as Cregan led him through the halls and grounds of the great keep. And until now, Cregan had made no mention of her. 

A flicker of guilt stirred in Jace’s chest, slipping beneath the ache already lodged there, and he felt a warmth of embarrassment prickle at the back of his neck–gods, he had spoken of marriage in the Glass Gardens, had imagined offering Daenera’s hand. Foolish. Careless.

“We were little more than children then,” Cregan went on, softer now. There was a heat in his voice, gentle and quiet–not the heat of fire and fury, but that of memory and affection, of something cherished. “She said she didn’t care for being scratched every time she kissed me.” A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it was a sorrowful thing–fond, and aching. “Said she’d only marry a man she could see. So I shaved.”

The fire cracked between them, a log collapsing inward with a gentle hiss. The warmth in the room thickened with silence once more–but it was a different silence than before. Heavier now, steeped in things left unsaid. Jace didn’t speak. He only watched the way Cregan held the wine, how he didn’t drink, how the curve of that wistful smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“We grew up together,” he added. “She was strong–and wild, too, in a way I never quite learned to match. She was faster than any boy in the yard, and bold enough to prove it.” He paused, his thumb idly tracing the rim of his cup. 

“And she was kind,” he went on. “Gentle in ways that mattered. She’d sit with a mare through the night if foaling came hard, or nurse a bird with a broken wing back to health.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.Cregan spoke like a man unaccustomed to sharing such things, and perhaps thats why Jace listened all the more closely. Each word carried a kind of stillness with it–an old grief worn smooth with time, like sea-glass sharpened dulled by the tide. Not raw, not bleeding, but there.

“She died two years past,” he said at last, barely louder than a soft murmur, “giving birth to our son.”

Jace turned toward him fully, his gaze catching the firelight as it danced across the hollows of his face. His throat worked in silence, tight with unshed grief, the ache behind his ribs growing sharper–pressing against his lungs like some coiled thing desperate to tear free. The weight in his chest was different now, more insistent.

The wine had turned bitter, clinging to the back of his tongue like ash. His stomach twisted, heavy and unsettled, but it wasn’t the drink that unsettled him.

He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat like a mouthful of broken glass. Words rose–bitter, aching things that clawed at the back of his tongue–but he held them behind clenched teeth. Cregan didn’t deserve them, he knew.

Cregan straightened slightly, brushing his thumb against the rim of his cup. “I’ve kept my face bare since then,” he said quietly, with a shrug that tried to play off the sorrow. “I suppose I’m not ready for it to grow again.”

He brought the cup to his lips, drinking deeply before settling back into the chair with a quiet sigh. In the dim glow of the fire, the stern lines of his face softened, and for a moment–just a moment–Jace saw the boy beneath the mantle of lordship.

“I’m grateful for what she gave me,” he said, a brief flicker of something close to a smile, though faded as quickly as it came. “He has her smile, her dimples… her laugh, too, though he’s too young to know it.”

His voice broke slightly, and the calm composure on his face gave way, brows knitting in a pained frown, as though the words cut deeper than expected. “But he’ll never know her face. Never hear her voice whisper his name, or feel her warmth beside him.”

Jace forced himself to look away, feeling a sudden sting behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw, hard enough that his teeth ached, and fixed his gaze firmly upon the flames. The fire blurred at the edges, gold and orange bleeding together.

“I can’t help but wonder,” Cregan said, his voice dropping lower, as if speaking aloud gave the guilt weight. “If she would still be alive had she not wed me. If her arms would be full instead of her grave, had the babe been another man’s. A gentler birth, an easier fate.”

“It’s not the same,” Jace muttered, voice strained–yet he managed to swallow the cruelest edge of bitterness that rose in his throat. You find another love, take another wife, he thought fiercely, almost choking on the words he dared not speak aloud. But I cannot grow another brother.

Luke had been more than a brother in name; they had been as close as two brother’s could be. He had been his shadow, his sparring partner, his co conspirator in mischief, his friend. They had grown together, shared laughter and bruises, fought with and against each other–and always, without question, stood side by side. They defended one another, always. 

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, thick and charged, until Cregan spoke again–his voice steady but gentle. “I had a brother once, too.”

Jace turned away from the fire, from the warmth and the flickering light that seemed too bright against the weight pressing down on him. He didn’t want to look at Cregan. He didn’t want to see understanding or pity or kindness–not when his chest felt carved hollow. He clenched his jaw, his breath trembling as he forced air deeper into his lungs, trying desperately to steady himself, to maintain some measure of dignity. 

“I was four years his elder,” Cregan continued quietly. “Yet from the moment he could crawl, as soon as his legs could carry him, he’d trail at my heels like a pup. Everywhere I went, he followed me like a little shadow, desperate to keep pace. No matter how often I scolded him, or pushed him away, or told him to leave me be–he’d always find his way back. Always laughing, always smiling, always so damn eager to be where I was.”

Jace lowered his cup to the stone floor beside his chair, fingers trembling slightly as he set it down. The metall gave a soft, hollow cling as it was put down. His hands came together before him, fingers lacing tight, pressing hard into the bruised and broken skin of his knuckles. The pain was grounding–sharp and real–a distraction from the storm building in his chest. But it was not enough. His breath trembled in his throat, and the tears he’d been holding back threatened to rise again, no matter how tightly he clenched his jaw, no matter how fiercely he blinked them away.

“His laughter was too big for his body…” His voice carried on, low and steady, like a story told to the flames. “He laughed loud enough to startle the hounds, loud enough that the cooks could hear him from across the yard.”

Jace didn’t look at him, but he listened, holding each word like a stone in his chest. 

“Brave,” Cregan went on, “Brave, in the way that only boys who have never tasted true fear can be. One winter he fell through the ice of the godswood pond. I had to drag him out, kicking and gasping. The fool nearly drowned himself, and all he could do afterwards was laugh, chattering through blue lips that it was worth it just to see what lay at the bottom.”

Jace’s breath caught, sharp and sudden, as if grief had reached up and seized him by the throat. The ache in his chest tightened, constricting like a vice, and he clenched his jaw to keep the sound from escaping. He did not look at Cregan. Could not. His head turned further to the side, neck straining as he fixed his gaze on the shadows that flickered along the stone walls–shadows cast by firelight, moving like ghosts that would not settle.

He knew that laughter. Gods, he knew it. Knew that kind of wild, boundless joy that spilled too loudly from too small a frame. Knew what reckless spirit that grew beneath his fear–knew how brave he could be despite it. 

“He died young,” Cregan murmured after a long silence, the quiet admission breaking softly through the heavy stillness that had settled between them. His voice was rougher now, frayed by memory. “Too young. A fever took him. It came upon him swiftly–too swift for any of us to realize how grave it had become. By the time we summoned the maester…” He trailed off briefly, the muscles of his jaw tensing visibly beneath the firelight. “There was nothing left to do but ease his pain. He was seven years old.”

Jace shook his head slowly, as though trying to dispel the grief pressing down on him like a weight too heavy to bear. His fingers curled tighter, pressing harder into the bruised skin of his knuckles–seeking a sharper pain to drown the hollow ache in his chest. 

“The gods can be cruel,” He said softly–sadly–almost to the fire rather than Jace. “Cruel in what they give us, and crueler still in what they choose to take away.”

Cruel the gods may be, Jace thought bitterly, his jaw clenching with a sudden surge of anger, sharp and unrelenting. But it was no god who took his brother’s life. It had been a man, flesh and blood; a monster. 

No, the gods were cruel, but men… men could be worse. 

“It’s not the same,” Jace spat, bitterness coating every word as he felt his restraint fray and finally unravel. The grief within him finally burst its bounds, spilling forth as bitter anger–hot, reckless, and impossible to hold back. His eyes burned, tears welling but refusing yet to fall, as he ripped his gaze from his bruised knuckles to stare fiercely at Cregan. His lips curled into a sneer, frustration and pain twisting across his features. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

He felt something within him clawing desperately, trying to drag his fury back behind the thin veil of civility, but the anger had already broken loose–wild, scorching, and wholly unbecoming. It surged through his chest, coiled tightly around his heart, burning with the very breath from his lungs.

“Your brother died of sickness,” Jace bit out, words hard-edged and ragged. “Your wife lost her life in childbed. But my brother–my brother was murdered.”

His throat tightened painfully, the words choking him even as he forced them out. He knew they were harsh, knew he had struck cruelly against a wound Cregan had shared openly with him–but he could not stop himself.

Jace’s hands trembled, fingers curling into fists once more, his knuckles aching sharply as the broken skin stretched, but he welcomed the sting. Anything was better than the ache in his chest threatening to consume him. His breath came ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily as he stood before the hearth, the warmth of the fire blazing behind him, yet offering no comfort.

Cregan’s gaze remained steady, unmoving in the face of Jace’s bitter outburst. He neither flinched nor turned away, yet there was no harshness in his expression–only a quiet, patient understanding. The firelight flickered in his eyes, turning the grey to silver, calm and clear as a frozen lake beneath a winter moon.

“My brother was murdered,” Jace said again, quieter now, though no less raw. His jaw clenched tight, working against the tremor in his throat as he fought to hold himself together. “He was murdered, and the gods had nothing to do with it.”

The fire before him hissed and crackled, a restless thing devouring the wood and silence aline. Its warmth pressed close to his skin, but Jace felt no comfort in it–only a distant, mocking heat that did nothing to soften the ache within him. 

“It wasn’t sickness,” he continued, voice rising despite himself, “or some cruel twist of fate, or the will of the Seven. It wasn’t the gods. It was Aemond. Aemond Targaryen.” His hands curled into fists again, his raw knuckles reopening, fresh blood beading in the split skin, unnoticed. “He killed him. Butchered him.”

The last word cracked in his throat, choked by tears that finally spilled over. His shoulders shook, and he turned his face away sharply, ashamed of the weakness he could no longer keep hidden. He raised a hand to swipe at his cheeks, smearing warmth across frozen skin, but the tears came faster than he could hide them. His shoulders shook with every breath he drew, and still, he tried to compose himself, tried to stand tall as a prince ought to.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, cracked and broke. “I… I did not mean…”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Cregan said after a long moment of silence. His voice was low and steady, absent of judgment or formality. It was quiet, but certain–grounded like the roots of the weirwood trees buried deep beneath the frost. 

Whatever judgement Jace had braced for never came.

“Whatever you say or do this night,” Cregan continued, “whether you weep or rage, I will not think less of you. You’ve lost a brother. You are owed this grief.”

There was no pity in his words. Only understanding. 

And it was that, more than any gentle word, that undid Jace further. 

A shaky breath spilled from his lips, torn by the pressure building in his chest. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to hold it back, but the tears came freely now–burning, blinding, bitter. They slid down his cheeks in rivulets, catching on his jaw and soaking the collar of his shirt. His hands shook as he dragged them over his face, pressing his palms hard against his eyes, as if he could force the grief back in, hold it tight in the hollow of his chest where no one could see it. But it wouldn’t be held. 

He was breaking, and no title, no duty, no sword at his side could stop it. 

Under any other circumstances, he would have swallowed it down, would’ve straightened his shoulders and buried his tears behind a prince’s mask. But he couldn’t. Not with this. 

Jace bowed his head, fingers trembling as they folded together in his lap. He rubbed his thumb along the palm of his opposite hand, dragging it over the skin again and again, a grounding motion. His voice, when it came, was raw and hoarse. “It is my fault…”

The words clung to his tongue like ash. 

“Mother was going to send ravens,” Jace murmured, the words barely finding their shape through the tightness in his throat. “But I volunteered us… I thought it better to look you in the eye. To speak to you man to man, not hide behind ink and parchment.”

He turned toward Cregan then, gaze flickering through blurred lashes. The firelight cast long shadows across the Northern lord’s face, but his eyes–storm-gray and steady–held no judgment. Only the quiet, unwavering weight of presence. Of sympathy.

Jace’s breath hitched as he looked away again, the guilt folding over him like a second cloak, heavy and suffocating.

“I’m the reason he went to Storm’s End,” he admitted. The words tasted like iron. “He never would’ve gone if I hadn’t…” his head shook. “He was supposed to be safe. He was supposed to–”

The words fractured in Jace’s throat, cracking like ice beneath a weight too heavy to bear. 

“You couldn't have know.”

“But I should have,” Jace bit out, the anger not for Cregan but for himself. “I should’ve known the Greens would send someone. I should’ve known they’d turn their attention to House Baratheon.” He pressed harder against his palm, rubbing the skin raw and red. “It should have been me. If I’d gone instead…”

“You are not to blame for the actions of others,” Cregan said, more firmly now. “Your brother went as an envoy–by custom, by decency, he should’ve been safe.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed on Jace. “There’s no honor in killing a messenger. No glory in murdering a boy. Aemond Targaryen has no honor.”

Cregan let the words hang for a breath before continuing, softer but still firm. “Had you gone, would it have been different? Would he have let you go?”

Jace’s head gave a slow shake, his jaw tight as tears welled in his eyes, stinging hot in the corners before falling. The firelight blurred before him. If I had gone instead… The thought spiraled, coiled like a serpent in his chest. 

Had he faced Aemond, would it have ended differently? Would the one-eyed beast have spared him, obeyed the laws of envoys and messengers? Or would he have attacked all the same? Jace wanted to believe he’d have done better–that he’d have lived, or at least fought. 

“If Aemond had come at me,” he said at last, “if he’d drawn his blade, I would have defended myself.”

The words sat heavy in the air between them. Not boastful–just the truth. 

He stared down at his bruised knuckles, the angry throb dull now, like a second heartbeat. I would have done something. 

Jace swallowed hard. “With steel in my hand or from dragonback, I would’ve faced him. Luke… Luke wasn’t a warrior.” His voice cracked, bitter and soft. “He was only a boy.”

“A boy, aye,” Cregan hummed. “But if he bore any resemblance to you, I’ve no doubt he was brave to the last.”

The words struck him not like comfort, but like a blade turned sideways in the wound–gentle in tone, but no less painful for it. He saw Luke then, smiling, his curls whipped by the wind, his fingers gripping the saddle straps of his dragon. Brave. Gods, yes. He would have been. 

Cregan shifted gently in his chair, the faint creak of old wood mingling with the crackling fire. “You think you could have stopped Prince Aemond?” He asked softly, carefully. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you’d have fallen too, and your mother would be mourning both son and heir.” His gaze never wavered, calm and patient, despite the harshness of the truth he spoke. “We cannot remake truth from what hasn't come to pass.”

“But we can from what has,” Jace said, voice raspy. He opened his eyes and forced himself to meet Cregan’s steady gaze, desperation and anguish filling his words. “It’s my fault, Lord Stark. Mine alone. Luke would still be breathing had I not volunteered us as messengers. He would never have stood alone before Aemond if I had not sent him there.”

He tore his gaze away then, unable to hold the northern lords patient, understanding stare. Instead, he turned towards the flames, their heat licking harshly at his face. The firelight blurred, wavering through the tears he refused to shed, pain blooming fierce and raw in his chest. 

“I should have known better,” Jace whispered, bitterness sharpening each word. “I should have known Aemond would come for him. I should have kept Luke safe–I should have protected him.”

His voice broke at the last words, grief spilling over the edges of his self-control. He leaned forward, hands clenched into fists again, each breath shuddering painfully as the weight of his brother’s death pressed down on him, heavy and unyielding as the stones of Winterfell itself.

A sound escaped him–half sob, half bitter scoff–and the tears he had fought so fiercely now blurred his vision. The flames twisted in front of him, distorted through the veil of tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes. He blinked rapidly, trying in vain to force them away, feeling the salt sting sharply against his skin. 

“None of this would have happened if not for me,” he choked out, the words as if torn from deep with his chest. His voice trembled, cracked by guilt and grief. “It was I who brought the knife that night at Driftmark. Luke only took it up to protect me…” his voice finally broke, his chest heaving as regret twisted in his stomach. “I failed him–I failed him as a brother.”

His mind was filled again with memories of that dark night–the knife he had carried, the one Luke had seized in desperation. Luke had wielded it bravely to defend him, striking out instinctively against their uncle. Had Jace never carried that damned blade, Luke would never have grasped it; he would never have swung it in terror, would never have taken Aemond’s eye.

Jace swallowed thickly, his voice shaking with self-loathing, tears now falling freely down his cheeks. “Aemond wouldn’t have been seeking revenge. He wouldn’t have lost his eye. And Luke would never have taken it up, never had to, if I had been faster, stronger–if I had just–” He choked on his words, agony constricting his throat. “Luke only did it to protect me.”

He looked upward, as though he might cast the pain out of himself through sheer force of will–toward the rafters, toward the gods, toward anyone who might listen. “Gods,” he whispered raggedly, voice hoarse and pleading. “Gods, how I wish I’d never brought that damned knife.”

But he had brought the blade.

Through the blur of tears, Jace’s memory clawed backward to that dark night at Driftmark. He remembered being shaken awake by Baela and Rhaena, their voices raised in urgent whispers. Vhagar had been stolen, they told him–claimed before Rhaena could so much as try. Claimed in the dead of night by a thief bold enough to creep like a shadow into the cradle of their grief. It had been wrong and cruel.

Jace had not hesitated, not questioned; he had acted as a prince must, as a cousin should. He had taken the blade with him, tucked it into his sleeve, a precaution more than anything. He’d never expected to use it. It had felt necessary then–only a safeguard, a show of readiness in case whoever had stolen the dragon meant harm. 

When they had faced the thief, it had been Aemond who stood before them, his eyes fierce with triumph, a cruel smirk on his lips. It should not have surprised him. Aemond had, after all, always hungered for a dragon–had always been desperate to claim one, had always been envious. 

It had come to blows. 

Jace could still recall the smug defiance in his eyes–the look of a boy who knew he was about to do something cruel and meant to do it. Deliberate. Malicious.. He had stood above them, pale hair bright against the darkness, as he had armed himself with a rock. It had been then that everything truly began to unravel.

Bastards. That single word, thrown like a blade.

The slander–those vile rumors passed in corners and behind cupped hands–had been flung into the open, bold and cruel, like rot torn from beneath stone and left to fester in the sun. Words that others only dared mutter in shadow, Aemond had spoken aloud, proud and unflinching. Lord Strong, he’d sneered. 

Lies that had never been proven, yet had always followed them, clinging to their heels like shadows. 

It hadn’t been just a boy’s taunt. No. It had been an accusation, a curse, a threat. And Jace had known it then. Had known how big the threat truly was–to him, to his brothers and sister, to his mother. 

It wasn’t fear that had made Jace draw the blade then.

It was rage.

He hadn’t drawn it to defend himself. He’d drawn it to silence the shame. To protect Luke–from Aemond’s words, from the truth laced through them like poison. To strike back.

But Aemond had been faster.

He’d swung first. The rock had come down hard, and Jace could still remember the pain of it. He still bore the scar of it, just above his hairline, half-hidden. He could almost feel it now–faint and throbbing, as if the memory itself made the wound ache anew. 

He would have hit him again–would have caved his skull in, Jace knew it. He remembered the way Aemond loomed over him, rock raised high, eyes wild and full of hate. 

But then Luke had moved. 

It wasn’t Jace who stopped him. It wasn’t strength or skill or bravery that saved him. It was Luke. Sweet, stubborn Luke, who had always hesitated, always laughed things off, who had always been gentler than him–he had snatched the blade from the ground and raised it, not to kill, but to protect. 

And in doing so, he’d taken Aemond’s eye. 

The thought choked him.

Grief surged up Jace’s throat like a tide, bitter and sharp, and for a moment he could hardly breathe. He wiped furiously at his face, at the tears that would not stop–his cheeks wet, his lashes heavy. The salt stung, soaked into the raw skin beneath his eyes, but he barely felt it. He welcomed the sting. It was a punishment, however small.

He should have been the one to act first. 

He should have been the one to strike. 

“I wish it had been me,” he growled suddenly, fiercely, through gritted teeth. “I wish I had been the one to pick up that knife–I wish it had been my hand that claimed his eye.”

If only he had acted first, taken the burden of vengeance upon himself, Luke might still be alive. The hatred, the vengeance, Aemond’s deadly fury–all of it would have fallen on his own shoulders, sparing Luke. Perhaps then Luke would be here, breathing, smiling–alive. 

He knew it, now more than ever–the blood was on his hands as surely as if he himself had wielded the blade that took Aemond’s eye. Luke had borne the price, had paid dearly for Jace’s weakness and his rage. 

Agony tore through him, so suddenly and sharp that he felt as though his ribs were splintering and cracking, as though his heart had wrenched itself apart upon their broken edges. He dropped his head forward, breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps, tears dripping down onto his trembling hands. 

“I–I am as much to blame for my brother’s death as Aemond,” Jace whispered hoarsely, each word cutting its way painfully from his throat. “It was my knife. I brought it. And he now paid the price for it.”

His breath came in shuddering bursts, ragged and uneven, as though each inhale was a battle hard-fought. His chest heaved beneath the weight of it all–grief, guilt, fury–each emotion tearing through him like a storm with no end. The chamber seemed to close in around him, shrinking with every heartbeat, the air growing thinner, tighter, until it felt like he was drowning in it.

“Aemond may have swung the sword, but I placed Luke in his path. I sent him there. I told him he’d be safe–and he believed me. Gods, he trusted me.” Jace’s voice cracked, splintering on that word–trusted–the pain so raw, so unbearable, he could scarcely force it past his lips. “I may as well have wielded the blade myself.”

His fingers curled into fists, trembling against the broken skin of his knuckles, nails digging into flesh as though pain might ground him. His voice broke free at last, hoarse and rising, laced with bitterness and thick with the sharp tang of self-loathing.

“His blood is on my hands,” he choked out. “And I don’t–I can’t… I–”

The words crumbled into silence, too heavy, too painful to speak. For a long moment, the only sounds filling the chamber were the soft hiss and pop of the fire, the faint murmurs of the winter wind whispering mournfully beyond the shutters. Jace had almost forgotten the presence beside him, so consumed by his guilt, by the swirling storm of grief and regret that threatened to drown him.

But then there was movement–a quiet creak as the chair beside him shifted. 

“No,” Cregan’s voice came firm and calm, slicing clearly through the haze of anguish. It was not harsh, but rather resolute–commanding enough to leave no space for doubt. “You wear grief, Prince Jacaerys. And grief is heavy, aye, but it is not a blade. You did not kill your brother.”

The northern lord’s gaze remains steady, clear gray eyes unwavering in the firelight. “Would you have sent him if you’d known there was danger? Would you have let him fly to Storm’s End if you believed Aemond waited for him with murder in his heart?”

Cregan shook his head, his dark hair slipping forward, brushing against the broad line of his shoulders. “Would you have brought the blade to Driftmark if you’d foreseen what would come of it?”

Jace said nothing, jaw clenched tightly, the muscles aching beneath his skin. He knew the answer, and he knew that Cregan did as well. 

The northern lord’s voice softened slightly then, losing none of its steel, but carrying a gentle note of understanding. “You made those choices out of duty and necessity, out of love. That is not murder, Prince Jacaerys. It is duty–and duty can be cruel. But it is not the same as malice.”

He leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, his clasped hands loose between them. “It was Aemond who chose vengeance over honor. It was him who slew a boy–a messenger,protected by the sacred laws of gods and men. He committed the crime of kinslaying, not you. The gods will weigh his deeds heavily.”

His voice dropped lower, yet remained certain. “And they will judge him harshly. As they must. As they always do.”

Had the gods been half as righteous as men believed, Jace thought, his brother would still be alive. The grief tightened in his chest, strangling his breath. He lowered his gaze to his hands–fingers trembling, knuckles split and raw, streaked with dried blood and blotches with dark bruises where bone had pressed too hard against skin.

He stared at them as if the truth of his failure were etched tere, as though the stain of his brother’s death clung to his skin in a way no fire nor water could ever really cleanse. 

When Jace spoke at last, his voice was a raspy whisper. “He was the best of us. The kindest. The most forgiving. And now he’s gone. I cannot forgive myself for it.”

His jaw tightened, his mouth pulling into a bitter twist. “I wasn’t a good brother to him. Not really. I was too hard on him. I pushed him around, I snapped at him, expected too much. I told myself it was because he needed to be strong–he had to be. He was going to inherit Driftmark, take on the mantle of one of the wealthiest and greatest houses of the realm…” 

Jace had only ever wanted to prepare him. To make him strong enough to endure the whispers, the pointed glances, the venomous words that followed them like a hound nipping at their heels. Since birth, those rumors had clung to them–like something that could not be washed away, like a stain sunk deep into the fabric of their blood. Bastards, some called them. Strong bastards. The name itself had become a weapon.

There would come a time, Jace had always known, when that weapon would be wielded against them openly had already happened once, with Ser Vaemond Velaryon, when he laid his claim to Driftmark and spoke aloud what others had only dared whisper. Jace could still remember the feel of the courtroom that day–how cold it had been despite the fire, how the air had seemed to still in dread anticipation.

He’d seen it in the eyes of the court: the doubt, the scorn. It had settled into him like a stone, and he’d sworn, then and there, that Luke would never be caught unready again. That he’d be strong enough to face them, to face the realm if need be. That he would not falter beneath the weight of a legacy some called false.

So he’d pushed him. Gods, he had pushed him. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear–out of love. He needed Luke to stand tall when others tried to tear him down. To be firm when the realm sought to shake him loose. He had thought it was what a brother should do.

But now Luke was gone. 

“The kind of legacy he’d inherit… it doesn’t come without a weight,” Jace continued, his voice low and wearied, each word scraping against the raw edges of his grief. “I tried to make him ready for it. I needed him to be ready.” He rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand, the salt of his tears stinging against skin rubbed red and sore. The motion did little to ease the burning, and so he tugged at his sleeve instead, drawing the soft fabric up to dry his cheeks, though it did not stop the ache behind his eyes. “But maybe I just made him feel small…” His voice fell to a low muttering. “I was too hard on him.”

From beside him, Cregan drew a slow, measured breath, the sound almost grounding in its calmness. For a brief time, he said nothing, only watched the flames dancing in the hearth with the same contemplative stillness he always wore. 

“That doesn’t undo how you loved him,” he said finally. “You laughed with him. Ate with him. Trained beside him. You read the same books, leaned under the same maesters, stood shoulder to shoulder in lessons and skirmishes and foolish, boyish mischief. You cheered for him when he mounted his dragon the first time. You were there through it all.”

Jace stared at Cregan, brow furrowed slightly, trying to understand the man before him. How could he have known? That he’d been there the day Luke mounted Arrax for the first time–had stood on the beach beside Vermax, boots caked in sand, heart thundering with pride and fear all at once. That he had laughed when Luke had slipped in the saddle, nearly falling off sideways, and laughed harder when he was told of the tooth imprint on the leather after they’d flown together. 

That memory struck him now like a blade between the ribs. The warmth of it, the joy, was still there–but it was tainted now, threaded through with grief so sharp it nearly brought him to his knees.

“You were his brother,” Cregan continued, “And I do not doubt that he knew that–that he cherished that, even when you were hard on him. And I’d wager he would not want you to feel guilty over what happened to him.”

He allowed the silence to settle again between them, heavy and meaningful. When he spoke once more, his voice was quiet, almost gentle. “You grieve because you loved him. And that love is not your weakness. It is not your guilt. It is what remains.”

The words hung in the silence, measured and sure. Jace felt their weight sink slowly into his bones, settling deep beneath his skin, though part of him still struggled to accept their truth. Yet something in Cregan’s voice, in the unwavering steadiness of his words, offered a quiet strength, an anchor amidst the chaos of his own mind.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mouth had gone dry, his throat clenched tight with the ache in his chest. He wanted to believe it–wanted to take the words and press them into the hollow space where Luke’s laughter had once lived. But the grief still gnawed at him, curling sharp and relentless beneath his ribs.

“He never got to fly with Daenera,” Jace murmured, throat aching with the thought of it. He leaned back into his chair at last, the stiffness in his libs catching up with him, his eyes dropping to his hand. It throbbed dully–knuckles torn and swollen, skin split and bruised. Slowly, he flexed his fingers, watching the way the bones shifted beneath the broken skin, how the ache bloomed like a bruise through the muscle. But his thoughts had already drifted far from the pain.

“She promised him,” he continued quietly, eyes distant. “Once she returned to Dragonstone, she said he could take her flying. He was so excited about it… He spoke of it every day on the ship back home.” A faint, sorrowful breath escaped him. “He never let it go–not once, even as he wretched the whole way, pale with greensick. You would’ve thought he’d been promised the moon.”

The tears had stopped, but the tracks they had left behind remained, drying against his skin, salt stinging the corners of his eyes. Droplets still clung stubbornly to his lashes, but they no longer fell. His grief sat heavy now, settled into something quieter, but no less cutting.

“She’d never flown before,” he said after a moment, softer now, almost reverent. “Always refused. Every time one of us offered. I think… I think she was afraid she’d like it too much. Afraid what it would mean if she loved it.” He let out a bitter breath, shaking his head slightly. “But for him… she said yes.”

Silence fell, broken only by the his and snap of the firewood splitting in the hearth–a gust of embers rose, swirling upward.

Then Jace’s voice returned, colder this time, hardened by a bitter edge that curled beneath each word. “Aemond took that from them,” he sneered, the sorrow in his chest giving way to a furious burn. “He murdered my brother. And now he’ll get to put his filthy, bloodstained hands on her. He’ll get to–”

He cut himself off, breath catching in his throat as rage surged through him like wildfire seeking air. He clenched his bruised hand into a fist once more, as though he could drive it all back–his guilt, his failure, his helplessness–with the press of bone and blood. 

“I wasn’t there to stop it,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I wasn’t there to protect them. But I can be there to avenge him. I can still save her from him.” He let his hand fall to the armrest, lifting his gaze. “Aemond Targaryen will die for what he’s done. I swear it. By flame or steel, he will die.”

Across from him, Cregan’s expression remained still, shadowed in the wavering light of the earth. For a breath, he said nothing–only studied Jace with that unflinching calm that the North seemed to breed. Then, at last, he spoke.

“You would not be the first to want vengeance,” Cregan said, his voice a slow rumble beneath the crackle of flame. “Nor will you be the last.”

He didn’t speak to scold, nor to scorn. There was no rebuke in his tone–only the weary weight of a man who had seen what grief could become when it burned too deep, too long. 

“I do not question your grief,” Cregan continued. “Nor your fury. The desire to strike back when wronged is only natural–a desire we all carry. But vengeance,” he paused, eyes narrowing slightly, “vengeance and justice are not the same. One burns everything in its path–including the one who carries it. The other cuts clean, if it's wielded with care. Revenge may ease your heart for a time… but it will not last. And the cost you pay for it may be greater than the wound it seeks to heal.”

“What would you have me do then?” Jace asked, his voice raw, frayed with a bitterness thinned by weariness. He wasn’t angry at Cregan–not truly. “Sit idle while my brother’s murderer goes unpunished? When he rapes my sister?”

“No,” Cregan answered, the word quiet but firm, as immovable as the stones of Winterfell. “But I would have you weigh the cost.”

The flames caught in his eyes, turning steel to molten silver. He didn’t look away. His tone remained steady, but beneath it there was something older–something beyond his years. 

“I’ve seen lords ruin themselves chasing vengeance,” he continued. “Men who once stood proud–who loved their kin fiercely, and would have given their lives in their defence, just as you would. But let their grief fester. They let their grief turn to rage. And rage, my prince, is a wildfire. It makes fools of kings and corpses of sons.”

Jace didn’t answer, his jaw tight, his wounded hand flexing again. The motion was restless, born of equal measure frustration and unease. 

Cregan leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter now but no less heavy. “They thought spilling blood would bring them peace. They thought if they killed enough, it might bring back what was lost–or make the pain smaller. But vengeance is a beast with no master. Once fed, it grows hungrier. It never ends. It devours duty. It devours peace. It makes no room for justice, only the illusion of it”

He held Jace’s gaze. “Justice is not the absence of feeling. It is the mastery of it.”

Jace watched him, silent, his gaze steady and unreadable in the wavering firelight. He listened–not just with his ears, but with the hollow, aching place in his chest where grief still throbbed like an open wound. Each word from Cregan Stark settled there, like slow-falling snow on bloodied ground–cooling, soothing, covering, but never quite erasing.

“Any man can swing a sword in anger. Any man can burn a castle to the ground when his blood runs hot. But one day…” Cregan paused, just for a mere moment, “one day you may wear a crown. And a king must carry his grief like a sword–sharp, but sheathed. He must see the whole field, not just the wound in his chest.”

He leaned back slowly, the old wooden chair creaking beneath his frame. Still, his voice held no judgment–only the tempered solemnity of the North. “You speak of vengeance, and I do not blame you. I have known it myself.” His hand lifted scratch beneath his jaw–on the bare skin there. “But I tell you this, not as a lord, but as a man who lit the pyre of a brother too small to carry a blade… as a husband who buried his wife too young…”

His breath seemed to hang briefly in the fire-warmed air. “Vengeance does not return what has been lost. It only leaves you with less.”

Jace’s gaze drifted from Cregan, falling to the floor where the firelight danced across the worn stone in rippling shades of orange and gold. The flicker of flame cast long shadows, shifting like restless spirits at his feet. He didn’t speak, didn’t nod, but he listened–every word threading through the grief that coiled tight in his chest.

“The man who murdered your brother did so out of vengeance. A man without honor. A man who raised his blade against his own kin.”

Eyes closed, he drew a long breath through his nose, the burn at the back of his throat searing down into his chest. The sting behind his lids didn’t fade–it deepened, settled behind his eyes like heat in a forge, pressing harder the longer he kept them shut. Beneath his skin, his blood surged, fast and hot, rushing like a river threatening to spill over ice.

The anger was there, quiet and coiled, slithering beneath the surface of his grief. It wasn’t wild or reckless–not anymore. It was focused, honed like a blade held too long at the whetstone. He swallowed it back. 

“There are names for such men,” Cregan went on, his voice soft but edged with that Northern steel–cold with the weight of old judgment. “Kinslayer. He broke the laws of gods and men. No man escapes the price of such a deed. Not in this life… and not in the next.” 

The words lingered in the air like smoke.

“Justice is not blood for blood,” he continued. “It is not about making your enemy feel what you felt. That is vengeance–and vengeance serves only the self. Justice is honor–it serves something greater. It must protect those still living. It holds the world together even when we wish to burn it down.”

The pain didn’t leave him. It didn’t ease. But the storm of it–the violent, thrashing thing inside him–stilled just slightly. He lowered his eyes for a breath, his thumb brushing once more over the raw, torn skin of his knuckles. The pain helped him focus. Reminded him he was still here, still breathing. Still able to act.

When he looked back to Cregan, there was a flicker of something different in his expression. The fire still burned in him, yes–but it had lost some of its chaos. It no longer raged out of control. It had been shaped, if only just.

“In the North,” Cregan said, his voice a steady murmur, low and firm, “we speak the sentence before we swing the sword.” He stared into the fire, its glow catching the sharp planes of his face, casting long shadows beneath his brow. “A lord of Winterfell is not meant to kill for rage. He kills because he must–to protect, to preserve, to set right what was wronged. That is the way we are taught, even if not all of us live by it.”

He turned his eyes back to Jace, their pale grey fixed and unwavering. “That is justice. It is what you uphold when the gods are silent, and your blood screams for something else.”

Cregan leaned forward slightly, his broad hands folding loosely together between his knees, voice lowering but not losing its iron. “Honor does not mean mercy for the guilty. It does not mean you turn your cheek or let the wound fester. But it does mean knowing when to strike–and why. To kill not because you can, but because it is just.”

The flames danced between them, casting flickers of gold across his features as he met Jace’s gaze. “Then the day comes,” he said, “when you answer your brother’s death… do it with clarity, not heat. Do it with justice in your heart. Do it as a man. And do it with honor.”

Jace didn’t speak yet. Not immediately. He simply nodded–once, slow and resolute–letting the silence stretch between them. He hadn’t let go of his grief, nor of his hanger. But he was beginning, perhaps, to understand how to carry them. For now at least. 

Cregan rose from his seat. Jace lifted his gaze, tracking the Northern lord as he stepped around the chair, tall and broad-shouldered. The heavy cloak Cregan had shed earlier still hung over its back, like the pelt of a great grey beast, forgotten but not discarded.

He passed from the hearthlight into the deeper shadows that gathered at the edge of the chamber, where the fire could not reach and the stone walls seemed to breathe cold. For a moment, Jace lost sight of him, the man swallowed by gloom. Only the soft, measured rhythm of bootsteps across flagstones reminded him he was not alone.

Jace turned his eyes back to the fire, its embers pulsing like the last beat of a dying heart. The flames licked lazily at the blackened logs, casting long shadows that danced along the chamber walls, curling like smoke across the worn stones.

“I don’t know if I can be the man you speak of,” he said at last, the words rasping from a throat still raw with grief. His voice was low, quieter now, as if confessing a secret to the flames. 

From the corner of the room came the creak of wood and the scrape of iron. A shutter opened, and a gust of cold northern wind stole into the warmth, coiling like a ghost across the floor. Jace could feel it lick at his boots, reach for his fingers. Still, he didn’t look back.

“Not yet,” he murmured, flexing his hand once more. His knuckles had gotten more swollen, the valley between each gone. “But I want to be. For him. For my brother.”

There was the soft clatter of latches, the groan of shutters being pulled closed once more, and then silence–broken only by the slow fall of footsteps returning to him. When Cregan stepped back into the firelight, he did not return to his chair. Instead, he came to stand before Jace, then knelt slowly, resting one knee to the ground without ceremony or pretense.

Jace blinked, uncertain. Cregan’s expression was calm, steady, but there was something in it–something quiet and kind. That faint curl of a smile touched his mouth, not mockery, but reassurance. And in its presence, something in Jace eased, just slightly. The weight in his chest shifted–not gone, but no longer so suffocating.

“I don’t know how to carry it,” Jace whispered, his voice near breaking. “The grief… the guilt… the weight of it. I still feel like I’m drowning.”

“I have every faith in your ability to carry it,” Cregan said quietly. As he spoke, he reached out, gently taking hold of Jace’s wrist and guiding his battered hand towards him.

Jace allowed the contact, though the touch startled something in him–his breath catching sharp and shallow in his throat. The warmth of it was unexpected, a quiet weight resting atop the storm still roiling within him.

His fingers twitched, a reflex he couldn’t suppress. The skin along his knuckles was red and split, raw where the flesh had cracked, already beginning to bruise in angry shades of violet. The firelight made them look worse–like something broken, not just battered. He flexed them once, and the pain answered, sharp and accusing.

A flush crept up the back of his neck, blooming hot across his ears.

Shame.

Not for the grief–no, that still surged within him, vast and justified–but for the anger. The loss of control. The way he had struck out blindly, fists pounding against wood like it could bleed for him. A prince of the realm reduced to bruised hands and broken breath, shattering in a northern hall.

He hadn’t meant to be seen like this. Not here. Not by him.

But he had seen him. And he had not once turned away.

“You’ll endure,” Cregan continued. “Because you must. Because it’s in your nature.”

Jace flinched, just slightly, as something cold pressed against his skin.

The chill bit into his bruised knuckles with a suddenness that made his heart jolt in his chest. But he didn’t pull away. He remained still, watching in silence as his gaze drifted downward–past the flickering firelight, past the tremble in his fingers–to where the weight of something cool and deliberate rested against his hand.

A square of cloth–simple, but finely made–was wrapped around a small bundle of ice. Meltwater already glistened at the seams, dampening the linen. The cold seeped into his skin, into the split flesh and the swelling beneath, numbing the ache just enough to remind him it was real.

The hand that held it was steady, calloused, and careful. Cregan continued. “From the short time I’ve know you, I’ve already seen enough to know you’re a good man, Prince Jacaerys. Better than most.”

Jace swallowed. His throat felt tight, raw, as though he’d been screaming instead of weeping.

His free hand lifted slowly, hesitantly, as though uncertain whether he had the right to reach. His fingers brushed against Cregan’s–a fleeting touch, skin against skin, warm against cold. There was no flinch, no withdrawal. Only a stillness shared between them, suspended in the hush of the firelight.

He gently took over, his hand settling over the cloth-wrapped ice. The linen was already damp, cold seeping through the fabric and into his blood. It dulled the throb in his bruised knuckles, muted the raw ache where skin had split and hardened into scab. The swelling would fade, the pain would lessen.

It was a small comfort–but it grounded him.

Cregan didn’t speak. He simply rose, the motion fluid and unhurried, the shadow of his form stretching across the floor in the firelight. The absence of his hand left a strange warmth behind.

Jace didn’t look up, but he felt it–that quiet presence drawing away, leaving behind not distance, but space. Respect. A silence not of dismissal, but of understanding.

“I’ll have the cooks prepare for your departure in the morning,” Cregan said quietly, as he reached for the cloak draped over the back of the chair. The wolf-fur collar shifted with the soft rustle as he lifted the weight of it onto his arm. 

“No,” he said–too quickly, too instinctively. The denial left in a rush of breath before he had time to shape it into anything gentler–before he had time to think about it. His brow furrowed, and he looked down at the melting ice on his bruised hand. He couldn’t leave yet.

He stared for a moment longer, then slowly lifted his gaze to meet Cregan’s. “No,” he repeated, steadier now, more grounded. “I have a duty here… one I’ve yet not fulfilled. I am not ready to leave the North.”

There was a beat of silence, heavy with the weight of unspoken understanding. The fire popped softly in the hearth, casting flickering light across the stone walls, but Cregan said nothing at first.

Instead, something shifted in his face–so slight it might have gone unnoticed, if Jace hadn’t been watching. The cold steel of his grey eyes softened, just barely, and behind them flickered a quiet gleam of approval. Not overt, not showy. Northerners didn’t offer praise so easily. But it was there, nonetheless: a quiet, unspoken recognition.

Then he gave a single, deliberate nod. A gesture of agreement. Of respect. He turned back toward the door, swinging his heavy cloak over his shoulder and fastening the clasp with practiced ease. 

“Get some rest, Prince Jacaerys. And keep the ice to that hand. You’ll have need of it come morning.”

Jace’s lips curved. “I’ll be ready.”

Cregan held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and crossed the chamber in silence, the fur-lined cloak sweeping behind him like a shadow. Then the door shut softly behind him, and the room fell still once more.

Jace sat there in silence, the handkerchief clutched against his bruised hand, the slow trickle of water cooling the feverish pulse in his fingers. The pain was sharp, but clearer now. His heart still ached, his chest still heavy, but somewhere inside, something had shifted–only slightly, but enough.

Jace had risen early despite the weight of grief and unrest still pressing behind his eyes. He dressed in silence, drawing on warm woolen layers and the thick cloak Lady Jeyne had gifted him in the Vale. His hand had still throbbed, stiff and sore, but functional–he would manage. 

He had joined Lord Cregan in the great hall for the morning meal. Trenchers of dark bread, smoked fish, and soft cheese were laid between them, steam rising from a pot of thick oat porridge. The hall had been quieter in the early hours, with only a handful of retainers seated at distant tables and the low murmur of quiet conversation drifting beneath the creak of beams.

At Cregan’s urging, the castle Maester had come to examine his injured hand. With rough but practiced gentleness, he had prodded the swollen knuckles. No bones broken, he’d said, though the bruising would worsen before it healed. Fresh cloth was bound tightly around the joint, numbing salve beneath it. 

Then, once the remnants of their meal had been cleared and the fire in the hall banked, Jace followed Cregan out into the courtyard, where the morning air had bit sharply at his skin. The breath of every man lingered in clouds, and the world smelled of cold iron and pine. The yard had been cleared for sparring, the packed snow trampled down to a hard, frozen crust beneath fur-lined boots.

A crowd had gathered before their blades had even crossed–curious eyes drawn to the courtyard as word spread through Winterfell like wind through the weirwood branches. The men of the North, wrapped in furs and leathers, watched from the edge of the yard, eager to see how a southern prince fared with steel in hand–and how he bore the weight of grief after the raven’s grim tidings. 

Jace had felt their eyes on him from the moment he stepped onto the packed snow. Their silent judgment, their measured curiosity–it prickled against his skin like the northern cold. He knew the whispers had spread, knew that condolences had come quietly in the form of brief nods and bowed heads. He accepted them with the same quiet grace. He bore himself with the dignity of his blood, holding his back straight, jaw set, grief kept tight behind his teeth. 

A prince must endure, must be seen to endure.

The Lord of Winterfell did not coddle him, nor had he given any quarter. He met each blow with his own, challenging the prince with the full weight of his strength and skill. There was no pity, he did not hold back, not when Jace’s footwork had faltered, nor did he pull his strikes when his breath came short. He allowed Jace to push himself–not out of cruelty, but out of respect.  He gave something to strike against, something to burn his anger on. 

And Jace needed that. Gods, how he needed it.

Strike after strike rang out through the yard, wood clashing on wood, echoing against stone and snow. Jace pressed harder with each pass, his movements driven less by technique than by the fire that burned in his chest–anger, guilt, sorrow too vast for speech.

He did not slow. Could not slow. His arms ached, his legs trembled beneath him, and still he drove forward, sweat soaking through the fabric at his back. His injured hand screamed with every blow, but he clutched the practice sword like it was all there was, unwilling to let go.

Cregan allowed it all and yielded nothing. He absorbed Jace’s morning blows, and struck back with precision. He parried, countered, stepped in and out like a wolf circling its prey, always watching. Always steady. And when Jace’s strength began to falter, when his grip loosened and his swings grew sloppy, the Northern lord did not finish the bout with flourish or smug retort. He simply stood firm, bearing each blow as Jace threw himself against him, until his arms could no longer lift his sword.

By the time they called an end to it, the day had begun to wane. Jace’s breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, his shirt damp with sweat beneath his layers. His arms trembled, hands raw and numb, his grip on the practice sword faltering. Steam rose from his shoulders like mist from a battlefield.

And still, he stood. Weary, aching–but standing.

In the days that followed, Jace fell into a rhythm. Each morning, he met Lord Cregan in the courtyard, their blades crossing beneath the pale northern sun. Their bouts were honest; Cregan demanded focus, demanded presence of mind. There was no time to dwell, and for that, Jace was grateful–deeply so. 

And when the day waned and the halls filled with firelight and the scent of roasting meat, Jace would sit with Lord Cregan and his men. They shared words over mulled wine and thick stews. He listened to their stories, learned the names of the men who guarded the gates, of the women who kept the fires burning. He heard the tales of wolves and winters past, of honor and blood, of family and survival. 

He buried his grief beneath duty, packed it away like a sword wrapped in oiled cloth. It was not gone–never that–but it was held, controlled, tempered. He had come to the North for a purpose, and so, he bore himself as a prince must; shoulder’s square, voice steady, eyes unflinching. 

And sometimes–just sometimes–he forgot. 

Not wholly. Not truly. But enough that the shadow did not cling so tightly. There were moments when his smile came easily, not because it was expected, but because it rose unbidden. His laughter, when it came, rang true in the long hall–and in truth, it soothed the ache for a moment. 

The quiet was the hardest part. 

It crept in with the night, thick and inescapable, forcing his thoughts back to what he fought so desperately to escape. In the quiet, there was no refuge. Grief found him easily then–slipping through the cracks, sinking its teeth into him with ruthless familiarity. It tore into him viciously, raking him open with memories he could neither summon nor banish.

He could almost hear Luke’s laughter again–light and boyish, chasing him through the halls of Dragonstone. He could see the grin that had always come too easily to his brother’s face, the stubborn tilt of his chin when challenged. 

Alone, he could not escape the weight of his loss, Jace fled the silence the only way he could: by filling it with other voices. 

When the torches dimmed and the great hall emptied of laughter and song, when the last of the guards retired to their rounds and the hearths had burned low, he slipped away to the library. It had become his nightly refuge–sometimes even in the afternoon hours, when solitude threatened too fiercely. 

Winterfell’s library was tucked deep in the heart of the castle grounds, and though old, it was not cold. Like much of the castle, its walls were warmed from the hot springs that ran beneath its foundations–heat that pulsed faintly through the stone like the slow heartbeat of the North itself. There was no dampness to the air, no clinging chill as there often was in the older corners of castles. Instead, the scent of aged parchment and fine, dry dust filled the library, mingling with the steady perfume of burning wax from the candles that lighted the space. 

It wasn’t Dragonstone. It lacked the salt-thick air, the distant rumble of waves battering black stone cliffs, and the ever-present undertone of sulfur that clung to the fortress halls. There was no faint tremor in the stone, no deep, slumbering breath of dragons stirring far below the earth.

Yet here, in Winterfell’s library, there was a different kind of presence. A stillness that was not hollow, but heavy–filled with the weight of centuries, of wisdom etched into parchment and leather bindings. It was a quiet teeming with life: the lives of kings and crows, of warriors and heroes, of common folk whose names had been scrawled into memory. 

He had always found solace in libraries. In his younger years on Dragonstone, he would often slip away to the library, the scent of salt thick in the air. There, he had wandered through the glories of lost Valyria, tracing the faded maps of dragonflight across ancient skies, studying the bloodstained annals of conquest and the whispered stories born from the ashes of doom.

Winterfell’s library was different. The stories here felt older still, and heavier. Rough-hewn, like the stones of the castle itself. The annals of Northern kings were not gilded in gold and triumph; they were carved from ice, ash, and hardship. Tales of long winters and darker things that stirred beyond the Wall, of wolves that ruled the forests and weirwoods that watched with silent, bloody eyes. Jace found himself drawn to these stories. 

When he read, his thoughts stilled. The pain did not vanish–grief did not lessen so easily–but here, among ink and parchment, he found he could breathe again, if only for a short while.

It was enough–for now.

On his first night here, Jace had chosen a small table nestled deep within the stacks, sheltered between towering shelves lined heavily with aged tomes. He surrounded himself with a half-circle of wrought-iron candlesticks, their small flames dancing gently and casting pools of warm amber light across the pages before him. They chased away shadows, holding back the darkness that pressed insistently from beyond the glow.

Now, he sat once more the hush of the library. His elbow rested heavily on the table, a worn book open beneath his hands, the parchment yellowed with age. His brow furrowed slightly in concentration as his eyes traced the ancient scribbles, the frown pulling at his lips. 

Outside, the wind whispered softly against Winterfell’s stones, muffled and distant. Inside the library’s shelter, the air remained still and silent, broken only by the gentle rustling of pages as Jace turned them carefully, one after another.

The flames of the surrounding candles flickered suddenly, a faint woosh stirring the air as a gust crept in from somewhere unseen, slithering along the stone floor like a living thing. The warmth thinned around him, the cold licking at the edges of his boots. Then came the sound of heavy footfalls, slow and deliberate, reverberating faintly through the flagstones.

Jace felt the shift before he saw it–the prickling awareness of another’s presence drawing near, sending a faint tension coiling down his spine. He did not look up. He didn’t need to. He knew who it would be.

“The maester said I’d find you here,” came Cregan’s familiar northern drawl, deep and quiet, stirring the stillness of the library. “They said you’ve made yourself a den among their books.”

Jace’s lips twitched faintly, something like a smile ghosting briefly across his face as he slowly raised his eyes from the page before him. Cregan stood half-hidden in the shadows between the shelves, the flickering light playing gently across the heavy wolfskin cloak draped over his broad shoulders, fur blending seamlessly into the darkness. It made him look as though he were born of it. His head was tilted slightly, eyes thoughtful and assessing beneath the solemn weight of his brow, regarding Jace quietly. 

“They make better company than my own thoughts most nights,” Jace replied softly, leaning back slowly against the tall back of his chair. He sighed quietly, winching as he felt a sharp ache settle deep between his shoulder blades, the cost of hours spent hunched in quiet solitude. The leather-bound book lay open before him, its pages curling gently in the glow of the candles, inked words now half-forgotten as he returned the northern lord’s steady gaze. 

A quiet rustle broke the silence as Cregan shifted his weight, stepping just slightly forward from the shadows, his figure emerging further into the soft amber glow cast by Jace’s candles. His grey eyes flickered briefly downward toward the tome lying open upon the table before returning thoughtfully to Jace’s face.

f“And what is it you hope to find hidden in these pages?” He asked, his curiosity edged with the seriousness that always seemed to cling to him.

“I’ve learned much of the North these past days,” Jace said quietly, his fingers absently smoothing a faint crease in the parchment before him. A faint, wry smile curved his lips as he glanced up at Cregan. “Your men hold their distrust of southerners well, that much is true enough–but I would like to think my charm has earned a measure of their trust… and perhaps the ale helped too.”

The Northmen had greeted him much as they did all southerners–with a careful, measured formality, offering deference to his station but little warmth beyond what duty demanded. At first, their words had been short, their sentences clipped and cautious, as if weighing every breath they spared him. Their gazes had been steady, scrutinizing, filled with the wary reserve of a people who trusted little beyond the strength of their own blood and stone.

But time had a way of softening even the coldest walls.

With Lord Cregan often at his side–a silent endorsement more valuable than any banner unfurled–and with his own effort, patience, and charm, Jace had slowly begun to thaw the frost between them. He had not demanded respect; he had earned it, one evening by the hearth, one sparring match, one shared story at a time.

Now, when he passed through the courtyards or entered the great hall, the nods he received were heavier with meaning. The smiles, though rare, were genuine. Conversations lingered longer. Ale was poured more freely into his cup. They no longer looked at him as a prince of the South draped in titles and dragon’s wings, but as a young man who had braved their cold, shared their tables, and sought to understand their ways with sincerity rather than pride.

In their eyes, he was still a guest, still a southerner–but he was no longer a stranger.

“They’ve shared their stories with me,” Jace continued. “Tales of long winters and lean years, of hunts deep in the Wolfswood, of battles fought and won against odds that would break lesser men.” He shook his head slightly, the smile lingering for just a moment longer. “Some stories may have grown a bit larger in telling, embellished perhaps for the sake of glory–but even in their exaggeration, there’s truth beneath. Pride in their land, in their histories, in their blood; in what means to be of the North.”

He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning forward to rest his forearm upon the table, fingers gently tracing over the fragile edges of the parchment, feeling its texture beneath his touch. “But there’s still so much I don’t know–your customs, your histories, the traditions your people honor.”

Jace paused, drawing in a breath, considering his words. “If I am to be king one day, I refuse to be a stranger to my own people. I don’t want to rule them blindly or from afar, nor look upon them with indifference from the shelter of my castle walls. I want to know them–to understand what they fight for, what they fear, and what they love. I want their loyalty not because it is demanded, but because I have proven myself worthy of it.”

His gaze drifted back down to the book beneath his hands, his voice filling with conviction. “Too many kings believe loyalty is theirs by right, owed simply because they wear a crown. They command fealty without thought, offering nothing in return. But respect–true loyalty–is never given freely. It must be earned, and earned again, every day.”

His gaze lifted from the pages, meeting Cregan’s steadily. “And if I am to ask the North to fight for my mother, to bleed for her cause… then I must first be willing to understand the North.”

Cregan shifted slightly, the leather of his jerkin creaking with the motion. He moved closer to the table, the shadows playing across the sharp lines of his face. His wrist came to rest casually across the high back of a chair opposite Jace, though there was nothing casual about the way he watched him–steel-gray eyes weighing every word.

Jace exhaled slowly, the breath stirring the edge of the parchment before him. “And,” he admitted, his voice softening with honesty, “I hope to find something here that might help convince you. Some truth tucked between these pages that would turn the North to our side.”

“And have you?”

“The North,” Jace said, a faint, almost wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back slightly in his chair, fingers idly brushing the spine of the book before him. “Is not so wild as some believe it to be. It knows well enough the intricacies of politics. And what sacrifices it might demand.” He turned the page, the parchment scraping softly. “I’ve read a hundred years of it. A hundred years of men with one more fight left in them sent to battle far from home, never to return…”

He had spent nights combing the old records, the brittle parchment and yellowed whispering as he turned each page with careful fingers. He had not known exactly what he was searching for–only that he needed something, anything, that might give him a foothold. A reason for the North to stand with his mother.

What he found had been unexpected.

The records spoke of men sent to battle Ironborn raiders at Deepwood Motte and Bear Island–six hundred souls sent by Lord Rickon Stark. At first, it seemed no different from the countless other accounts of skirmishes that littered the histories. The Ironborn had long plagued the coast, their raiders as constant as the turning of seasons. And yet…

Not one man had returned. 

As Jace read deeper, a pattern began to emerge, faint but true. He saw it again in the annals of Lord Rickon’s father before him: eight hundred men sent against the mountain clans at the Bloody Gate in the first years of his lordship. Then, another four hundred sent years later, when winter returned once more. 

Always at the cusp of winter. Always ehn the cold began to gnaw at the stores and the fields lay barren beneath the ice.  

At first, he had not understood the significance. Now, sitting across from Lord Cregan, seeing the flicker of recognition in the gray of his eyes, he knew Cregan understood. 

“When winter comes and resources grow scarce, for a pack to survive…” Jace spoke slowly, the words deliberate and heavy with meaning, “...sometimes the old must be sent out into the snow.”

The words hung in the air, and he could only add to them.

“And winter has come again.”

He watched Cregan carefully across the scattered candlelight, the flames casting long, shifting shadows over the table and across the stark, chiseled planes of the northern lord’s face. The firelight both softened and hardened him, like moss covering cold stone. Cregan Stark wore his solemnity like a second skin–he bore it naturally, as if he had been born with the weight of it already on his shoulders. And now was no different. He stood tall, his face grave, but there was no reproach in his gaze, nor denial either.

“It is not cruelty,” Jace said at last, his voice softer now, low and steady across the hush of the library. “It is survival. A hard truth, learned through harder winters, I imagine.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, feeling the ache in his spine, the weight of what he was asking–and what he was acknowledging. 

“I understand now what the histories truly record. The battles with the mountain clans, the skirmishes with the iron born at Deepwood Motte and at Bear Island… they were not fought solely for honor or duty alone.”

No, they were fought because the North needed fewer mouths to feed when the snow began to fall. His hand curled loosely atop the table, the bruises along his knuckles still an ugly shade of purple, now beginning to yellow and green around the edges. The flesh was tender and stiff, the faint throb a constant reminder of the blows struck–and the grief buried beneath them. He flexed his fingers once, testing the soreness, before letting them rest again, open and still.

“I do not come to you asking to send your sons to slaughter, Lord Stark.” His voice tightened slightly, but he pressed on. “But winter has come and the realm is at war. If blood must be spilled, let it be for something that might last beyond the spring thaw. Let it be for honor, for oaths sworn before gods and men. If they are to die, let them die for this.”

Cregan met Jace’s gaze, the flickering candlelight catching in his grey eyes, turning them for a moment into molten silver. He said nothing at first, only watched–silent, deliberate–his expression carved from stone. There was no anger there, no haste, only the careful consideration of a man who knew the weight of what was being asked of him.

“Greybeards,” he said simply.

A faint frown settled on Jace’s brow, his head tilting slightly in confusion. “Greybeards?”

“That is what we call these men you speak of,” Cregan continued. “Men who have seen too many winters, whose hands are still steady enough to hold a sword.”

Jace drew in a breath, nodding. “If your Greybeards can fight–be it twenty or two thousand–the queen will have them.”

Cregan’s lips curved. “They can fight. Like northerners.”

“Then… we are agreed?”

For a moment, the Lord of Winterfell said nothing. The faintest ghost of a smile touched upon his mouth, but it lingered only briefly before sinking beneath that familiar solemnity of his. 

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Cregan stepped closer. His hand slipped to his belt, fingers brushing aside the thick folds of his cloak to retrieve a small, tightly wound scroll. The broken wax seal bore the sigil of House Targaryen. 

Jace swallowed hard, the bitter taste of doubt rising sharp in his throat. For a fleeting moment, fear gnawed at him–fear that the usurpers had made better offers, spoken sweeter lies, that they had somehow swayed the man standing before him. That Cregan Stark was not the steadfast lord he had believed him to be. That he had failed, and all of Dragonstone’s hopes with him.

But as quickly as the thought took root, it withered away as Cregan spoke. 

“We’ve received a raven from Dragonstone. Your mother has returned.”

The words struck harder than he thought they would. Jace stared up at him, the flickering candlelight blurring around the edges of his vision. His heart seemed to stop, then start again all at once–an ache blooming painfully within his chest. He reached for the letter, fingers closing around the parchment before he even realized he had moved. It felt too light in his hand for the weight it carried. 

“How is she?” He asked, voice rawer, more choked, than he had intended. 

“It did not say.”

Jace lowered his gaze, the weight of Cregan’s silence pressing against his shoulders. Carefully, he unfolded the small scroll once more, his fingers stiff and slow with tension. The parchment was rough beneath his touch, dry and brittle at the edges, as though it had traveled a long, hard road to reach him.

He stared down at the message, though he already knew what it would say. The ink was dark and hurried, the words few but heavy with meaning:

Your mother has returned. Come home.

The letters seemed to waver slightly in the candlelight, as if the parchment itself trembled beneath the weight of those simple words. There was no word of her health. No reassurance. Just summons. 

Home.

The word struck him harder than he had expected, as sharp and sudden as a knife to the ribs. For a moment, he could not breathe. The air caught painfully in his chest, aching in his lungs. 

The past days at Winterfell had given him purpose, something solid he could cling to amidst the storm of grief and anger that threatened to drown him. Here, in the stone halls of the North, he found a kind of refuge–where his grief had no familiar shapes to cling to, no ghosts to haunt him, no memories lurking in every corner. Here, he could almost forget–however terrible that was. He had filled his hours with words and duty, with the quiet, familiar weight of responsibility, and for a little while, that had been enough. 

But now–

Home.

The word was a blade, cutting through the fragile peace he had wrested for himself here. 

Home, where Luke should have been.

Home, where his brother would never return. 

They had flown from the blackened cliffs of Dragonstone–brothers not only by blood, but by bond, by purpose. Bound by the weight of duty and the fire in their veins, they had taken to the skies with the thought that they would meet again, their paths circling back to the place where it all began. That was the plan. That was the hope.

Both had set out.

But now, only one would return.

The thought carved deep, a hollow pain beneath his ribs that no warmth could reach. Jace could still see it when he closed his eyes: the narrow silhouette of Luke atop Arrax, veering southward through the clouds, the younger boy’s cloak snapping in the wind like a banner. He remembered the look Luke had given him before they parted–nervous, aye, but brave. Always brave. Too brave, perhaps.

He could only think of his mother then–could almost see her standing alone on the windswept battlements, her hair whipping about her face, hands clutching the letter that bore her son’s death. The grief she must carry now… gods, he could barely grasp the shape of his own, let alone hers. And hers would be deeper.

Jace wondered, sick at the heart, what she had found there, at Storm’s End. If she had brought Luke’s body home. And more than anything, he wondered how he was meant to face it all.

The weight of it loomed ahead of him like a shadow stretching from the past into the future–grief, guilt, war, and the mother who had lost her son. How was he to meet her gaze and not feel the shame coil in his gut? How was he to speak of duty when it had already claimed so much? How was he to walk the halls of Dragonstone again and not hear Luke’s laughter echoing in corridors now silenced by death?

He had no answer.

Only the growing knowledge that he would have to. That there was no path but forward–through fire and frost alike.

And when he returned, the sea would look the same, the cliffs the same–but he would not.

He could never be that boy again.

Jace swallowed hard, the simple motion feeling like stone caught in his throat, and folded the small scroll, smoothing the creases before tucking it into the inner pocket of his doublet, close to his chest. The parchment felt heavier than it should have–like a stone placed atop a grave. 

When he looked up again, Cregan was watching him. His expression hadn’t shifted. There was no pity in the Stark lord’s eyes–only that quiet, unflinching steadiness, the kind born of long winters and the weight of command. The kind of a man who had buried kin before and knew the weight Jace bore. 

Jace drew a slow breath, steadying the tremor that threatened to betray him. He could not afford to wear his grief so plainly, not now–not when decisions hung in the air like blades, not when he had a duty to fulfill. 

He was a prince of the realm. The heir to the Iron Throne.

And there was no room left for anything less.

“Then I shall have your answer now, Lord Stark, before I take my leave,” Jace said, his voice quiet but firm–less a demand than a final request, weighted with purpose. 

Cregan gave no immediate reply. Instead, his hand reached for the dark cloak draped over the back of one of the chairs–the one Jace had discarded earlier, too warm from the candles and the heat coursing through the stone walls to need it then. The fur-lined weight of it sagged in the Lord of Winterfell’s hands for a moment. 

“You shall,” Cregan said at last. “In the godswood.”

He tossed the cloak towards Jace. The heavy fabric cut through the air with a slow whuff, stirring the candle flames and casting long shadows against the rows of books. Jace caught it easily, though a faint frown touched his brow at the abruptness of the gesture. Still, he rose without argument.

The chill had already begun to creep back into the room in anticipation of the night beyond these walls. He sung the cloak over his shoulders, the fur settling across his back and collar as he fastened the silver clasps at his throat.

Without another word, he followed Cregan through the library's shadowed rows, their footsteps hushed against the cold stone floor. The candles flickered in their passing, the scent of old parchment and melted wax lingering in the still air. Moments later, they pushed open the tall, creaking doors and stepped out into the night. 

The cold met them the instant they stepped beyond the library’s thick stone walls. The lingering warmth that clung to Jace’s skin remained for only a heartbeat longer before it was stripped away from him, leaving only the biting kiss of northern air. He still hadn’t grown used to it–not truly. Not the way the cold seemed to creep in through every seam, every breath, to settle deep in the marrow. But would never admit as much. 

The castle grounds had fallen into stillness, the hush of midnight blanketing stone and snow alike. Only the soft crunch of their boots over frost-hardened earth broke the quiet, along with the distant footfalls of the few guards making their rounds. The wind had quieted. Even Winterfell’s wolves were silent. 

The sky above was impossibly clear, laid bare by the night. The moon rode high and full, casting its pale light over the stone-laced roofs and courtyards. Shadows stretched long and deep across the ground, yet the world did not feel dim. It gleamed–cold and luminous, like a dream made of ice. 

Jace drew a breath and felt the bite of it in his chest. His exhale curled visibly in the air, a ghost of warmth that vanished almost as soon as it formed. The frost stung his cheeks and made his fingers ache where they gripped his cloak, but he did not mind it so much. There was a harsh beauty to it–the kind only the North could offer. 

Cregan moved ahead, his hand closing around the iron bracket of a torch. The flame flared and sputtered as he lifted it, casting light against his features and the stone behind him. He turned slightly, his expression solemn, and gave a silent nod towards the path ahead. 

Jace followed without another word, falling into step beside him. 

The godswood of Winterfell lay shrouded in the deep silence of night, a stillness so absolute it seemed to press inward, swallowing breath and thought alike. Iron gates barred the entrance–tall, weathered things within hinges rusted from snow and age. They shrieked as Cregan pushed them open, the sound awful and loud against the quiet. 

A line of torches had been lit along the path, casting gold across the snow-dusted stone. They passed beneath a stone arch–moss-covered and ancient–before stepping onto the winding path that led into the heart of the godswood. The stone beneath their boots grew uneven, covered in frost and curled leaves turned brittle by winter’s touch. Snow blanketed the forest floor, catching the moonlight where it could, giving the forest an eerie, silvered sheen. 

The canopy above was thick, the gnarled branches of the great sentinel tress weaving together overhead. But here and there, moonlight pierced the veil, falling in shafts that painted the forest floor with pale light and long, spectral shadows. Through those gaps, stars blinked coldly in the night sky–distant and indifferent. 

Jace had not entered the godswood during the day, let alone beneath the cover of night. He found it otherworldly now, strange and solemn, like a place caught between breath and prayer. It felt separate from Winterfell, and yet not apart from it–woven into the bones of the keep itself, as if the stones remembered the old gods even when men forgot. 

Somewhere in the distance, the soft rustle of leaves betrayed the movement of unseen life. The scuffling of squirrels, the brief flutter of wings–heard, but never glimpsed. It was as if even the beasts of the grove treaded quietly.

“If you’ve brought me to the godswood hoping to see me converted,” Jace said, breaking the silence, his tone dry and laced with wry amusement, “I fear you will be disappointed.”

He caught it–the faintest tug at the corner of Cregan’s mouth. Not quite a smile, but something near it. The northern lord said nothing, his silence as familiar and measured as the cold itself.

A quiet pause stretched between them, filled only by the crunch of boots on frost and the whisper of wind through bare branches. Then Jace spoke again, softer now, the edge of his earlier jest dulled into something more reflective.

“Though, to be fair,” he murmured, eyes fixed on the dark path ahead, “the Seven haven’t answered me either.”

He had prayed once. Long ago, when he was still young enough to believe the gods might be listening.

He prayed that his hair would turn silver–prayed it would grow pale like his mother’s, like his uncles’, like the blood he was meant to carry. He whispered those pleas into the dark, voice shaking with a hope too fragile to name. He prayed that the things said behind his back, when they thought he couldn’t hear, weren’t true.

He prayed that he was not who he was.

Not a bastard. Not a lie. Not the shame whispered in courtly corners.

But if the gods heard him, they never answered.

The silence settled between them again. The air was thick with the scent of bark, frost and old earth–alive with the hush of trees that had stood long before dragons ruled the skies. It almost felt reverent. 

The path narrowed, and then opened into a small, secluded clearing, where the moonlight poured down freely. At its center stood the heart tree–tall and proud, its pale bark shone like polished bone. Even at night, the leaves bleed crimson–so deep and dark they seemed almost black where the shadows touched them.  

Jace came to a halt just inside the clearing, his gaze lifting to take in the heart tree. He had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. He’d even seen the weirwood in the gardens of the Red Keep–carefully maintained, enclosed by stone, its presence ornamental more than sacred. But that tree was small, tucked neatly into its southern garden like a relic on display.

This one… this one felt alive. Ancient. Watching.

The clearing around it breathed with quiet reverence, the trees parting just enough to bare the sky overhead. Starlight filtered down through bare branches, the moon painting the snow in ghostly silver. This godswood did not merely house the old gods–it seemed to belong to them.

Jace could feel it. Even if he didn’t believe… he could feel it.

Cregan stepped forward, placing the torch he carried into an iron sconce set at the edge of the clearing. The flame flickered and surged briefly, casting warm, shifting light across the pale, solemn face carved into the tree’s trunk. The carved eyes were deep-set, and from them bled the dark red sap that weirwoods were known for–thick and slow, like tears that had never stopped. The mouth was carved in a hard, unsmiling line, the entire face bearing a solemnity that felt all too familiar.

Jace found himself glancing toward Cregan again, struck suddenly by the resemblance–by the same steady resolve that so often marked the northern lord’s features. Perhaps, he thought wryly, this was where Stark men learned their stoicism–form the very trees that watched their land. 

He shifted his weight slightly, cloak rustling against the frost-hardened earth beneath his feet, and awaited Cregan’s words beneath the silent gaze of the heart tree. 

“Duty is sacrifice,” Cregan said at last, his voice low and reverent, like a prayer spoken before an altar. He stood before the heart tree, its pale bark bathed in torchlight, the red sap gleaming like fresh blood beneath its eyes. “It eclipses all things… even blood. All men of honor must pay its price.”

As he spoke, a breath of wind stirred through the godswood, whispering through the red leaves above. The rustling filled the silence that followed his words, soft and mournful. 

“The North owes a great duty to the Seven Kingdoms,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the weirwood’s carved face. “Not just to the Iron Throne. Since the days of the First Men, we’ve stood as guardians against the cold and the dark.”

He paused, the torch in its iron sconce cracked softly behind him. 

“The night you arrived,” He went on, “I told you where my loyalty lies–with the North, with my people. That when winter truly sets in, the North must look to its own. I need my men here. The North needs its sons here, not dying on fields far from home…”

A weight pressed into Jace’s chest, heavy and unrelenting. No words came–none that wouldn’t sound hollow against what had already been spoken. The arguments had long since been made. Promises had been offered. He had laid himself bare upon Winterfell’s frostbitten stone–his grief, his hope, his very purpose spilled out in full. He had not held back.

And still… if this was refusal, if this moment beneath the weirwood was to be the quiet end of all his efforts, then there was nothing left to say.

He had failed.

The silence stretched between them only by the soft rustle of red leaves whispering high above, and the slow, steady snap of the torch flame behind them. Jace’s fingers curled against the wool of his cloak, fists half-formed, as if he could hold the cold at bay with will alone.

But no warmth came.

Then Cregan stirred beside him, the movement slight but certain, the soft rustle of fur and leather breaking the stillness. After a long silence–long enough for the wind to shift and the leaves above to murmur again–his voice broke gently through the cold.

“When I was one-and-ten, my father died,” he said quietly, still gazing at the heart tree. “I was his only living son. His heir. But too young yet to rule. So the burden of Winterfell passed to my uncle.”

Jace’s gaze drifted from the solemn face carved into the weirwood, its bleeding eyes watching in silence, and settled on Cregan beside him. The wind stirred gently through the godswood, tugging at the thick fur draped over the Stark lord’s shoulders, making it ripple like a wolf’s pelt in motion. The sliver of Cregan’s face visible in the moonlight was etched in stillness, half-shadowed, half-bathed in silver.

Jace did not yet understand where the man’s words were leading. He could not see the thread being drawn between the past and this present moment. And yet, he remained quiet. Listening. There was a gravity to Cregan's voice that pulled at him–a story shared not out of obligation, but because it mattered. Because it meant something.

And in the stillness of the godswood, that was enough.

“My uncle ruled in my stead after that. A strong man. Stern. Not cruel, but not kind either. He did what was needed to keep Winterfell standing, to keep the bannermen in line. And when I came of age…” He turned his head then, just enough for his gaze to meet Jace’s, and in the cold gleam of the moonlight, his grey eyes shone like tempered steel. “He did not want to yield. He had grown too comfortable with power, and he loathed to give it up. He and his sons thought themselves better suited to rule than a boy of six-and-ten.” 

The weight of Cregan’s words pressed against Jace’s shoulders, heavy and unspoken. There had been no rumor of this in the stone halls of Winterfell, no idle whisper from guards or lords. It caught him off guard, and for a moment, he could only sit with the revelation, feeling its shape settle inside him like a stone dropped into still water.

So Cregan understood. Not in theory, but in truth. He knew what it was to be denied by those of his own blood, to watch oaths fray beneath ambition. Just as Lady Jeyne had seen the shape of his mother’s struggle, so too did Cregan now reveal he had lived some part of it. Not all betrayals bore the name of king.

A tangle of sympathy and anger twisted in Jace’s chest–anger for what had been done to the boy Cregan had once been, and sympathy for the man he had become because of it. 

“They would have taken everything,” Cregan continued. “But they did not count on those who remembered. Men who had fought beside my father, who had bled for his banners, who had knelt when I was placed in his arms as a babe and named his heir. They remembered their vows–to him, and to me. And they stood.”

A breath hung in the cold between them, the air thick with memory and meaning.

“With steel in hand, they stood beside a boy too young to shave,” Cregan went on. “And with their swords, we reclaimed what was mine–not because I demanded it, but because it was right. I did not fight for glory, nor ambition. I fought for Winterfell. For the North.”

He turned his gaze slightly more toward Jace, the flickering torchlight catching the sharp line of his jaw. “I took back what was mine.”

“That is what it means to defend a claim–not to seek it for power’s sake, but because it is your duty to do so. Because if you do not… then there’s no justice, no honor in this world.”

“And here you stand,” Jace said quietly, stepping closer, the brittle leaves crunching softly beneath his boots as he drew nearer to the heart tree, nearer to Cregan. 

Cregan finally turned fully, his broad frame shifting slowly as he faced Jace directly. His gestures remained cast in half-shadow, half-light, carved out in solemn certainty beneath the pale gleam of the moon and the warm glow of the torch. 

“Here I stand,” he echoed. 

“So you know what it means,” Jace said carefully, holding the other man’s gaze. “You know what it is to be usurped, to have those sworn to you betray their oaths–and what it means to have men of honor rise to your cause, to fight for you.”

His breath misted softly between them, curling in the chill night air, but he didn’t look away. “You know the value of loyalty.”

“I know what it means to defend a claim,” Cregan answered, his voice steady, edged like cold-forged steel. “Not for power’s sake, nor pride, but because honor and duty demand it. Because if a man does not stand for what is rightfully his, then what justice can remain in this world? What meaning does honor hold? If those who are wronged refuse to fight–then the realm will belong only to thieves and traitors, men of no honor.”

He moved forward then, his heavy boots crunching quietly over the frosted earth, closing the small distance between them. The flickering torch cast shadows across his face, turning his gaze to molten silver beneath the ancient branches of the heart tree.

“You remind me of that boy,” he said quietly, almost gently, as if seeing his younger self reflected in Jace’s eyes. “Too young for the burden placed upon your shoulders–but unwilling to lay it aside.”

As Cregan drew nearer, Jace felt his body respond before his mind could catch up–his spine straightening, muscles coiling beneath his skin like drawn bowstrings. Instinct or pride, he could not say. He held himself tall, chin lifted, as though defying the weight pressing down upon him.

He drew in a careful breath before asking softly, yet pointedly, “And the men who sought to take it all from you–your uncle, his sons… What justice did you show them?”

Cregan halted just before him, the ancient heart tree looming solemnly at his back, its carved face shadowed yet watching. His eyes met Jace’s without wavering, the grey depths clear, decisive. 

“They live,” he answered simply, voice low but firm. “Imprisoned beneath Winterfell, locked away in the dark with nothing but their regrets for company.”

Jace thought it better than they deserved. A lifetime in chains, left to rot in the stone-bellied dark of a dungeon, was mercy–far more than he would have granted. Usurpers deserved their heads on spikes, their names stripped from the halls they defiled, their betrayal displayed for the realm to see. 

And he told him as much, “You could have had their heads for such treachery.”

Men like that should bleed. And yet, this was the North, and Cregan Stark–stern, dutiful, and bound by something older than vengeance–had chosen restraint. Whether that made him stronger than Jace or simply more bound by the weight of his gods, he did not know. He only knew he would not have done the same.

For a moment, Cregan said nothing, his eyes holding Jace’s with quiet intensity. When he spoke again, his voice was even lower, solemn, weighted with something deeper, older. 

“I could have,” he said, his voice steady, neither defensive nor proud. “The realm would’ve called it justice.” He looked to the face carved into the weirwood, its red eyes weeping sap in eternal silence. “But there is no greater sin before the gods than kinslaying.”

Jace swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly tight. His gaze shifted away, drifting towards the pool of still black water beneath the branches of the weirwood. He understood the implication clearly enough: that the stain of kinslaying would have marred Cregan’s lordship, dishonored him before gods and men. The North did not take kindly to such things, even if it would have been just. Yet even knowing this, he had no doubt that had the gods’ judgment been different, Cregan would have swung the sword himself. 

The flames of the torch painted the sharp angles of Cregan’s features in shifting hues of amber and shadow, catching along the high ridges of his cheekbones and tracing the stern line of his jaw. He looked older in that light, not merely hardened by northern winds but shaped by the weight of duty and honor. 

“Even the gods,” he said quietly, his voice a deep murmur, “cannot remain blind forever.”

He took a measured step forward, and the frost crusted ground cracked softly beneath his boots. His breath curled visibly between them, a faint mist drifting briefly in the cold air before fading into darkness. 

“A great wrong has been done,” he continued, his voice dropping lower still, laced with quiet but certain judgment. “Against your mother. Against you.”

Jace met his gaze. The cold nipped at his cheeks, stinging the tips of his ears, but he did not feel it–not truly. Not with the weight of Cregan’s words still hanging in the air, their meaning threading between his ribs and sinking deep, like a blade sheathed in the flesh of his chest. His heart pounded faster, louder, thudding against his sternum with a sudden urgency that felt like both dread and hope twined together.

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat, the back of his neck prickling with anticipation. Something was shifting–had already shifted–and Jace could feel it in his bones, in the stillness of the godswood, in the steady, unwavering way Cregan Stark looked at him now.

“Against the very order the realm once swore to uphold,” Cregan continued, his voice firm, resonating with quiet power. “I know well what it is to be cast aside, to have what belongs to you by birthright threatened by men who are ruled by ambition. I reclaimed what was mine,” he said softly, the firmness of his tone tempered now with a quiet, solemn certainty. “And so must your mother… and so must you.”

Cregan’s gaze remained steady on Jace, unwavering as he spoke again. “I told you once that my place was here,” he said. “And it is. But my place is also wherever honor calls me.”

He moved another step closer, torchlight flickering across his broad shoulders, outlining him against the pale trunk of the heart tree. The deep crimson leaves above seemed to crown him, a northern king in a kingdom of ice and wood. “The North does not forget–not truly,” he said softly. “When your mother was named heir, my father knelt before her. He pledged an oath, sworn not only to her but before our gods, and before the realm. Many men bent their knees that day.” His voice took on a sharper edge, though still low, still carefully controlled. “In the South, time and ambition have eroded those promises until they mean nothing more than breath upon the wind. But here, in the North, we do not forget our vows. We do not break our word lightly.”

His eyes darkened further, reflecting the flicker of firelight, lending them a molten intensity that held Jace rooted to the spot. “Oaths bind the dead as surely as they bind the living,” Cregan continued solemnly, the words a quiet, immutable truth. “My father’s vow did not die with him–it lives on in me, as it will in my son after me. And the North will not abandon the promise it made to your mother.”

Jace felt a shuddering breath pass between his lips, one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. In that moment, the oppressive weight he’d carried–the fear of failing as an envoy, as a prince, as his mother’s heir–eased from his shoulders, replaced by something stronger, more resolute. He had not failed. His mother’s cause was not lost, and neither was he.

“My sword is yours,” Cregan said solemnly, voice steady and clear beneath the rustle of crimson leaves. He reached back, his hands resting easily on his belt, fingertips brushing the leather-wrapped hilt of his greatsword. Even sheathed, it loomed at his back like the promise of justice, cold steel and unwavering strength. “House Stark stands with its rightful queen,” he continued, voice deepening with quiet conviction. “For your mother, and for the oath my house swore before gods and men.”

Cregan’s eyes softened slightly, though the iron in them remained. “And for the brother you lost.”

“The Queen will not forget your loyalty,” Jace said, his words catching slightly in his threat as they left him. “And neither will I.”

Cregan inclined his head, the gesture solemn, his long dark hair brushing the furs at his shoulders. His hand dropped to rest at his belt once more, thumb hooking just beneath the leather. “I cannot give you all that you ask,” he said, his tone heavy with the weight of command. “The North must remain watched and warded. Winter is no long longer a whisper–it is here. And with it comes the dark things the South forgets in the warmth of their halls.”

He shifted his weight slightly. “But what I can give, I will–enough to show where Winterfell stands, and to remind the realm that the North keeps its word, even if it costs us. 

He paused, letting the cold settle between them like a breath held too long. Then, in a voice as quiet as snowfall but no less certain, he added, “I have already sent the ravens.”

Jace’s brows lifted in surprised. 

“To every vassal house from the Rills to the Last River,” Cregan continued. “I’ve called for the Greybeards. Men whose sons now carry their names, and whose duty has narrowed to one last march.”

His jaw clenched slightly as he went on. “They will gather at Barrowton. By the next turn of the moon, they’ll begin their march south. A thousand men, perhaps more, once all banners have answered.”

Cregan’s eyes fixed on Jace, hard as stone, but not without something softer beneath. “It is all I can spare without stripping the North bare. But it is no token force, and no hollow pledge. These are Northmen, and they will fight.”

For a long moment, Jace said nothing. 

The words warred within him, crowding behind his teeth–too many, too heavy. Gratitude burned in his chest, a steady flame that warmed even as the northern cold bit at his lungs with every breath. 

When at last he found his voice, it came quieter than before, but no less certain. “What you’ve offered… it’s no small thing. Not to me, and not to my mother. Know that I do not take it lightly.” He paused, before continuing. “A thousand men is a thousand more than we had before. And a thousand more than most would give.” His gaze did not waver. “You are an honorable man, Lord Stark–more than most I have known. I will not forget this.”

A breath fogged the space between them, soft and white as smoke. The tension that had strung the muscles along Jace’s spine taut as drawn bowstring began to ease, unraveling slowly into something quieter–something that felt almost like relief. The air between them no longer bristled with unspoken hopes or the weight of uncertain judgment, but settled instead into the solemn understanding shared by two men bound, in their own ways, by duty.

Jace’s lips curve into a faint smile then, the expression tugged slightly by the cold and the weight he bore. “And tell me,” he said, voice edged with curiosity, “when did you know? That you would send the Greybeards?”

Cregan didn’t answer at once, but his mouth twitched–just enough to betray the shape of a smile he tried, and failed, to suppress. His eyes held the truth, even before he gave voice to it. 

“The night after you arrived,” he said simply, almost wryly. “Much can be learned by how a man carries his grief. And more still by what he chooses to do with it. You never asked for pity. You kept your head high and your feet planted. You bore its weight without complaint. That told me all I needed to know.”

Jace swallowed hard, the motion catching like a stone in his throat. Cregan’s gaze was too steady, too sharp, too knowing. It cut through the layers he wore like armor–prince, envoy, son–and saw the raw truth beneath. It was not cruelty that stared at him, but something far harder to face–something that made his stomach tighten and heart flutter. 

His eyes dropped, flicked away, and he shifted his weight on his feet. The frost-bitten silence of the godswood pressed in around him. He turned from Cregan and stepped towards the still black pool beneath the heart tree, where moonlight shimmered faintly across the surface like a thin veil of silver over pitch. He felt Cregan’s eyes follow him–felt the weight of the man’s presence at his back. 

“You’re a good man, Prince Jacaerys,” came the drawl behind him. The crunch snow under foot trailed after the words, drawing closer. 

Jace stopped at the edge of the pool, hands resting at his sides, fingers brushing against the cold wool of his cloak. He did not turn. Still, he listened.

“Honorable,” Cregan added, more quietly now. “Few would have carried themselves as you did… You will make a fine king one day. A man worth following.”

Jace’s breath clouded the air in front of him, but he said nothing yet. He stared into the dark water, watching his reflection flicker and waver in the ripples. A crownless face stared back, shadowed by torchlight and doubt, but steadied by something deeper.

Hope. Or perhaps resolve.

Silence lingered between them, not empty, but full–alive with the soft rustle of red leaves whispering high above, the faint creak of ancient branches swaying in the night wind. Somewhere in the distance, an unseen creature stirred, the faint crackle of its movements lost beneath the layered hush of the godswood. Footsteps crunched softly over the ground, steady and slow, as Cregan came to stand beside him. 

Jace did not look at him–not directly–but he saw the man’s reflection mirrored in the still black surface of the pool. There was something comfortable in having him at his side–at his back, in knowing what kind of man he was. 

They stood like that for a moment, silent and unmoving. No need for words, not yet. 

The wind rose–a cold, sharp breath through the trees. It swept through the grove and wrapped itself around Jace like a living thing, slipping beneath the seams of his cloak, sinking into the wool. The chill cut straight to the bone, and he shivered, a tremor he could not entirely suppress.

He saw that Cregan noticed. The Northern lord’s gaze, ever observant, flickered toward him with the faintest shift of his brow. 

Jace let out a breath, half-laugh, half-exhale, and smiled despite the cold. His lips twisted into a crooked, wry line. “Was the godswood truly the only place fit for this conversation, or do you just enjoy listening to my bones rattling?”

A glimmer of amusement sparked in Cregan’s pale eyes–fleeting but unmistakable, light as a flash across steel. There was warmth behind it too, though carefully sheathed beneath the mask of northern reserve. Whatever stirred there, Jace could not name, but he felt the weight of it all the same–felt the way it made his heart flutter. 

Cregan held his gaze. “Because the gods bear witness here. And oaths given beneath their gaze are not so easily cast aside…”

The torchlight flickered, casting golden shadows across his face, the flame catching in the fur of his cloak, in the strands of dark hair that brushed his brow. He turned more fully then. “And any new oath should be sworn before the gods. Here, the trees remember–long after the men who spoke them are gone. It's only right such words be said where memory runs deepest.”

Jace’s brow lifted, eyes narrowing faintly–not with suspicion, but intrigue. The wind stirred his cloak, tugging gently at the silver clasp at his throat, and for a heartbeat, only the rustle of leaves filled the space between them. He studied Cregan Stark’s face in the shifting torchlight: the firm set of his jaw, the calm surety in his eyes, the weight of something left unsaid lingering in the hard line of his mouth.

Cregan didn’t speak immediately. He turned his gaze back to the heart tree, to the bleeding eyes etched deep into pale wood, as if gathering his thoughts from the silence itself.

“A new oath?” Jace echoed softly, a crease forming between his brows as he turned slowly toward Cregan. The northern lord’s words had stirred a faint unease within him. He had already laid bare all he could offer: men, honor, a sister’s hand–what more could remain?

The Lord of Winterfell regarded him in silence, the flickering torchlight casting one side of his face into shadow, rendering him as inscrutable as the northern wind–cold, quiet, and full of unspoken weight. His expression remained solemn, carved from stone and winter both.

Not for the first time, Jace wished that he could read Cregan as easily as Cregan seemed to read him–each glance from those pale grey eyes peeling back layers he hadn’t meant to show.

“Aye,” Cregan murmured finally, voice deep as distant thunder. His breath formed clouds in the frigid air, drifting upward to vanish amidst the branches of the weirwood. “When you first arrived, you spoke of marriage,” he continued, speaking slowly, in that northern drawl of his. “You offered the hand of your sister.”

Jace’s pulse quicked slightly, apprehension and curiosity mingling within him. “I did,” he replied, cautiously watching Cregan’s expression for some hint of intent. “And you accepted that offer. Once the war is done, once my mother claims her rightful place upon the Iron Throne, you and my sister will wed, joining our houses by blood as well as oath.”

Cregan inclined his head, the motion slight yet resolute–a nod not just of agreement, but of understanding. “Aye. And I stand by that promise, as I trust you will stand by yours. But the realm is at war, and none of us can say what the morrow will bring. What we can hold to is the present. What we can shape is what we choose to do now.”

He stepped closer. “I would have something stronger. Something that cannot so easily be cast aside.”

Jace studied him closely, keenly aware now of just how near they stood–and of the quiet fire burning behind Cregan’s eyes. There was weight in his words, yes, but more than that, there was intention–a gravity that pulled at something unspoken between them. The Stark lord’s gaze did not waver. Though his bearing was calm, almost austere, the resolve beneath it was unmistakable: steady, unshakable, and forged from something other than politics–something personal.

“What else would you ask of me?” Jace asked quietly, the words almost breathless as he searched the other man’s face. “You already have my word–and soon, my sister’s hand. What stronger oath remains?”

For the first time since Jace had arrived in the North, Cregan Stark hesitated.

It was subtle–a brief flicker in his expression, the faintest pause in his breath–but it was there. A rare moment of uncertainty in a man who otherwise carried the weight of his house and heritage like a second skin. And in that hesitation, Jace glimpsed something unguarded.

When Cregan spoke, his voice had gentled, roughened not with cold, but with care. “Brotherhood,” he said, the word falling quietly between them like a stone into deep water. He drew a breath, steadying himself, and went on. “I know your loss is still raw–that your brother’s shadow has barely begun to fade. And I would never presume to replace what was taken from you, nor ask you to set aside what he meant.”

His eyes, deep and unflinching, searched Jace’s face–not with expectation, but with understanding. It was not a plea he made, nor a demand, but something more difficult: an offering, uncertain and unspoken, of kinship born not of blood, but of choice.

“I would have you swear brotherhood with me. Here, beneath the weirwood’s watchful eyes–before the old gods. Not as allies alone, but as brothers bound by oath and by blood. I would call you brother, if you would have me.”

The words struck something deep inside Jace–fear mingled with hope, confusion threaded with a quiet thrill. A blood oath was no small thing; it would tie them together, each responsible for the other’s honor, life, and legacy. And yet, standing there beneath the stars and the shadow of the heart tree, the offer felt strangely right.

He drew in a slow, steadying breath, his heart thundering fiercely beneath his ribs. “Brotherhood,” he echoed softly. It felt heavy on his tongue, but not unpleasantly so. “It would honor me to call you my sworn brother.” 

Jace’s gaze followed the movement of Cregan’s hand as it moved to his belt, fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger, the leather-wrapped grip worn from years of use. With a quiet hiss of steel, the blade slid free from its sheath, pale and sharp, catching the moonlight in a cold gleam.

Without a word, Cregan turned his palm up before him, fingers splayed open beneath the gaze of the weirwood. Then, with no second thought, he drew the blade across the heel of his hand. The cut was shallow but sure. Blood welled instantly–dark in the moonlight, almost black, glinting faintly as it slid down his palm and into the snow at his feet, staining it red. 

Then, silently, he extended the dagger to Jace, hilt first. 

Their hands met in the space between them, fingers brushing as Jace reached for the dagger. Cregan’s touch was rough and solid, his skin warm despite the chill, bearing the calluses of a man who had known the bite of both sword and winter since boyhood. That brief contact held more than simple exchange–it lingered, filled with the weight of the oath they were about to swear.

Then Jace’s fingers closed around the hilt. The leather wrapping was worn smooth, cool against his palm, supple as aged parchment. He could feel the memory of Cregan’s grip in it, the impression of the North itself–stubborn, enduring, quietly powerful. The dagger was heavier than he’d expected. A simple blade, no ornament, but keen and well cared for. Jace uncurled his fingers and drew in a breath through his nose, steadying himself.

Then, without flinching, he extended his palm as Cregan had, dragging the edge across the base of his hand with a clean, decisive stroke. The steel bit into him like frost-sharpened glass, and his jaw tightened against the sting, teeth clenching to keep the pain from showing. 

For a moment, nothing came–his skin slow to bleed in the bitter cold, the wound pale against his flesh. But then, steadily, the blood rose–dark and thick, as if drawn from the heart itself. It welled up in the cradle of his palm, warm as molten iron against the chill of his fingers. 

For a fleeting moment, as the fresh sting of the cut pulsed through his palm and the warmth of his blood spread across chilled skin, Jace’s thoughts wandered to a different ritual–a different ceremony. He thought of the dragonglass drawn across the palm, remembered the ancient rites whispered in the tongue of old Valyria, the vows spoken low and reverent. Oaths sealed in blood. 

How strange, he thought, that such rites should find their echo here in the frozen North. In this sacred grove of cold stone and older gods, beneath branches that whispered not in Valyrian, but in the language of wind and weirwood.

Yet the shape of it–the intent–was the same. Blood spilled in solemn purpose. Words spoken to bind one life to another.

And that, perhaps, was older than any language.

It was not so different in the end. 

The thought unsettled him. That something so sacred–so intimate–could echo here, between two men who had been strangers mere weeks ago. He pushed the thought aside, buried beneath his ribs, somewhere deep inside, as he turned and offered the dagger back to Cregan. 

The northern lord accepted it wordlessly. His fingers brushed Jace’s once again–rough, sure–and then the blade was gone from his grip. Cregan wiped it clean on his trousers. A soft rasp of steel on leather followed as he sheathed it once more at his side, the motion final, ceremonial. 

Then he looked up.

Their eyes met. 

No words passed between them, but Jace felt the importance of it in his chest, as if something had shifted. 

Cregan stepped forward. His wounded hand rose, blood still fresh along his palm, and he extended it toward Jace–not as a lord offering favor, but as an equal offering bond. Their hands met, bloodied skin to bloodied skin, fingers closing around one another.

The touch was sharp at first, the cuts fresh and tender, but neither of them flinched. Warm blood mingled between their palms, thick and slow, seeping between their fingers before dripping into the snow at their feet. The wind stirred around them, tugging at their cloaks, rattling the crimson leaves above like a whispered breath. 

“Brothers.”

Jace swallowed, the word catching in his throat like a secret too long held. He met Cregan’s eyes again, seeing not just the lord of Winterfell, but something more–someone his equal, a friend, a brother. 

“Brothers,” he echoed, quieter than Cregan, but no less certain. 

Here, beneath the weeping eyes of the old gods, in the hush of the northern dark, something had shifted. Not just in the words spoken, but the weight behind them–in the space between Cregan’s solemn vow and the stillness that followed. The moment felt sacred, poised on the edge of something more than decision. It was judgment. Recognition. Perhaps even the beginning of something that could change the shape of the war to come. 

A vow not of blood alone, but of loyalty, of shared burden, of standing shoulder to shoulder when the storm broke over them both.

Dawn broke over Winterfell with a reluctant sigh, a cold and colorless slight creeping slowly from the horizon, spilling pale shades of gray across the frozen landscape. The air was sharp, bitter enough to sting the skin and draw tears from weary eyes, yet Jace welcomed the discomfort. It was a distraction, a tangible ache to eclipse the deeper pain that pulsed silently in his chest. 

His breath curled into vaporous ghosts around him as he prepared to leave, standing quietly beside Vermax. The beast shifted restlessly, sensing his rider’s turmoil; steam rose from the dragon’s nostrils, curling into the grey northern sky, dispersing slowly like a memory fading from view. 

Lord Cregan stood a few paces away, watching in silence, wrapped in furs and solemnity. He offered neither empty platitudes nor hollow comforts. Yet his presence was enough, a steadying reminder of the bond forged beneath the heart tree–an oath of brotherhood, sealed in blood and tempered by grief. 

“Winterfell is always open to you,” Cregan said at last, his voice deep and gentle as it stirred the stillness of morning. “You have kin here now, not just allies.”

Jace turned slowly, his gaze meeting Cregan’s with quiet gratitude. He nodded solemnly, throat tightening around the words he struggled to say. “And you have a brother in the South. Do not hesitate to call upon me, should you have need.”

Cregan inclined his head slightly, his pale eyes reflecting the bleak, early light, calm and resolute as the land he ruled. “Honor binds us now,” he murmured. “And honor holds.”

Jace climbed into the saddle, gripping the leather and scale as Vermaz shifted beneath him, muscles tensed and ready. He drew in a deep breath, lungs filling with the bitter cold, and lifted his gaze towards the southern horizon. Dragonstone waited beyond leagues of sky and clouds–home, where his mother awaited him, where her grief would overshadow his own.

Home, where his brother would never return. 

He had scarcely begun to reckon with his own sorrow, still raw and ragged-edged. He had it hidden beneath duty, buried it under steel and parchment and the quiet solitude of Winterfell’s ancient halls. But home would be different. His mother’s grief would burn brighter, sharper, and he did not yet know how he would bear its weight alongside his own. He could hardly envision meeting her gaze without feeling the ache of failure twisting in his gut, could scarcely imagine walking the halls haunted by Luke’s absent laughter. 

Yet there was no path around the pain–only through it. Jace straightened in his saddle, shoulders squaring beneath the heavy cloak. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening with resolve. He would face it, he knew. He would endure. 

The prince must endure. 

Without another word, he urged Vermax forward, and the dragon sprang skyward with a rush of wings and wind. The icy air bit harshly at Jace’s skin, but he leaned into it, holding fast to the reins, his gaze fixed steadily ahead. Below, Winterfell shrank into a distant smudge of stone.

He did not look back.

[gorgiawrite]

CANNONS ON SAILING VESSELS (18TH CENTURY)

A typical broadside of a ship of the late 18th century could be fired 2–3 times in approximately 5 minutes, depending on the training of the crew.

FIRING PROCEDURE

A wet swab was used to mop out the interior of the barrel, extinguishing any embers from a previous firing which might set off the next charge of gunpowder prematurely.

Gunpowder (either loose, in a cloth or in a parchment cartridge) was placed in the barrel followed by a cloth wad, then rammed home.

The shot was rammed in, followed by another wad to prevent the cannonball from rolling out of the barrel if the muzzle was depressed.

The gun in its carriage was then 'run out' ; men heaved on the gun tackles until the front of the gun carriage was hard up against the ship's bulwark, the barrel protruding out of the gun port.

The touch hole in the rear (breech) of the cannon was primed with finer gunpowder (priming powder), then ignited.

A lite linstock was applied to the touch-hole of the gun to fire the cannon.

Firing a naval cannon required a great amount of labour and manpower. (x)

GUNNER'S TOOLS

From Artillery Through the Ages by Albert Manucy (x)

The sponge, moistened with water, extinguished sparks in the bore after firing.

The worm cleaned unburned fragments of cloth powder bags from the bore.

Ladles were originally used to load powder; after cartridge bags came into use, they were used to extract loads from muzzle-loaders without firing.

The rammer sealed cartridge and ball in place.

The scraper and searchers were used to clean the gun and to find damaged spots in the bore.

The handspike helped to move the gun carriage and to raise the gun breech so the wedge-shaped quoin could be moved to adjust the gun's elevation.

The gunner's pick or priming wire pierced the powder bag to make sure that the flame of the primer would ignite the powder charge.

The tompion kept the bore dry while the gun was not in use.

Rigging of carriage gun (x)

CANNONS ON SHIPS

« These cannons, the heart of a warship’s offensive capability, were mounted on wooden carriages that allowed them to recoil when fired. The carriages themselves were secured to the ship’s deck using strong ropes or breechings. This setup allowed the cannons to be moved and aimed, while also ensuring they didn’t break loose in rough seas or during the heat of battle.

The ropes were attached to ringbolts set into the deck or the ship’s sides, and the tension could be adjusted to manage the cannon’s recoil. This was critical, as the force of firing a cannon was immense, and without proper securing, the cannon could become a deadly projectile within the ship itself. The ropes also allowed the cannons to be pulled back into position after firing, ready for the next round.

In addition to the ropes, wooden wedges called quoins were used to adjust the cannon’s elevation. These wedges were placed under the breech, the rear part of the cannon, allowing the crew to aim the cannonball’s trajectory for different ranges. »

[information above from a contribution on quora]

The powerful recoil is the reason the guns were fired one after the other instead of all at once. Otherwise, the pressure on the hull of the ship (where the cannons are attached) would be too great.

CANNONS CALIBRES

18 pounder gun, aboard the Man o' War (Black Sails)

Common sizes were 42-pounders, 36-pounders, 32-pounders, 24-pounders, 18-pounders, 12-pounders, 9-pounders, 8-pounders, 6-pounders, and various smaller calibres.

« The distance or range of a gun varied tremendously by the size of the ball and the amount of powder used to propel it. This proved to be very dangerous work for gun crews as cannon did explode (fail), showering the crew with deadly metal shards. The amount of powder often varied from 1/4 to 1/3 the weight of the projectile in pounds. »

« A 12 pounder gun might use 4 pounds of powder and fire 1000 yards. The timbers of a warship could not be appreciably damaged by anything smaller than a 12 pounder. »

[information above from a contribution on quora]

Where a small ship might be armed with 6-pounders (guns which threw a 6-pound shot), a large ship-of-the-line, the battleship of her day, mounted guns firing shot of as much as 32 pounds in weight.

GUN CREWS

Gun is in its recoil position for loading (x)

The officer's rank of Gunner was one responsible for all the cannons aboard the ship, as well as their maintenance and upkeep. He was also in charge of the powder magazine. Gunners had oversight over all the gun captains and gun crews.

Every shipboard cannon was operated by gun crews of 5 men*, including their leader, the gun captain. In battle, the gun crews would reload and position the cannon, while the gun-captain would adjust their aim appropriately and fire the cannon.

*An 18-pounder might have a crew of six or seven.

[ironglorfindel]

Battle report time!

A friend of mine and I decided to do a full clan-tech star vs star battle.

Pack Hunter Std, Coyotl A, Nova S, Archer C 2, Nova Cat A

Vs

Blackjack C, Hunchback 5S, Stormcrow Prime, Timber Wolf B, Dire Wolf Prime

It started rather poorly for me, as my nimble Pack Hunter immediately took a leg hit from some hail mary cross-map lasers, and hobbled its way into some heavy cover, and my Archer near immediately failed a PSR and fell onto its back, punching a great big hole through its armor.

I brought my mediums up to compensate, and our forces clashed together. Luckily for me, I was able to destroy the Hunchback through sheer firepower in the front, and my Coyotl flanking in the rear.

Unfortunately, in the scuffle that followed, while I managed to take out the Stormcrow, my Archer was quite worse for wear.

With no hope of standing, and being tucked behind a hillside, I ejected. Presumably straight into the hillside.

After that, I regrouped, and with heavy suppressing fire from the Nova Cat and Pack Hunter, took out the Blackjack and Mad Cat over the next few turns.

That just left a fresh Dire Wolf.

It absolutely ripped through my lighter mechs, one after the other. The Coyotl to a headshot, the Nova lost its mobility due to a similar leg hit to the Pack Hunter, and the Pack Hunter didn't have much health to begin with.

However, with the Nova Cat entrenched, and the Dire Wolf wounded from fending off its attempted flankers, it needed to close the distance due to the loss of some of its long range arsenal, and fortunately for me, never made it close enough to bring its closer range weapons to bear.

An excellent game! It was back and forth for quite a while. Also a surprising number of head hits, and some very poor initiative rolls on my part. I think by the time the Timber Wolf was downed, I had only won 1 initiative roll.

[faegoddessog]

Day 27: Eddington - The Consecration, Part 1

I'm a little late in the day, but better late than never. Here is the beginning of my little version of Vernon Jefferson Peak's cult.

There are no real warnings (yet) although, if you are triggered by cultish behavior mixed with sex, later installments might not be for you.

Here is my Master List.

@dailydoseofaustinbutler has all the deets pinned for this challenge!

The Consecration, Part 1

New Mexico has its own unique vibe, that’s for certain, Eddington was no different.  Nestled between the Black Range and the San Andres Mountains, it was the closest town that boasted not only an actual grocery store, but a Dollar General too. It and the surrounding community was a mix of people. Some who lived here because they always had, some had just found their way here and stayed. Then there were those who just wanted to be left alone, maybe not in peace, but definitely alone.

For Vernon Jefferson Peak, it was the perfect place to set down roots, to plant his Pleasure Garden. 

He definitely wanted to be left to his own devices.  It’s not that he was doing anything illegal. A group of like minded adults living together isn’t illegal.  People helping each other out isn’t illegal. Pleasure wasn’t illegal. 

This plot of land in southern New Mexico was a haven now. Fifteen or so miles up into the mountains around 100 acres. They had discovered both an artisanal spring and hot spring after purchasing it.  They had spent the last 5 years building and shaping it into a mostly self-sufficient commune. Rammed earth and strawbale houses surrounded the central Meeting House, he called the Aviary. No one under the age of 21 was allowed on property. People could come and go as they wished. But everyone had to contribute, even Vernon could be seen tending vegetables, or helping to lift timbers into place for new buildings. 

><><><><><><

“It’s the Body that is our vehicle and our Soul the driver.” He sat now in his cream colored linen wrap-around tunic and matching pants. He was on the raised platform in the middle of the meeting room. His dias, his lectern, his gallery. 

His followers sprawled in front of him, dressed in some variation of light airy linen similar to him. There was no special piece of clothing that signified his leadership, only his magnetic presence.  Some disciples were cuddled up together on stacks of pillows, some lay with hands behind heads and others sat cross legged. All listened, fixated on him, enthralled with his mere voice and presence.  

You see, Vernon Jefferson Peak wasn’t just an eloquent orator, he was fucking gorgeous to boot.  Tall, lean but muscular from the hard work building a community from scratch requires. His shaggy dark blonde hair framed his beautiful face. A well trimmed moustache and beard downplayed the lusciousness of his lips while adding a layer of humanness to his rugged charm. His cheekbones lie in wait, needing only the hint of grin to round and pop. His electric blue eyes, whether hard or soft, were always intense. And when he looked into the eyes of his people, it was like he was downloading truth into their soul with laser precision. 

“Your mind is what muddles the way. Out there, you have been shamed into thinking that you don’t deserve to feel joy.” He flows to standing,  bare feet stepping down to wander amongst the thirty some odd souls. This was not all of his people, only some. No one was required to attend Consecration.

“So many deny what our bodies crave,” his deep resonant voice rings out over the heads of his faithful. ”Touch,” he gently brushes a man’s shoulder here, “connection,” he drags his fingers over a woman’s neck there, “even simple movement.”  

Vernon pulls a man to standing. Pressing himself against the man’s back, he wraps his arms around him.  The follower leans back into the tallness of his leader, surrendering with eyes closed. His hands grasp at Vernon’s thighs.  Their hips roll together in a slow, sensual dance.  He turns the man like a marionette, snaking one hand behind his neck. He leans close and whispers in his ear. The man looks Vernon in the eye and murmurs. 

No one needs to actually hear what is said, they all know. 

He kisses the man softly on the cheek and gestures to the cushion covered platform. 

To be continued...

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[theriverspath]

Ineffable May 2024 Day 13: Heavenly Hosts

I'm playing catch-up for the last few prompts, so please accept this fever dream of a crossover as my day thirteen. Rated General Audience. Spoilers for the first episode of the anime Ouran High School Host Club, maybe?

Beez packed their bag and left the library’s quiet room. Unfortunately for their plan to study there after classes, it had become anything but quiet. The background buzz of other students chatting or giggling wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It just made it difficult to concentrate on their work. A familiar dull ache in their chest accompanied their thoughts as they closed the library door.

Hey, Mom. These angels are so different than what I’m used to. I’m managing ok, I guess, but I wish you could give me some advice on what to do about it.

Their sigh and their footsteps echoed down the endless corridor of huge windows and locked classrooms. Maybe one of the club rooms was empty? Beez stopped under a sign indicating that they’d found a music room. When they didn’t hear any instruments or singing, they gingerly pushed it open and peeked inside.

The door unexpectedly swung inward, pulling them in and causing them to stumble. They wobbled back, and the door closed behind them with a solid thud. As they caught their footing, white sparkling light filled their vision. A delicate rain of rose petals floated down from the ceiling. They barely had time to register the frivolous miracle before a chorus of voices rang out.

“Welcome to the Haven Host Club!”

Beez blinked, trying to clear their vision enough to see the group of angels gathered in front of them. A pair, as opposite in appearance as two beings could be, gasped in unison. Though the timbers of their voices were different, the shocked inflections were perfectly in sync when they spoke.

“A low ranking angel?”

“Uriel, Sandalphon, that’s no way to treat a guest. Especially an honor student.” Another member of the group admonished the duo. Their calculating expression was accented by their perfectly coiffed hair and the delicate lace cuffs below their uniform jacket’s sleeves.

“An honor student? Michael, are you saying that we have the privilege of entertaining the infamous Beelzebub?” An arm draped itself over Beez’s shoulders, its hand cupping their upper arm and guiding them into the room. The brightly lit expanse was dotted with little clusters of low tables, finely crafted chairs, and elegant settees. In the middle of it all rotated a large globe. The brilliant blues and greens practically glowed underneath swirling wisps of clouds. Beez had never seen such a lifelike representation of Earth. It was almost as if it had been plucked from the actual heavens and placed here to be admired. After a moment, they realized that the owner of the guiding arm had said their name.

“Wait. How do you know who I am?” Beez looked up into a pair of shining violet eyes. They crinkled at the corners with amusement. The tall angel smiling down at them had a solid, athletic build. Dark hair was cut short, and their school uniform was immaculately tailored.

“Are you kidding? Everyone’s heard of the scrappy little scrivener striving to climb their way up the ranks.” Their voice was smooth and charismatic. It wasn’t displeasing, but it approached condescension in a way that made Beez narrow their eyes in annoyance. Before they could reply, another voice, bubbly and full of sunshine, piped up from the group.

“Yeah! You must be a hero to the other low-rankers!” A being almost as short as Beez skipped forward and clasped their hands around the arm that wasn’t currently smooshed against the other angel. “Don’t you think so, Saraqael?” That last question was directed at a stoic angel seated in a floating chair. Their only acknowledgement of being addressed was to raise a single eyebrow. A feeling of acute claustrophobia swept over Beez. What in all of creation was going on here?

“Look, I’m no hero. I’m just a regular student looking for a quiet place to study.’ They tried shifting their shoulders and raising their arm, hoping that the two beings attached to them would get the hint to let go.

“Nonsense!” The taller angel actually hugged Beez closer in a too-familiar jostle. “Not only are you trying for the academic angle, but now you’ve gathered up the courage to attempt to engage the services of our elite host club! Of course, we usually restrict reservations to Thrones, Dominions, or above. But, I think we could make an exception in your case.” The jostle was escalated by the shorter angel on their arm jumping up and down with excitement.

“Brilliant! Come sit at my table with me! I have tea all set up and ready. I’ll even let you drink out of my favorite cup! It’s so pretty to look at. Oh! My name is Muriel, by the way…” The claustrophobia turned to a rising panic.

“No! No reservation! No tea! I just need to find a quiet and empty room!” Beez wrenched their corporation backwards, and the two angels released their holds in shock. The sudden lack of support sent Beez sprawling. Their fall was broken by something large and round. They swung around just in time to see the glowing globe tip off of whatever invisible pedestal held it upright. It hit the ground and shattered. A burst of glittery shards skidded across the floor in every direction, decorating the white tiles with pieces of continent and ocean. Beez stood frozen, unable to believe what had happened.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, low-ranker.” The shorter of the two mismatched twins spoke up. The taller finished their thought. “Indeed. That globe was created using an eight million Lazuri miracle.” Beez felt their knees go weak as they realized the implications of what they’d done.

“I … I’m going to have to pay you back.” Their voice cracked as they struggled to get the words out.

“How?” Uriel and Sandalphon chimed in stereo. “There’s no way you could perform that kind of miracle with your current rank.”

“Well.” Michael leaned down to pick up a particularly pretty piece of the broken Earth. They kept their eyes on it as they straightened back up. “What do you think we should do, Gabriel?” The violet-eyed angel flashed a self-satisfied grin at the question.

“There’s only one way this aspirant academic is going to climb that steep social ladder to reach their full potential, Michael, and that’s with the help of the Haven Host Club!” Gabriel turned their attention to Beez. “That means starting today, you work for us.” The edges of Beez’s vision started to close in, narrowing to a pin-point surrounded by fuzzy black. They lost track of the beings around them as they thought, I don’t know if I can handle this, Mom. I’ve been captured by a bunch of angels that are calling themselves a host club. They felt two little pokes of someone’s finger on their shoulder, then the room quickly tilting to the side as the floor came up to meet their fainting corporation.

------

prompt list

[crypt-tids]

A Gift Unto the King

16

The Pendulum Swings

A gentle breeze shuffled through the trees as the sun rapidly approached the golden hour. The journey had been long and tiresome, but thankfully, uneventful. Save, at least, for a small mishap with an unassuming little pebble that somehow landed Angelique with a terribly painful sprained ankle. Alistair had done his best to heal it, but the most he’d been able to manage was to lessen the pain—he’d thus made a mental note to practice that spell more later.

Angelique rocked back and forth, her wavy, red hair bobbing, as the mule traversed the uneven ground. Alistair tightly clung to the reins, guiding the large animal over the rocks. A short distance away, emerged the faint babbling of a modest brook, and just beyond, a path widened, leading deeper into the forest.

Upon reaching the water’s edge, Alistair stopped the mule, and grabbed their nearly empty canteens from their saddle bag. Removing the caps, he knelt down, allowing the crystal clear water to flow into them. Once filled, he pushed himself up from the ground, brushed the dirt from his knees, and handed the canteens to his sister.

“Purify the water, please.” He directed her, and she did as she was told.

With a moment’s concentration, and a wave of her hand, the water slowly rose out of the containers, suspended freely in front of her. She closed her eyes, and drew her hand to her lips. Softly, she hummed, the vibrations trembling against her delicately closed hand. Then, she raised her pinky and ring finger, forming a widening tunnel through her curled fingers and palm, pulled a deep breath, and blew. Hot air swirled around the suspended blob of water, and within seconds, the water began to boil.

When the last of the air had left her lungs, she drew a replenishing inhale, and willed the pure water back into their respective containers. Alistair handed her the caps, which she replaced, before shoving the freshly filled canteens back into their pouch.

Merely fourteen and she had already mastered such complex heat magic. Alistair found himself endlessly impressed with her on a near constant basis—which Angelique took great pride in, and would occasionally nag him about whenever he fell short in his own spellwork. He never minded it, though. He wanted her to maintain as much confidence as her heart could bear, because he knew that time would humble her, just as it inevitably humbled all healers.

Cool water splashed as they trudged through the creek, soaking Alistair up to his knees. The mule huffed as a few pebbles gave way, before finding his hooves on solid ground once again. Angelique tightly clung to the equine’s short mane to hold herself steady.

Clambering onto the bank, Alistair regained his balance, and tugged at the reins to guide the mule from the water. The water soaking through his pants and boots grew increasingly more uncomfortable with each step, but he did his best to ignore it. When Angelique noticed his discomfort, she waved her hand and, as though pulling a thread from a quilt, forced the water from his clothes and boots. The water swirled around him briefly before she released her hold on it, splashing it onto the ground.

“Thank you.” Alistair nodded towards his sister.

“Would it kill you to take care of yourself for a change?” Angelique groaned, rolling her eyes.

Alistair shrugged, and continued tugging the mule along.

The sun had all but vanished by the time they reached the clearing at the end of the path. Massive oak trees reached towards the blackening sky. Glowing mushrooms lined the path, growing over the bark of fallen timber. It was peaceful, and beautiful, and grand.

“Al.” A timid voice rang through the quiet.

Alistair whipped back towards his sister, who found her wide eyes fixed on the trees, her body rigid. Following her eye-line, he caught the shimmering silver glimmer of a sharpened arrow-head, aimed directly at them. The more he scanned the trees, the more arrows appeared.

Instinctively, Alistair raised his hands, hoping they’d understand. A small group of elves, all wearing similarly modest attire, cautiously approached the young witches, weapons still drawn. Alistair could sense his sister’s unease, though she maintained her composure.

The elves spoke to them in a language they’d never heard before. A language that flowed smoother than sand through an hourglass, with a melody no bird could ever dream of imitating. It was beauty captured in words. The expressions on their faces, however, proved that those words were not an extension of welcomed invitation.

“They wish to know why we’re here.” Angelique whispered.

“How do you know that?” Alistair whispered back through the side of his mouth.

“I don’t.” She explained. “It’s their energy. They’re on guard, but haven’t moved to kill us yet. So, I think that’s what they’re asking us about.”

“And how am I supposed to answer?” He shot back with a forceful whisper, attempting not to alarm the armed elves before them.

“How should I know?! I don’t speak elvish!”

Alistair rolled his eyes, refocusing on the elves, and a silver-tipped spear that was approaching a little too close for his personal comfort.

“We’re healers.” Alistair spoke after a moment. “We’ve come to learn.”

The elves anxiously glanced at each other.

Of course. Alistair thought to himself, sarcastically. “I’m very open to suggestions, Angel.” He whispered.

Angelique sighed, and slowly slid off of the mule’s back, gingerly landing on the ground, ensuring not to place weight on her injured foot. She lifted her empty hands, then gestured to the saddlebag, before slowly slipping her hand into one of the pockets. Gently, she removed a small leather pouch, and dumped a small pile of seeds into her other hand. Cupping her hands together, she pulled them to her lips, and slowly blew into them. Then, she removed her hands from her lips, and slowly unclasped them. As her hand rose upwards, the seeds began to sprout. Roots draped over her fingers as small green stalks emerged from the seed shells. Within a few moments, small purple flowers began to bloom, the fresh lavender scent filling the air.

Taking a careful step forward, Angelique joined her brother, extending her arm to present the freshly grown flowers. She swallowed hard, giving her brother an apprehensive glance.

After a few moments, the spear aimed at them cautiously lowered, and the elf accepted the plants, handing them to another elf at their side. Given an approving nod, the witches both released the tense breaths they were unaware they’d been holding, and their bodies began to relax.

The elf that had accepted the flowers, raised their arm, and with two fingers, beckoned an elf behind them to approach. Reaching into their robes, they produced four iron binding cuffs. They resembled rounded shackles without chains, but with a much more refined execution, almost as though they could be genuine jewelry.

Swinging them open on their hinges, the elf slapped them onto each of the witches’ wrists, magically welding them shut. Immediately, Angelique and Alistair sensed the overwhelming fatigue expanding throughout their bodies as the cuffs suppressed their magical abilities. Angelique gave her older brother a worried glance, which he tried to reassure, to little avail.

The elves directed them to follow, and with three elves following closely behind, they did as they were told.

“Well, they didn’t kill us.” Alistair whispered lightly.

“Yet.” Angelique added.

As they entered the village, they found themselves surrounded by lush greenery and fragrant flowers. Cottages had been built into the trees, connected by a network of woven wooden bridges and stairways. They almost seemed as though they were simply a part of the trees themselves, and always had been.

Elves peered out of their windows and doorways, down at their unexpected visitors as they passed, many holding leery expressions. With each hardened stare, it was beginning to feel more and more like the final waltz to a burning stake.

“Where do you think they’re taking us?” Angelique asked in a hushed whisper.

Alistair clenched his jaw and lightly shook his head. His heart pounded furiously, and he was doing everything in his power to keep his little sister from noticing—unfortunately, she was a bit too observant to miss it.

The village slowly disappeared to their rear, and once again, they were marching through uninhabited woodland. The shuffling of their feet against the dirt and fallen leaves seemed to dissipate into the vast, darkened wood in a way that made them feel incredibly small and alone. Trees rose above them with a grandeur that was nearly impossible to comprehend. In that moment, Alistair had never felt closer to an insect, navigating a world much too large for it.

Giving her a quick glance, Alistair noticed Angelique beginning to hobble with more frequency, drawing more tense breaths through her clenched teeth. Stopping, he grabbed her arm, and tugged her close. The young witch wrapped an arm around her back and crouched, positioning his other arm at the back of her knees.

“Jump.” He directed, and she did as she was told.

Catching her, he lifted her body up to carry her, her slender arms wrapping tightly around his neck.

“I was fine.” She spoke quietly.

“Is that why you jumped?” Alistair smirked, which made his sister frown. “Now isn’t the time to be stubborn.”

She sighed, and nodded, before allowing herself to be carried in silence.

As the trees began to open, there came a faint trickling sound, like running water over a ledge. The sunlight had nearly disappeared, leaving only natural bioluminescence and lanterns to guide the way through the dampening glow of approaching evening.

Before them, amidst the mushrooms and fireflies, rested a beautiful spring, with an aura so intense it nearly seemed to be glowing itself. Its very essence encapsulated the soul in a way that could only be described as divine.

But there was more to it than that. A depth of darkness and fear, tugging at their sleeves, with a power neither witch had ever had the pleasure—or displeasure—of being in the presence of. Whatever held domain over this spring was ancient, and powerful, and most certainly not of this realm.

The elf in the lead turned to face her companions. Her pale skin shimmered a warm gold from the lantern light at her side. Eloquently, she spoke, beckoning the young witches forward.

Giving each other an uneasy glance, the siblings cautiously approached the elf, mere feet from the edge of the sparkling spring. The energy radiating from the water sent ripples of anxiety throughout their bodies, and their hearts pounded.

With a graceful wave of the hand, the elf directed them to enter the pool. Slowly, the witches took an apprehensive step forward, the cool water dancing around their ankles. The forest seemed to fall into silence, as if even the crickets dared not speak.

But something about this was itching in Alistair's brain. Somehow, it felt dreadfully familiar, and the longer they waited, the more he thought about it. Just when he thought he’d exhausted every ounce of his recollection, it came to him. Suddenly, the gravity of the situation rained down on him, and shivers ran up his spine.

This was it, the end of it all. They were going to die.

Carmilla laid rigidly on the plush bed, her head stiffly pressed into the soft down pillow. Her heart pounded in her chest with a ferocity she was having difficulty controlling.

“Try to relax.” Alistair spoke calmly, as he walked over to her side.

“Has that ever worked?” Carmilla sarcastically asked.

“No.” Alastair replied. “Why do you think I burn incense?” He smirked.

Carmilla huffed through her nose and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, allowing the warm lavender scent to fill her lungs, and gradually, the pounding of her heart lessened.

“You know, it is a bit early to do this kind of energy reading.” Alistair pulled a quartz pendulum from a brown leather pouch, and clasped both hands tightly around it, allowing its thin, silver chain to delicately drape over his fingers. “It is quite possible there will be no confirmation.”

“I am aware.” Carmilla flatly agreed.

Alistair shrugged, and pulled his clasped hands to his mouth, where he quietly whispered to the crystal pendulum. Carmilla couldn’t quite make out the words, but recognized the cadence of an old spell from the world before.

“Elvish?” She asked with uncertainty.

“It is.” Alistair pulled the pendulum away, letting it slip from his hands, catching the silver chain between his fingers. “You speak it?”

“Not much of it, no. No one does anymore.” She sighed heavily. “During the first war, most of our old documents were destroyed. Elvenwood only has a small number of them left in our archives. Sadly, most of the elders that could still read them died long ago.”

“It’s a shame, really. It truly was a beautiful language.” Alistair dangled the pendulum over Carmilla’s lower belly.

“How did you come to know it?”

“My sister and I did a lot of traveling when we were younger. Any healer worth their weight does, at least.” Alistair replied, focusing on the pendulum. “There’s a small village of elves to the north. They live amongst the trees.” He smiled softly. “It was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.”

“The Elvijah.” Carmilla returned.

“You know them?”

“Mm-” Carmilla nodded. “When the war divided the continent, some of the elves migrated north and settled there. ‘Elvijah’ was the old elvish word for our race.” She sighed. “I wasn’t sure there were any of them left.”

“The village was thriving last I saw it.” Alistair assured, watching as the pendulum started to sway.

“I’m glad.” Carmilla smiled. “But, I’m surprised they trusted you. Elves tend to be wary of others, especially witches.”

“I never said they trusted us.” Alistair laughed. “They nearly killed us twice.”

Carmilla snickered to herself, some of the tension leaving her body as the conversation progressed.

“Luckily, Angelique always had a bit more of a gift for flower language than I. She’d always carry flower seeds with her, wherever she went—still does. So, she gave them Lavender.”

“And they accepted them?” Carmilla raised a brow, an impressed grin slowly spreading across her face.

“They did.” Alistair nodded, closely watching the slight movements of the pendulum. “However, we were forced to wear binding cuffs while in the village.”

“Ah, that doesn't surprise me.” Carmilla returned her gaze to the wooden beamed ceiling above her. “How long were you there?”

“Nearly two months.”

“With binding cuffs?!” She shot back, incredulously.

Alistair nodded.

“It was a bit like having an itch you can’t scratch, to be honest. Absolute torture.” He chuckled.

“No elf has ever survived that long without going insane. The Elvijah created them thousands of years ago as punishment for those that strayed from the righteous path. I don’t believe Elvenwood has even so much as thought of using them in over two centuries.” Carmilla sighed, fingers lightly picking at the blanket beneath her. “Not that we’ve had much reason to use them, but, it was still a bit… barbaric.”

“It is,” Alistair agreed solemnly, “but elves are a bit different from witches. Most of our magic is simply harnessed and manipulated from the energy around us. Very little of it actually resides within us. Elves on the other hand, are the incarnation of genuine magic. It’s as much a part of you as air is to our lungs. Without it-”

“We have no self.” Carmilla finished, her voice low.

“Precisely.” Alistair nodded. “So for us, the cuffs were more or less simply an aggravation. Eventually, I’m sure it would’ve worn us away, but we had no intention of staying that long.” The pendulum started to rotate in a tight circle. “The healing springs, however, that was the most terrified I’d ever been in my entire life.” Alistair shook his head with a small smile.

“You’ve… been to a healing spring?” Carmilla’s face fell into delicate curiosity.

Alistair nodded, maintaining focus on the pendulum.

“It was breath-taking,” he reminisced, “in more ways than one.” He finished with a smirk.

“There’s a healing spring in Elvenwood, but I could never bring myself to go.”

“Why’s that?” Alistair asked, the pendulum’s movements widening slightly.

“I was always terrified the fae would deem me unworthy of bathing in it.” She half laughed.

“Someone with your strength, and heart, could never be deemed unworthy by the fae.” Alistair spoke kindly, pulling the pendulum away from Carmilla’s belly.

“How can you be so sure?” She asked, sitting up in bed.

“Because neither me, nor my sister, died in the waters of the healing spring,” he set the pendulum down, carefully, before continuing, “and I know for a fact that you couldn’t possibly be less worthy than us.”

Carmilla smiled softly, and nodded. The thought had never occurred to her that Alistair could’ve been deemed unworthy. Healers were usually such wholesome folk, but the average witch, on the other hand, wasn’t necessarily in the same vein.

“The energy signature was weak, as expected, but certainly undeniable.” Alistair changed the subject, packing the pendulum back into its leather pouch, and turning back to face the young elf. “Congratulations are in order, I imagine.”

“Thank you.” Carmilla replied quietly as she pushed herself up from the bed, new nerves beginning to race through her heart.

“I can do another energy reading for you in a few weeks.” Alistair offered, walking the queen to the door.

Carmilla nodded, giving the witch a small smile, before exiting the room.

As the door shut behind her, she felt almost as though her legs would give out, and she leaned back against it to steady herself.

“Carmilla?” Vin quickly approached her from where he’d been anxiously waiting, and gently took her hand in his.

As his eyes scanned over her, she slowly lifted her doe-eyed gaze, and her chin began to quiver slightly.

“What did he say?” Vin whispered, brushing a ringlet from her soft face.

Carmilla couldn’t bring herself to speak, instead, she just nodded, drawing a shaky breath. In that moment, a deep well of jumbled emotions consumed her, swallowing her whole, and she didn’t have the faintest idea how to climb out of the pit.

Pulling her into a tight embrace, Vin gently stroked the back of her head as she buried her face in his shoulder.

“I don’t understand…” She whispered, more to herself than to Vin. “It happened, just as it should have, so… why am I not relieved?”

Vin sighed. Truthfully, he hadn’t been soothed by the news either. By all accounts, he should’ve been elated. This child was the promise for which the safety and prosperity of his people rested, and its conception was the only thing that guaranteed to hold this already shaky alliance together. But, as he held the young queen in his arms, he too found himself drowning. No longer could he look at this as just a promise, or a concept. It was real, and it was there, nestled between him and a woman he did not love.

“Because,” Vin spoke after a moment, “it shouldn’t have happened this way.”

[siremasterlawrence]

Detective Ackles and Routh are on a top tier mission driving at an unknown speed in to the midst of the side roads leading to the deep, dark, and hidden massive section of the woods.It is late at night exactly at midnight when the clock strikes loudly from when the sound rang far behind the city it hits them dead on when the alarm shook him so deep they hit the peddle.

The car takes a swerve making a heavy left and then right down the narrow edge of the road shaking through the woods all else has failed for them but this one lays ditch effort must yield something.All of a sudden a strong fiery edge hits all of senses burning in his loins sending shock waves throughout his spine, his attention span disappearing completely as his vision grows even more uneven.

The car is put through the test as he loses it pressing hard on the peddle sending the car as it hit the rock and the car smashes in to multiple pieces and both men leap from the front seats.The two shook their head in a state of utter loss struggling to make it to the end of the road and they find a cabin at the end of the area and a man exits the cabins main door to their surprise.

The man flashes his flashlight in both of their faces as he walks down his steps in to the entirety of the area as they two felt a strangely compelling energy call out to him and he could not resist it.As he approaches one cap let’s the other commence an approach holding his hand up from him to stop and the man does as the other reaches out for his gun as the two of you point at him.

The man laughs at him snapping his finger in to the air distracting him with the flash light blows up and starts to send a heavy light pulse sensation shooting in to him as they go blank and start to swing to the side.The young moves to them standing in front of him placing his hands on to his shoulders tightly holding them down and I lean in to his ears blowing air softly with a short sweet low hum.

“Hey you two follow us the Master awaits”

“Yes! You pigs”

“Go in to the cabin “

“Close the door behind you “

“Take off your clothes “

“Kneel in front of him”

“Kiss his hands”

“Kiss his feet”

“Beg him to be yours “

“Oh Master! My God”

“Master Lawrence! Please “

“I beg of you “

“Hhhuuummmm”

“Your sweet voice”

“You enslaved us”

“Disrobe me”

“My underpants “

“Suck my cock till I cum”

“Hear me clearly “

“Know the sound of my voice “

“I am your life”

“The light of your life “

“Apple of your eye“

“The timber of your voice”

“The shake in your hands”

“You are melting in my hand”

“Peeling away “

“You drop to the floor “

“Convulsing out of control “

“Shooting impulses”

“Oooohhhh!”

“Ggggoooddd”

“Ffffuuuccckkkk”

“Bbbaaabbbeee”

“Mmmmm”

“Use me”

“We succumb “

The end

[bumblebeeappletree]

Growing food is a key reason for many people to garden, but a key question is how safe is my soil - and how do I find out?

Millie meets EPA chief environmental scientist Profession Mark Patrick Taylor, who runs the EPA’s GardenSafe program with colleague Hannah Elliott.

The program offers free soil tests to help people understand what’s in their soil – which can include chemicals associated with industrial pollution. If these get into soil they can then get into food and inside people’s homes – but knowing they’re there means steps can be taken to reduce health risks.

The main chemical the EPA tests for is lead, which is often found around older homes close to city centres. The contamination may come from lead paint originally used on timber buildings (but now banned) or from lead in the air from petrol fumes, before unleaded petrol was introduced.

Lead is a neurotoxin, which interferes with a person’s neurological development; children are particularly at risk. Soil is also tested for arsenic, cadmium, chromium, copper, manganese, nickel and zinc.

Hannah shows Millie how to take a soil sample, pulling back the mulch from the soil to reveal a 15cm x 15cm square of clear soil, and digging up the top 2cm of soil. The sample should be about half a cup in volume or 150grams – about the size of a tennis ball.

Hannah recommends taking three samples: from your front yard, back yard (especially in areas where children play), and vegie patch.

Samples are dried and tested for nutrient levels and structure as well as for contaminants; this information helps gardeners know what sort of soil they are growing in – sandy, loam or clay – and what fertilizers or compost it may need to grow a wider range of vegetables.

The results of the tests are de-identified and added to the MapMyEnvironment website, which shows the hotspots where contamination is most likely to be found: usually in inner-city areas and near industrial sites. This information helps the EPA manage risks to the environment.

Learning that your soil is contaminated doesn’t mean the end to growing vegetables or playing outside – the EPA advice is to:

- Grow in raised beds,

- Mulch beds and paths to reduce dust,

- Wash veggies before eating,

- Wash hands after gardening and

- Remove your shoes before going indoors.

- Avoid planting in the dripline of older houses.

If you keep chickens, make sure they’re digging a scratching in a deep bed of clean litter.

Create a safe play area for children, such as a sandpit.

What you grow also affects risk levels, because different plants absorb different chemicals at different rates.

Leafy greens absorb the most lead, for example, while fruit trees won’t be affected the same way. So silverbeet and lettuce should be grown in raised beds, while your lemon tree may grow directly in the soil.

The GardenSafe program is free for all Victorian residents. Gardeners in other states can pay a small donation to access the VegeSafe program run by Macquarie University.

For both GardenSafe and VegeSafe programs, or to test your household dust, visit https://www.360dustana...

Filmed on Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung Country in Macleod, Vic

[readerbookclub]

Hello everyone! A new month is coming, which means we're going to start a new book. This time, I've collected a list of books that are all about nature. As always, please remember to vote for your favourite using the link at the end of the post. And now onto the books!

The Overstory, by Richard Powers

The Overstory is a sweeping, impassioned work of activism and resistance that is also a stunning evocation of - and paean to - the natural world. From the roots to the crown and back to the seeds, Richard Powers’s twelfth novel unfolds in concentric rings of interlocking fables that range from antebellum New York to the late twentieth-century Timber Wars of the Pacific Northwest and beyond. There is a world alongside ours—vast, slow, interconnected, resourceful, magnificently inventive, and almost invisible to us. This is the story of a handful of people who learn how to see that world and who are drawn up into its unfolding catastrophe.

Greenwood, by Michael Christie

It's 2034 and Jake Greenwood is a storyteller and a liar, an overqualified tour guide babysitting ultra-rich vacationers in one of the world's last remaining forests.

It's 2008 and Liam Greenwood is a carpenter, fallen from a ladder and sprawled on his broken back, calling out from the concrete floor of an empty mansion.

It's 1974 and Willow Greenwood is out of jail, free after being locked up for one of her endless series of environmental protests: attempts at atonement for the sins of her father's once vast and violent timber empire.

It's 1934 and Everett Greenwood is alone, as usual, in his maple syrup camp squat when he hears the cries of an abandoned infant and gets tangled up in the web of a crime that will cling to his family for decades.

And throughout, there are trees: thrumming a steady, silent pulse beneath Christie's effortless sentences and working as a guiding metaphor for withering, weathering, and survival.

Beasts of Extraordinary Circumstance, by Ruth Emmie Lang

Orphaned, raised by wolves, and the proud owner of a horned pig named Merlin, Weylyn Grey knew he wasn’t like other people. But when he single-handedly stopped that tornado on a stormy Christmas day in Oklahoma, he realized just how different he actually was.

That tornado was the first of many strange events that seem to follow Weylyn from town to town, although he doesn’t like to take credit. As amazing as these powers may appear, they tend to manifest themselves at inopportune times and places. From freak storms to trees that appear to grow over night, Weylyn’s unique abilities are a curiosity at best and at worst, a danger to himself and the woman he loves. But Mary doesn’t care. Since Weylyn saved her from an angry wolf on her eleventh birthday, she’s known that a relationship with him isn’t without its risks, but as anyone who’s met Weylyn will tell you, once he wanders into your life, you’ll wish he’d never leave.

Beasts of Extraordinary Circumstance tells the story of Weylyn Grey’s life from the perspectives of the people who knew him, loved him, and even a few who thought he was just plain weird. Although he doesn’t stay in any of their lives for long, he leaves each of them with a story to tell. Stories about a boy who lives with wolves, great storms that evaporate into thin air, fireflies that make phosphorescent honey, and a house filled with spider webs and the strange man who inhabits it.

There is one story, however, that Weylyn wishes he could change: his own. But first he has to muster enough courage to knock on Mary’s front door.

The Lost City of Z, by David Grann

After stumbling upon a hidden trove of diaries, New Yorker writer David Grann set out to solve "the greatest exploration mystery of the 20th century": What happened to the British explorer Percy Fawcett & his quest for the Lost City of Z?

In 1925, Fawcett ventured into the Amazon to find an ancient civilization, hoping to make one of the most important discoveries in history. For centuries Europeans believed the world's largest jungle concealed the glittering kingdom of El Dorado. Thousands had died looking for it, leaving many scientists convinced that the Amazon was truly inimical to humans. But Fawcett, whose daring expeditions inspired Conan Doyle's The Lost World, had spent years building his scientific case. Captivating the imagination of millions round the globe, Fawcett embarked with his 21-year-old son, determined to prove that this ancient civilisation--which he dubbed Z--existed. Then his expedition vanished. Fawcett's fate, & the tantalizing clues he left behind about Z, became an obsession for hundreds who followed him into the uncharted wilderness.

For decades scientists & adventurers have searched for evidence of Fawcett's party & the lost City of Z. Countless have perished, been captured by tribes or gone mad. As Grann delved ever deeper into the mystery surrounding Fawcett's quest, & the greater mystery of what lies within the Amazon, he found himself, like the generations who preceded him, being irresistibly drawn into the jungle's green hell. His quest for the truth & discoveries about Fawcett's fate & Z form the heart of this complexly enthralling narrative.

Prodigal Summer, by Barbara Kingslover

It is summer in the Appalachian mountains and love, desire and attraction are in the air. From her outpost in an isolated mountain cabin, Deanna Wolfe, a reclusive wildlife biologist, watches a den of coyotes. She is caught off guard by a young hunter who invades her most private spaces and interrupts her solitary life.

On a farm several miles down the mountain, Lusa Maluf Landowski, a bookish city girl turned farmer's wife, finds herself marooned in a strange place where she must declare or lose her attachment to the land that has become her own. And a few more miles down the road, a pair of elderly feuding neighbours tend their respective farms and wrangle about God, pesticides, and the possibilities of a future neither of them expected. Over the course of one humid summer, these characters find their connections of love to one another and to the surrounding nature with which they share a place.

Please vote for our next book here.

[yourbelgianthings]

run from me, darling

(another) oksamber fic, 2.4k words, starts off nice but gets angsty, no tws (title is from the song run from me by timber timbre which is on my oksamber playlist)

Amber smiled and waved at Kodira through the windows as she watched her approach the small diner. The ballaster of defense was slightly late to their agreed upon time, but after a year of not seeing each other, Amber was just glad she had been able to get the night off at all. A small bell on the door jingled as it swung open and Kodira entered, the heels of her boots clicking on the linoleum floor.

“Amber, did you actually pick a place called the Yum Nut Diner?” she laughed as she slid into the other side of the booth. 

“You've never even been here before, bubba! Don’t judge from the name, it’s a classic.” A briinarr waiter in a red apron brought them glasses of water and a menu, and just as Amber was starting to suggest a dish for Kodira to try, the doorbell jingled again and Devo and Zoox walked in. Kodira saw them first and tried to shake her head, but it was too late. The chaperones kept track of all the crews who worked for the Bluespan Brokerage, so she knew they were with Amber even though they hadn’t actually gotten to talk about it. 

“Amber! And you’re here with the ballaster of defense? What a coincidence!” Devo exclaimed.

“Hi!” Zoox waved (and noticeably had not brought his crossbow).

As the rest of her crew approached the booth, Amber felt Kodira’s hand gently squeeze her thigh under the table.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Amber practically hissed.

“Why, Captain, have you heard of a double date?” Devo asked dramatically, leaning on the table as Zoox gave a thumbs up behind him. She simply flopped her head down on her arms, but Kodira was trying not to burst out laughing.

“Listen, you two, that’s not what you think it is. Come with me,” she said, leading them back towards the door. The rest of the Coriolis crew was successfully shooed away with a couple lux in their pockets on the condition that they would go get dinner at least four blocks away. Kodira returned to the table and poked Amber. 

“Hey, coast is clear.” Amber looked up at her, very annoyed. “That is possibly the silliest security breach I have had to deal with in my time as ballaster of defense.” That got a smile from Amber, and then she said,

“Anyway, we came for dinner, and I’m still hungry, what about you?” They each got fish and chips, and split a chocolate milkshake with two straws, staying and catching up with each other until the diner closed, long after their food was gone. In front of the diner, alone with the dark, quiet city around them, the two women paused before parting ways. There was a sense of something unsaid lingering in the air between them, as always, but it ended with nothing more than “Well, night, bubba,” and “See you soon, Amber.”

A couple weeks later, the tone wheel on the Coriolis rang. The ship was docked in its designated spot, Zoox was out for a swim, and Devo had stopped by Brother Seldom’s, leaving Amber alone on the ship. She hadn’t felt like going to the Cloaca, so she had just been absentmindedly flipping through a magazine in Amber’s Place when the tone wheel rang. The sudden noise didn’t startle her, but the voice on the other side did. 

“Kella sai, you’ve got Captain Amber Gris of the Coriolis.”

“Hello, Amber, do you have a minute?” asked Kodira.

Amber nearly fell over. “Why are you calling the ship phone?!”

“You know you always keep your tone wheel on silent.”

“And that makes it okay for you to call me at work with personal business?” Amber huffed. “Whatever, what’s up, bubba?” She sat down and leaned back in the pilot’s chair, although it was adjusted to Devo’s height, so her legs dangled far above the floor. 

“I just wanted to invite you over,” Kodira said casually, “when’s a good time?”

“Like…to the Ballast?” came the uncharacteristically hesitant reply.

“That is where I’ve lived for the past 30 years, yes.”

Clutching the arm of the chair with her free hand, Amber exhaled deeply. “Whenever works for me, bubba.”

“Great, I’ll see you tomorrow at 7 then. Meet me out front.” *click*

The line went dead and Amber was alone on the bridge, unsure quite how to feel about what she had gotten herself into. However, not being one to worry if it could be avoided or dwell on feelings, she headed to go work on some repairs (it’s not like they were getting done by Urchin, anyway). All the details of tomorrow could be a tomorrow problem.

Over in the Ballast, sitting at her desk in her private chambers, Kodira worried that she was being presumptuous. Things hadn’t gone the best the last time they had seen each other before dinner a few weeks back, a year ago. But, her and Amber would always be friends, so there was no harm in asking, right? Before her mind could drift any further, there was a knock on the door, and the high ballaster Hermine swept in with an armful of papers. The day’s business was not yet done. 

The next day, Amber found herself facing a problem she had not thought about a day in her life: what to wear. It wasn’t that she cared about impressing Kodira, she just didn’t want to impress either of them in the much nicer environment of the Ballast. Before having applied for the Bluespan Brokerage, Uncle Joshie had agreed to keep a trunk with some of Amber’s things that she considered too valuable to keep on the ship. As she headed towards the Cloaca, Amber actually found herself hoping Joshie wouldn’t be in. Of course, he was her closest friend besides Kodira, but she was just on edge today and not in the mood for a vibe check. To her relief, though, only Chauncey was behind the bar, so she could get what she needed without any unnecessary to do. 

Back on the Coriolis, safely in Amber’s Place with the door locked, she placed the item she had retrieved on the bed: a plain white button down shirt. It was dusty but in fairly good shape, and had not been worn for decades. The shirt had been her father’s, although as a fisher, he had little reason to actually wear it. Amber took it with her when she left for the shoreside, and she had never worn it, but she figured now was as good a time as any. Slipping her arms into the sleeves, and slowly fastening most of the buttons, she closed her eyes and imagined it felt like one last hug from her daddy. She also had exactly one pair of long pants (they were cargo pants, but still), but no shoes that would work.

“Hey, Devo!” she shouted.

Footsteps ran through the ship and stopped outside the door. “What do you need, Amber?” Devo asked. “I’m here, but I can’t open your door.”

“Ha, you’ve finally learned how things work around here. You got a nice pair of shoes I can borrow?”

“I guess so?” he replied. “They might not fit you, let’s see.” Amber listened to Devo retreat, and sighed, unable to believe he was who she was asking for help in this situation. But ultimately, it was to do right by Kodira, so she could put up with being a bit uncomfortable. Then Devo knocked, and she opened the door.

“Amber, you look very nice,” Devo complimented his captain.

“Thanks, Devo, I owe you one. Go on now.” His shiny dress shoes fit surprisingly well as she tied them on. There was nothing left to do but walk to the Ballast, to return to her home during the first year under the sea that she hadn’t been back to since. 

Kodira stood in front of the Ballast, waiting for Amber, considering how her friend might see it. In her mind, she had just invited Amber to her house, but it was more than that and she knew it. She was the ballaster of defense who lived in the headquarters of the government: not exactly the most warm and welcoming. It was too late to second guess things now, though, and she did really want to have a good night.

When Amber and Kodira’s eyes met, they were overwhelmed with such deep affection for each other that they were lost for words. Something about the difference of circumstance, yet its shared familiarity from so long ago, seeped into the cracks of their time worn and toughened hearts. Kodira thought Amber was as handsome as ever, and she still wore her hair in the same two braids below her ears in the front with a bandana kerchief tied at the nape of her neck, their reddish brown color was just streaked with gray now. Amber thought Kodira was beautiful, and nobody else had ever been beautiful to her. The ballaster’s grace and confidence with everything she had to do on a daily basis was impressive, that was what she truly believed despite the resentment she still struggled with sometimes.

“Oh wow, Amber, you didn’t need to dress up for me,” Kodira remarked, breaking the silence.

“I didn’t.” With that, they headed back into the Ballast and up the stairs to Kodira’s chamber. There was a nice bottle of wine sitting on a side table with two glasses next to it. Kodira poured herself some and offered it to Amber, who filled her glass almost all the way to the top, immediately taking a big sip before asking, “Okay, bubba, what do you want?”

Kodira had sat down in a dark blue velvet armchair, and as she looked at Amber, her face fell. “What do you mean, what do I want? Can I not just invite you over for the night?”

“I mean sure, and you did, which is nice, but we don’t usually hang out anywhere where it’s just the two of us, so I figured something was up.” She drank more of her wine and was not making eye contact.

“Amber, come over here.” Amber did, sitting on Kodira’s lap, and swinging her legs over the arm of the chair, resting one of her arms around Kodira’s shoulders. Subconsciously, as their bodies made contact, they both felt themselves relax, slightly melting into the chair and each other.

“See?” Kodira whispered. “It’s still so natural. We haven’t forgotten.” She felt Amber’s weight shift slightly and then settle as she rested her head against Kodira’s neck.

“Listen, bubba, I know where this is going. I could talk about what’s gone all night and it wouldn’t do anyone any good. While it’s just the two of us and your big fancy bed, though…”

Amber pushed herself up off Kodira and grabbed her hand. In just a few steps, they fell onto the bed, kissing each other ravenously, hands pulling hair and caressing stomachs and thighs, breath hitching and little moans between kisses. Kodira exhaled deeply, gently running her hand down Amber’s cheekbone.

“You’ve certainly still got it,” she mumbled.

Amber grinned. “I know, bubba. You’re not bad yourself.” They cuddled for a while, allowing themselves to simply indulge in feeling the weight and warmth of each other’s bodies pressing against each other. Then, all of a sudden, just as Kodira was starting to undo the buttons on Amber’s shirt, the red light on her forehead lit up. Her eyes glazed over, and Amber reflexively pulled away. Just a few seconds later, she snapped back to herself, with a worried look on her face. 

“Something is wrong in the Gunwale, they need me to-” but she was cut off before she could finish explaining.

“I know, I know, it’s so important and you have to leave right now,” interrupted Amber in a sarcastic voice.

“Amber, don’t do this again,” said Kodira tiredly as she got up and started unbraiding her hair so she could brush it before leaving.

“If I remember right, you’re the one doing this again, Kodira. It was the same thing a year ago, and I know you’re a ballaster, I’m still so proud of you for that but…no, no, just go. You go do what you have to do, but I’m not gonna be here when you come back.” Kodira turned to look at Amber with tears in her eyes and Amber returned her gaze, unbreaking, perfectly steady and emotionless until Kodira had to look away. She sat down to rebraid her hair, trying not to cry, and when she got up to say goodbye to Amber before she left, she was already gone. If not for the empty glass of wine still sitting out, it wouldn’t have seemed like there had been anyone over at all that night. Kodira dried her eyes and slipped on her coat. This damn job was not worth it sometimes, but it was all she had, and she was good at it, so she kept doing it. Hell, it was what she had left Amber for in the first place, so this was nothing new. Sunk cost and all that. With that, the ballaster of defense headed out once again to protect the city, with her own heart and the heart of her best friend left behind. 

Amber loved Kodira, but she also hated her sometimes, in moments like this. She felt selfish, but it hurt that they couldn’t have one night together in exchange for a year apart. Nobody else saw in Amber what Kodira did, she treasured those moments where she got to be more than just someone who killed sharks. But in the end, she was a finner (and now the captain of a crew working for the Brokerage) and Kodira was a ballaster, and realistically nothing was going to change that. They had both made their choices a long time ago. Day to day, she didn’t always think about it much, but it popped up sometimes, and there were moments like now where it was overwhelming. By now, Amber was back at the Coriolis, she only quickly popped inside to grab a beer, and brought it back out to the dock, where she sat cross legged and looked out at the dark water. Even after so many years, it still felt like there should be stars at night when it was like this, but of course there weren’t. Amber slowly drank her beer and found herself wishing that Kodira slept well when she got back home.

[neatfarmsblog]

How Tractor Bucket Brush Forks Transform Everyday Tractor Work into Heavy-Duty Tasks 

Tractors are vital machines in agricultural and land maintenance tasks, but their efficiency multiplies with the right attachments. One such powerful enhancement is the tractor bucket brush fork. This add-on offers flexibility and functionality, enabling the tractor to tackle a wider range of heavy-duty jobs without changing the bucket or purchasing separate implements. The use of tractor bucket brush forks is growing across farms, forests, construction zones, and residential estates due to their practicality and value. 

Understanding Tractor Bucket Brush Forks 

A tractor bucket brush fork is a detachable set of steel tines or forks that clamp onto the front bucket of a tractor. Once installed, the bucket becomes capable of grabbing, lifting, and moving brush, sticks, twigs, hay, and even small logs. Unlike a grapple attachment that requires hydraulic connections, brush forks operate without complicated systems, making them easier and quicker to use, especially on compact or mid-size tractors. 

Brush forks are often used in land clearing projects, field maintenance, and disaster cleanup operations where loose or irregular debris must be removed efficiently. 

Built for Tough Environments 

Durability is a standout feature of brush forks. Constructed from steel alloys with reinforced welds, they are designed to handle consistent stress. Many models include bracing bars and multiple connection points for better load distribution. This engineering ensures that the forks do not bend or twist even when moving uneven or oversized materials like tree limbs or bundled hay. 

In addition to rugged construction, corrosion-resistant coatings, like powder finishes or galvanized layers, protect the forks from rust due to moisture or long-term exposure to the elements. 

Efficiency on the Farm 

Agriculture is perhaps the most common field where these tools are used. They allow a tractor to collect and transport material that might otherwise require manual labor. For example, after crop harvest, leftover stalks and plant matter can be efficiently cleared using brush forks. Similarly, farmers use them to move bales or remove storm damage that clutters grazing land or fields. 

Their usefulness is further demonstrated in livestock operations, where they can shift bedding, manure, and waste to compost or disposal areas without touching the material. 

Brush Forks in Forestry and Landscaping 

Forestry work often involves handling fallen timber, stumps, and thick undergrowth. Instead of using chains or struggling with awkward equipment, operators use brush forks to scoop and shift piles of wood and debris. This minimizes physical labor and accelerates the pace of cleanup operations. 

Landscapers find brush forks valuable for dealing with trimming piles, roots, and yard waste. Whether clearing an overgrown lot or removing hedge clippings, the ability to gather large, loose materials into one manageable load is a major time-saver. 

Attachment Simplicity and Versatility 

One of the main appeals of tractor bucket brush forks is how simple they are to install. Most models clamp directly onto the bucket edge using heavy-duty bolts, hooks, or tensioning systems. This means no hydraulic lines or electrical hookups are necessary. 

Some designs allow individual tine spacing to be adjusted. This is useful for different types of loads—close spacing for fine materials like mulch or hay, and wider spacing for branches and logs. 

Additionally, users can remove and store the forks when not in use, allowing the tractor to perform other jobs without obstruction. The speed and ease of this switch are unmatched compared to other attachments. 

Safe and Practical Operation Tips 

Although brush forks are easy to use, safety and effectiveness depend on good practices. Operators should avoid overloading the bucket, especially when dealing with awkward loads like tangled branches or wet hay. It's crucial to drive slowly and keep the load low to the ground to avoid tipping the tractor. 

Ensure that all mounting hardware is secure before operation. If the fork attachment shifts or loosens during use, it can damage the tractor bucket or create safety hazards. 

Routine checks and regular maintenance, such as tightening bolts and cleaning debris off the forks, will enhance safety and extend the life of the equipment. 

Conclusion 

Tractor bucket brush forks are game-changers in the world of property and land management. They take the simple bucket and elevate it into a high-performing tool for diverse cleanup and handling needs. With their durable construction, ease of use, and unmatched versatility, these forks provide unmatched value for farmers, landscapers, and anyone managing outdoor spaces. Whether you’re maintaining a farm, clearing woods, or cleaning up after a storm, brush forks simplify hard tasks and enhance your tractor’s potential in ways few attachments can match. 

[showhomefurnitures-blog]

From Forest to Front Room: The Journey of Canadian Furniture in Calgary

In a city like Calgary—where stunning natural landscapes and contemporary living coexist—it only makes sense that furniture choices reflect that same balance. Canadian-made furniture brings beauty, durability, and sustainability right into Calgary homes. But have you ever stopped to think about where that beautiful solid wood dining table or cozy sectional came from?

This is the story of how Canadian furniture goes from the forest to your front room—and why Calgary homeowners are increasingly choosing local over imported pieces.

It All Begins in the Forest

Canada is home to some of the most responsibly managed forests in the world. British Columbia, Ontario, and Quebec are major sources of high-quality hardwoods such as maple, oak, and cherry—materials known for their strength and timeless beauty.

Sustainable harvesting practices are not just buzzwords in Canadian forestry. They’re a way of life. Trees are carefully selected to minimize ecological impact, and for every tree cut, new ones are planted. This respect for the environment ensures a continuous supply of wood while preserving natural ecosystems.

For Calgary residents who appreciate environmental responsibility, this means your new furniture piece doesn’t just look good—it does good too.

The Milling and Crafting Stage

Once the timber is responsibly harvested, it’s sent to Canadian sawmills where it’s processed into usable lumber. These mills are often family-run businesses with generations of experience, ensuring every plank is treated with care.

From there, the wood goes to furniture workshops across Canada, many of which are small or mid-sized manufacturers dedicated to craftsmanship. At this stage, skilled artisans cut, carve, and assemble your future furniture with precision. Unlike mass-produced items, Canadian furniture is often handcrafted or produced in small batches, which means more attention to detail and higher quality.

If you're shopping for furniture in Calgary, stores like Showhome Furniture showcase these expertly made pieces. As a family-run business themselves, Showhome proudly supports Canadian craftsmanship in every corner of their massive 70,000 sq. ft. showroom.

Customization: Built for Your Calgary Home

One of the most appealing aspects of Canadian furniture is customization. Calgary homes range from chic downtown condos to rustic suburban dwellings and everything in between. Canadian manufacturers understand this diversity and offer custom sizing, finishes, fabrics, and wood types to match any style or space.

Want a dark walnut dining table that seats ten? Or maybe a buttery soft leather sectional with firm support and deep seats? You’re not stuck with generic choices. At Showhome Furniture, clients can sit down with in-house designers and create something that truly fits their vision—and space.

Customization ensures you’re not just buying furniture, but investing in a personalized piece of home.

Eco-Friendly Finishes and Local Materials

Once a piece is assembled, it’s finished with stains, paints, or sealants—many of which are low in VOCs (volatile organic compounds), making them safer for your family and the environment. Canadian manufacturers often use water-based finishes and natural oils to protect the wood while keeping it breathable and healthy.

Fabrics and upholstery materials are also frequently sourced from within Canada or North America. Whether it’s recycled textiles, ethically-sourced leather, or high-performance performance fabrics, sustainability is always in the conversation.

Calgary homeowners looking to make responsible choices without compromising on style or comfort find Canadian-made furniture offers the perfect balance.

Transportation: Shorter Distances, Lower Footprint

Another benefit of buying Canadian furniture in Calgary is the reduced carbon footprint. Unlike imports that travel thousands of miles via ship, rail, and truck, Canadian-made pieces often move directly from the manufacturer to local retailers like Showhome Furniture.

This not only means fewer emissions but also faster delivery times. Plus, if anything needs to be fixed or adjusted, you’re dealing with a local business—not a third-party logistics chain halfway around the world.

Displayed with Pride at Showhome Furniture Calgary

The final stage of the journey lands your furniture in a beautiful showroom—specifically, Showhome Furniture at North Hill Centre. This massive space is filled with pieces that tell a story. Each Canadian-made bed frame, coffee table, or media console is a product of care, tradition, and sustainability.

Showhome doesn’t just sell furniture; they showcase it. Their free in-store design consultations help you visualize your space, combine textures, and experiment with layout—all using Canadian-made options that elevate your home while supporting the local economy.

Their VIP program adds even more value with exclusive offers, early access to new styles, and personalized service from start to finish.

Why This Journey Matters to Calgary

Choosing Canadian-made furniture isn’t just about style or convenience—it’s about investing in your community. You support jobs, ethical practices, and environmentally responsible businesses. You bring home furniture that’s made to last in every sense—physically, emotionally, and socially.

With Calgary’s housing market growing and new families setting up homes in diverse neighbourhoods from Kensington to Seton, the demand for thoughtful, long-lasting pieces is increasing. Canadian furniture delivers just that.

Final Thoughts

From the forest to your front room, the journey of Canadian furniture is a meaningful one—marked by sustainability, craftsmanship, and care. Calgary homeowners looking for modern design, eco-friendly materials, and long-lasting value need not look beyond their borders.

Visit Showhome Furniture in Calgary to explore a wide selection of Canadian-made pieces. Whether you’re furnishing a single room or an entire house, you’ll find high-quality options backed by expert advice, free design consultations, and a showroom that proudly celebrates the journey of Canadian furniture.

FAQs: From Forest to Front Room

1. Why should I choose Canadian-made furniture over imported options? Canadian-made furniture offers superior craftsmanship, customizable options, eco-friendly materials, and supports the local economy. It’s built to last and reduces your environmental footprint compared to imports.

2. How can I tell if furniture is made in Canada? Look for “Made in Canada” labels or ask your local furniture retailer. Reputable stores like Showhome Furniture proudly carry and promote Canadian-made brands.

3. Does Canadian furniture cost more than imported furniture? While the upfront cost may be slightly higher, the longevity and quality of Canadian-made furniture often make it a more cost-effective investment over time.

4. Can I customize Canadian-made furniture? Absolutely. Canadian manufacturers typically offer a wide range of customization options—from fabric and wood finishes to dimensions and hardware.

5. Where can I buy Canadian furniture in Calgary? Showhome Furniture is a top destination. They offer a vast selection of locally crafted pieces, free interior design consultations, and exclusive deals for VIP clients.

[allureconcretesolutionsaustralia]

Affordable Polished Concrete Services Brisbane for Stunning Floors

Transforming Interiors with Polished Concrete Services Brisbane

Polished concrete has become a preferred choice for residential, commercial, and industrial flooring due to its seamless appearance, durability, and cost-effectiveness. The rising demand for polished concrete services Brisbane reflects its growing popularity across a wide range of properties. Whether for a modern home, a sleek office space, or a busy warehouse, polished concrete delivers an ideal blend of function and visual appeal.

The Rising Demand for Concrete Floor Polishing

More Brisbane property owners are shifting towards polished concrete as an alternative to traditional flooring options such as tiles, carpet, and timber. The smooth, high-gloss finish of polished concrete complements contemporary interior designs, while its low maintenance makes it ideal for high-traffic areas. Unlike other floor types that may wear or stain easily, polished concrete offers resistance to abrasion, impact, and moisture when properly sealed.

Polished concrete services Brisbane offer tailored solutions to meet the unique needs of each space, ensuring long-lasting results and aesthetic consistency.

Benefits of Choosing Polished Concrete Over Traditional Flooring

When comparing flooring options, polished concrete emerges as one of the most economical and practical choices. It stands out for a number of reasons:

Long-Term Savings: While the initial installation may be comparable to other flooring types, polished concrete requires minimal upkeep. This translates to significant cost savings over time.

Superior Durability: Designed to withstand heavy use, polished concrete is ideal for both residential and commercial applications.

Eco-Friendly Properties: As it utilizes the existing concrete slab, this flooring method reduces the need for new materials, making it a sustainable option.

Customizable Appearance: From matte to high-gloss finishes, concrete polishing can be tailored to meet a variety of design preferences.

How Polished Concrete Enhances Property Value

Brisbane property investors often seek cost-effective ways to elevate their assets without extensive renovations. Incorporating polished concrete can significantly increase a property’s appeal. It creates a clean, high-end look that attracts buyers and tenants alike. Polished concrete services Brisbane often include custom coloring, decorative aggregates, and finishes that replicate the feel of luxury stone surfaces without the high price tag.

In the competitive real estate market, homes and commercial buildings with modern, low-maintenance floors can stand out. As a result, investing in polished concrete can offer both immediate aesthetic improvements and long-term financial returns.

Comparing Polished Concrete with Epoxy and Tiles

While epoxy and tiled floors have their place in specific environments, polished concrete offers unique advantages that are hard to overlook. Tiles may crack or loosen over time, especially in heavy-use areas. Epoxy, while durable, can discolor or peel when exposed to certain chemicals or high UV levels.

Polished concrete, in contrast, provides a seamless finish that reduces tripping hazards and resists wear and tear under various conditions. It also eliminates grout lines that often harbor dirt and require special cleaning. For Brisbane homeowners and business operators aiming for a blend of style and practicality, polished concrete remains a front-running option.

Where Polished Concrete Shines Best

Polished concrete services Brisbane cater to a wide range of environments. Some of the most common applications include:

Residential Homes: Living areas, kitchens, bathrooms, and outdoor patios.

Retail Stores: Showrooms, display floors, and entrances that need to maintain a clean and modern look.

Offices and Commercial Spaces: Lobbies, hallways, and open-plan workspaces that benefit from an elegant, professional feel.

Industrial and Warehouse Facilities: Areas requiring durable, easy-to-clean floors that can handle equipment and heavy traffic.

Because of its adaptability, polished concrete proves to be a smart choice for nearly any setting.

Choosing the Right Finish and Style

Polished concrete is not a one-size-fits-all solution. Clients in Brisbane can choose from a wide variety of finishes, including satin, semi-gloss, and high-gloss, depending on the lighting and usage of the space. There are also options for exposed aggregate styles, which reveal the texture of stones and minerals within the concrete, creating a unique and visually appealing effect.

Color stains and dyes can further customize the floor to match existing design elements. These enhancements allow Brisbane property owners to create a floor that complements their personal style or brand image.

Key Considerations When Hiring Polished Concrete Services

Before selecting a provider of polished concrete services Brisbane, it’s essential to evaluate certain factors:

Experience and Expertise: Skilled professionals ensure a flawless finish and long-lasting durability.

Quality of Equipment: Advanced machinery results in more precise grinding and polishing.

Preparation Techniques: Proper surface preparation, including crack repairs and leveling, ensures optimal outcomes.

Environmental Considerations: Water-based sealers and dust-controlled systems are preferred for indoor applications.

Taking these factors into account helps ensure that the final result not only looks great but also performs reliably over time.

Polished Concrete for Outdoor Use

Outdoor areas such as driveways, pool decks, and patios in Brisbane can also benefit from polished concrete finishes. While the approach slightly differs from indoor applications, the results remain equally impressive. A slip-resistant sealant is often applied to increase safety during wet conditions. Outdoor polished concrete stands up well to heat, humidity, and exposure to the elements, making it an excellent long-term investment for Queensland’s climate.

Maintaining Polished Concrete Floors with Ease

One of the biggest draws of polished concrete is its low-maintenance nature. Routine cleaning typically involves sweeping and occasional damp mopping using a pH-neutral cleaner. No waxes or special treatments are required, and with regular upkeep, the surface maintains its shine for years.

For high-traffic areas, occasional re-polishing may be necessary to restore the original luster. However, this process is far less invasive than replacing tile or resurfacing timber flooring.

Final Thoughts on Investing in Polished Concrete

Polished concrete services Brisbane deliver remarkable value to homeowners, business operators, and developers looking for reliable and visually striking flooring solutions. Offering a perfect combination of style, functionality, and affordability, this flooring option suits a wide range of applications—from elegant living rooms to tough industrial spaces.

By choosing polished concrete, Brisbane property owners can enjoy floors that not only enhance the look of their spaces but also stand up to the demands of everyday life. The added durability, low upkeep, and customization possibilities make polished concrete an exceptional investment for anyone aiming to upgrade their property without compromise.