Chapter Text
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON
It is a wicked thing, for a Targaryen to be separated from their dragon. Jacaerys had not even considered such a curse possible until now. Hadn't known there was a way for his bond with Vermax to be blocked—and yet here he is, unattached, save for a thread so thin, he's unsure of whether it's a memory or a remnant. He dangles from that line. Hopeless, helpless. Not unlike the way pelts were described as hanging to dry in the Stark hunting cabins; something severed from life, awaiting a new fate.
The humming he had spoken of to Cregan, the humming he hadn't been sure existed, is a truth, for in its absence, there's a hollowness. An ache with a sickly pulse, one that reminds him that the other half of his soul—the bond he forged as a child in the cradle long before any expected such a thing, but not a moment too soon for the mother who had birthed a bastard—is out of his reach. Perhaps gone forever.
When Jacaerys crossed through the Wall, it was as though his ears popped. The dull blanket over his mind lifted alongside of it, but the lack of his bond has created something else. A new weight. One that crushes his heart and his lungs as it sinks into his bones; the weight of an absence. A gut-wrenching sorrow not unlike how he felt when he learned that his true father had died.
The varied emotions and sensations rippling through his body make it difficult for the prince to breathe. He keeps his hand over his chest, closes his eyes, and focuses all of his efforts on inhaling ragged breath after ragged breath. On not panicking.
It's why he doesn't notice Cregan approach, why he startles so violently when a hand touches his shoulder.
"My prince, are you alright?" Cregan's concern is back in full-force. The prince can hear it in every syllable the man speaks. He hadn't realized Cregan was so concerned when they were atop the bell tower, when they were curled together and the prince was gazing longingly at the edge of the landing—but without the archaic magic of the Nightfort playing trick on his mind, Jacaerys can hear his paramour's pain like a tangible thing.
And so he shakes his head, and manages to choke out a response. "I— I can't—" Jace reaches deep inside of his soul, searches for that tether, the wisp of connection to Vermax. "I can't feel him." Not enough, at least. It's as feeble as water falling through his fingers. There, but gone. Wetting his touch, but nothing he can take hold of.
His voice is as raw as his soul feels, and he presses his palm harder into his chest, as though he might plunge his hand in and physically take ahold of the bond—collect it in his palm, wrap his fingers around it, and pull the thread back into its full form somehow.
Replace the ache with the hum he hadn't even known he needed.
The horse between Jace's legs dances nervously, but Cregan moves closer. Grasps the reins and holds the mount still. "Then we will return," the lord says quietly, but sternly. His face is bloodless, his expression reflecting the fear and uncertainty that Jacaerys feels. It's an indication that he is speaking out of concern for his paramour—not from a place of logic. Particularly so, because Cregan has already told Jacaerys that he must ride out on this ranging, regardless of whether or not the prince would join him.
Now is the opportunity for Jacaerys to return, and to take Cregan back alongside of him. For truth, the prince wants that. In fact, he wants nothing more than to be reunited with the flame in his soul, the spark of his heart alongside of him. Yet the thought of stepping back into the maw of the Nightfort is a horrifying one. As is the thought of going through all that he has, only to fail just before reaching the challenges that the old gods wish him to face.
At that, he wonders if perhaps this is one of them. If the old gods are asking him to prove that he is a man without the support of that which makes him a Targaryen.
If the old gods are stripping him raw before plunging him into the trials, so that they might assess him and him alone.
Jacaerys is in pain. Every sickly pulse feels as though his heart is cracking, breaking down the center and bleeding out before sowing itself back shut only to break again. Yet Jacaerys knows he cannot return. Not yet. He has not forgotten the three stolen souls, the fourth maiming. The warnings. The whispered language he could not understand, but that hissed at him for the entire descent to the Black Gate. He has not forgotten Cora's words.
Cregan, however, is not thinking from that frame of mind. His concern is evident, his silver eyes flickering between Jacaerys' dark ones when the prince looks up at him.
"Allow me to call for the others." Cregan's voice is low, husky. A gruff northern drawl that sparks warmth in Jacaerys' near-dead soul. "The clansmen will escort you back." He swallows. "I would return if you so desired. We could ride through here, or through the gate at Deep Lake. You need not make such a sacrifice." Cregan leans closer. "The gods will understand."
Yet Jacaerys knows differently. He shakes his head, inhaling another ragged breath. "They will not." He sounds hoarse. Raw. "Give me a moment. I beg of you." He needs time to collect his thoughts.
Cregan's pain is clear in his gaze, but he nods tightly. "If it pleases you, my prince."
It does not please him, but it is necessary. Jacaerys' next inhale is ragged. He doesn't know what to do. His heart is pounding, his soul is aching, and the longer he remains still, the more he is beginning to wonder if the wisp of connection is not connection at all.
If perhaps he has truly broken the bond with his dragon, and that whisper is all that remains. If the part of himself that makes him whole, that makes him complete, is well and truly gone forever.
A sob threatens to wrack his body, but he chokes it down. Holds tight to the thin string, hoping and praying for a sign. Any sort of sign. He pleads with the old gods, with those from Valyria, and with any who might be listening.
One sign.
One sign that will indicate that his bond is not lost forevermore.
Jacaerys closes his eyes, comforted by the northern lord's presence and allowing him complete control over the garron the prince rides. He focuses everything he can on this wish. One sign, one indication. That is all he needs to continue. To pursue what they demand him to pursue.
Which is when he feels it.
When Jacaerys was atop the Nightfort, and Cregan was speaking to him earnestly—holding entire conversations with the prince that Jace could not hear, it was as though the prince was underwater. As though he was listening to the man speak, watching his lips move, but not fully understanding the words cordoned off by an unseeable barrier.
Now, he's on the other side of it.
He is no longer the one drowning beneath, but rather, the one leaning over the pool, calling out to the soul trapped inside of it—calling out to Vermax. At this, he feels the faintest spark of heat, so feeble that he nearly missed it. It's as soft as the whisper of breath that preceeds a lover's kiss, but it is there.
It exists.
Jacaerys exhales heavily. His fear ebbs, relief washing through him, even as his body trembles. This far from ideal. The furthest, he might wager. But his bond is not severed—that unfathomable thought is not truth. It is merely blocked by the massive wall of ice. Blocked by the magic imbued within—blocked in a way that two souls could not penetrate alone.
Jacaerys cannot believe himself, but he silently thanks the old gods for their mercy. For not severing his soulbond that, for the first time in his life—and in reading all histories of his people—he realizes might truly be possible.
He takes a moment to try to brush against the bond again, and is met with the same response; flicker of heat so frail, it is as though it is a figment of his imagination. Yet it exists. It is not broken. It is not shattered or torn or ripped from his soul. It is blocked, and because of that, he knows that this is merely the next step in proving himself to the gods of his true father.
And this reminder, the reminder that he is doing this because he has been challenged—because the old gods wish for him to seek their favor, to earn it—is the comfort that he needed, for it is what allows him to inhale again. To breathe deeply, to lift his chin and face his paramour.
"I will ride onward with the ranging."
"Are you certain?" Cregan asks in a hushed voice. He glances backwards and then reaches for Jace's palm, tugging it into his own hand. "I would return with you, my Jacaerys. You need only ask."
An ache seizes Jace's heart again, but this time, for the man before him. For his repeated offer, the suggestion. For what the prince knows such a thing would cost the Warden of the North. Could it be that he values Jacaerys' life over those of his own people?
Jace shakes his head, though he is uncertain of whether or not he is shaking his mind of these thoughts or responding to Cregan. Is far too fragile to entertain such a thought. Such a possibility—far too fragile.
And yet, there the thought sits; what Cregan might be willing to risk for Jace.
It is not something he can ignore, not something he can shove aside, and his heart flutters at the idea of it. He swallows, squeezing Cregan's hand—but shakes his head.
"We need not turn back. It is merely a block. It has disoriented me, but I am certain that all will be well. It is temporary." He swallows. "I will ride on with you. I will face my trials—" Jacaerys inhales deeply, allows Cregan's offer to flicker through his mind, allows his decision to come next—a decision to provide what he can to the lord that has all but declared his feelings for Jacaerys—and then continues, confident that if he cannot return to Cregan his heart in full truth, he might provide honesty instead "—and I will return to my dragon once I have earned the favor of my true father's gods."
Cregan's eyes widen, his lips part. His gaze travels over Jace's freckles, his curls. His dark eyes. Dip to his lips briefly, and then return to meet Jace's gaze. Cregan has known this truth, Jacaerys is certain, but to have it confirmed is something else entirely. A measure of trust. The most faith the prince might ever allow. "I will hold this secret to my grave."
Jacaerys' eyes sting with unshed tears that rise from an emotion he cannot touch, for fear of what it might cost him if fully recognized. "I thank you."
Cregan's expression softens. "There is no need to thank me, my Jacaerys." He lifts Jace's hand up, presses a kiss to the back of it, and then straightens. "However, I am not certain this is the best course of action." A frown plays at his lips. "You gave me your word that should danger arise, you would call upon your beast. Yet you cannot do that if the bond is blocked."
"Don't," Jace says, looking at him sharply. "I am more than a prince, Cregan. I am an heir, and it is my duty to protect the realm. I would know what it is that threatens us from the north, regardless of my own discomfort in discovering that threat, and I would ask you to release me from our bargain so that I might ride forth with dignity—and without these men knowing of this…peculiarity in my bond."
There is a flicker of strength in his voice, the return of his confidence, and Jacaerys is gladdened for it. He is connected to Vermax in a way that is deeper than bone, deeper than sinew and flesh and blood. Their very being is linked. Unseverable.
Except, the Wall did just that; it cut the tie between dragon and rider as easily as a hot knife slices through butter. Set a block into place that has frightened Jacaerys and disoriented him in a way he's never felt before.
Yet he knows that this is as much of his trials as everything else he faced. At the Nightfort, he acted out of fear. Now, he will not do such a thing. He has considered the situation, he has called for aid in confirmation that his bond is not entirely lost—and he has received such confirmation. Now, he must move forward and accept the trials the old gods are setting out for him—for if he fails to do so, the opportunity will be lost.
He will never be fit for his birthright.
This is no easy decision for him to make, but it is his alone.
And so although he knows it goes against Cregan's nature as a protector to allow such a thing, Jacaerys' paramour must step aside. Must grant the prince this dignity of choice, and support the actions hereforth.
Jacaerys keeps his gaze hard, his chin high. Challenges Lord Cregan Stark to disrespect his wishes—the wishes of an heir who will one day be king.
"I am learning something about you," Cregan murmurs. The wind howls a gentle tune, and snowflakes begin to flutter around them, enclosing the two young men in a small cacoon of privacy. "When you make a decision, you are not easily swayed…if at all."
Jacaerys does not respond. He feels no need, for the lord is correct. With so much in question about Jacaerys' life and future reign, he must needs be solid of mind. There is no room for error for a bastard living a mummer's farce as a prince.
"I will support you," Cregan finally murmurs. "They will not know of this, and I would not stop you from pursuing your trials."
"And our bargain?" Jacaerys asks, rubbing his chest once more.
"Of that, I cannot release you," Cregan responds. "I know nothing of the magic that burns through your veins, but should something happen…"
"He will not come," Jacaerys says sharply. "I cannot feel him, Cregan. He will not come." It aches to admit such a thing, but it is truth. He would not lie to his paramour.
Cregan shrugs. "Aye, but we have a long ride back to Winterfell once this ranging is through," he points out. "And so I do not release you from that, my prince—though I would understand if you were to reach for him to no avail."
Jacaerys frowns, but does not dispute the lord's response. Instead, he takes in another lungful of chilly air, testing his ability to continue breathing through the absence of Vermax, and then lifts his reins. "Then we must hope for no trouble."
Cregan chuckles, gaze flickering down to Jacaerys' mouth and then back up to his eyes. "My prince, there will be trouble," he responds. "We must simply hope that it is not insurmountable trouble."
"Well then," Jace mutters. "We must hope for no insurmountable trouble."
Cregan squeezes Jacaerys' fingers one more time before releasing them. "We shall hope." He turns his horse and nods towards the others in the distance. "Nearly there," he comments. "Let us catch up."
Jacaerys spurs his garron's barrel, and together, he and the Lord of Winterfell canter forward to catch up with the rest of the party at the edge of the haunted forest that awaits them.
*
PRINCE JACAERYS VELARYON
Jacaerys is exhausted by the time they reach their first stop. It was late enough in the day when they set out from the Nightfort that it's not far from the Wall when they turn in for the evening, yet the prince's bones ache and his body yearns for the soft comforts of a featherbed when they do. He's been traveling for quite some time, but there is something eerie about doing so outside of his own realm.
The winds are harsher, the cold has more of a nip to it, and the forest is wilder than ever; tangles of vines and great ironwood trees creating an air of being haunted whilst still alive. It is discomforting, but Jacaerys has been reassured that it is nothing unusual. That the wild white roses and the rain-sleet-snow are typical for this side of the Wall.
Their place for the evening is between a river and a cave, and the snow is falling hard enough that the Lord Commander insists they all sup inside of the cave, even if some men will be forced to pitch tents outside of it for the night.
Upon dismount, a brother of the Night's Watch relieves Jacaerys of his garron.
"I can help," the prince insists, but the words fall upon deaf ears—perhaps lost in the howl of the rising blizzard. It means Jacaerys is left standing alone amid a flurry of activity and snow, and so he treks inside of the cave, not quite masochistic enough to remain outdoors when he is clearly unwanted and unneeded.
Inside the cave, a few fires have been started. Brothers are sharing salt beef as they wait for Kit to set up the stew over one, for Oren to warm the robust red wine in the kettle above the flames of another.
Jacaerys approaches the latter, for Oren is gruff but has always been kind, and when he offers to help, the man frowns.
"It's not ready yet, m'prince."
Heat warms Jacaerys' neck as he realizes that Oren thinks the prince was attempting to rush him. "I only meant to offer my hands."
Oren looks up from where he's surrounded by cinnamon and nutmeg, honey and dried berries, and narrows his gaze. "Something wrong with the way I mull wine, m'prince?"
Jacaerys shakes his head, scratching at his jaw, and when Oren turns back to the wine, the prince leaves—not wishing to be misunderstood again, not wishing to accidentally insult the brothers around him.
It's clear he has no role to play in the setting up of camp, and so he searches for the familiarity of his paramour. Finds him not far off. Lord Theomore Snow and Lord Cregan Stark are huddled together not far from where Jacaerys stands, discussing something intently near the ravens, and so Jacaerys joins them—truly unsure of what else he might do.
Lord Snow immediately breaks into a grin and claps Jacaerys on the shoulder. "Impatient for supper, are you?" It's a clear change of subject, but the prince does not pry. "Kit will have us fed in no time." Lord Snow grins, gesturing to where the man is chopping up roots for the stew.
Jacaerys flushes. "I am not impatient," he clarifies.
Lord Snow nods, accepting this much easier than Oren had. "We've been blessed to find this cave empty of creatures for the eve," he tells Jacaerys. "Otherwise, it'd be a night spent beneath the stars."
"I have spent many nights beneath the stars during this sojourn," Jacaerys responds quietly, rubbing his chest as he's taken to doing since he found his soul blocked from his dragon's. He knows he should ignore that Lord Snow and his men believe him useless and pampered, but it's difficult, and sets a frown upon his lips.
"Aye, but you have never slept beneath the stars beyond the Wall," Lord Snow says, his jubilant grin back in full force—as though he's enjoying this trek, the hardness of the journey. "And there are terrors out here that frighten even the grizzliest of my men."
"With any luck, our scouts will pick up the trail this eve and we will find the traitors on the morrow. If all goes well, we shall be back to Deep Lake by sundown without having caught sight of any such terrors," Cregan grunts. "Until then, don't frighten the prince, Theomore."
"I'm not frightened." Jacaerys hates that he sounds petulant, even to himself.
"Let us sit," Cregan interjects. He gestures to a log near one of the fires. Jacaerys and Lord Snow both follow, and the three men sit down beside one another.
Lord Snow's grin is still as wide as can be when they take their places. "Have you heard much of that which we seek, my prince?" He leans around Cregan to look Jacaerys in the eye. "The wildlings?"
Jacaerys nods. "I have."
"Aye, but have you heard tales from true northerners?"
Cregan exhales sour exasperation, as though this is a trying topic, but does not interject again. His resigned acceptance loosens something in the prince's chest, and the boy bites back a grin. Presses his leg into Cregan's as they sit there with the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He wishes he could take Cregan's hand into his own, be as free with his affection as Cora was with Calor, but he knows better. The touch of their thighs and the warmth in his belly from Cregan's subtle possessive attitude will have to do.
Soon thereafter, Oren brings wine, Kit brings stew, and Jacaerys forgets all about feeling out of place as he listens to Lord Snow and his men tell tale of the wildlings. They speak of horrors, of how the wildlings have their own tongue that they use to whisper sorcery. Of how the red wanderer will soon cross the sky, and how when it does, magic will be afoot.
They speak of wildling crime, of how the savages hang criminals and traitors from the branches of their sacred weirwoods—of how they're intent on wreaking havoc. Of how some of the worst wildlings are cannibals that feast on the flesh of their kin.
"Their kin?" Jacaerys asks, surprised. "How could anyone do such a thing?"
"I'm a bastard, my prince. What would I know about respect between kin?" Lord Snow grins, as though such a thing is not shameful at all.
"Shouldn't the prince know all about bastards?"
In the blink of an eye, the cave falls silent. Lord Snow's face tightens, and Cregan is up off of the log—has launched himself across the fire and has the man who has spoken up against the wall of the cave by his neck.
Even Lord Snow looks startled.
Blood pounds through Jacaerys' cheeks, humiliation rising like a tide in his chest, but he says nothing. What could he possibly say in this den of wolves? He is no brother, he has no ally here—save for Cregan. He is completely out of his element and unprepared for such an attack, and as such, is not certain what to do or say.
Yet Cregan has an idea. The man in question tightens his fingers around the brother's neck, the flesh going pale beneath the lord's touch, and releases a low growl from somewhere deep in his chest. "Say that again, Axe."
The men who aren't gazing at Axe and Cregan are staring at Jacaerys for a reaction, and he refuses to give them one. He holds his chin high and says nothing. Does not even blink. Yet beneath his cloak, he curls his ungloved hand into a fist. Presses his fingernails into his own palm and pushes until it hurts to release the rage that is simmering in his gut at the accusation.
At the truth laid bare. For if even those who know naught of propriety and society—those who call a proud, jovial bastard their lord commander—can look upon him and see the shame in what he is, how can he expect a realm of proper lords and ladies to kneel?
It makes the prince furious and terrified all at once.
Furious at his mother, at his father—all of them, save perhaps for Prince Daemon, the only father figure who has not lied to Jacaerys for comfort at the expense of his future reign. Furious at himself for not having done more to conceal the truth.
Furious at the brother who spoke, at himself for the uncertainty stirring in his gut.
There's a rustle of leather and chainmail, and out of the corner of his eye, Jacaerys realizes that he's been surrounded. Karrl, Gunthor, and Galt have moved closer to Jacaerys—Galt unsheathing a dagger and flipping it casually in his palm. Karrl setting his own hand at his pommel and rising to stand in the least casual display of aggression that Jacaerys has ever seen. Gunthor, to his credit, merely flexes his fingers and glares at all looking in their direction.
Jacaerys had not realized until this very moment what taking an honor guard with him meant. His heart warms a touch even as fear continues to reverberate through his body.
"Say that again," Cregan snarls again in a low, threatening tone. He shoves Axe harder into the wall as the man brings his hands up, choking as he tries to hold them aloft in the space Cregan is occupying.
Axe jerks his head to the side, stuttering something that Jacaerys can't quite hear, nor understand, and his eyes flicker from Cregan to Lord Snow—who is gazing steadily into the fire, as though this commotion is not happening.
When it becomes apparent that Lord Snow is not going to rescue him from the grip of the Warden of the North, Axe finds his voice. "Apologies," he croaks through Cregan's chokehold. "It was— a jest."
Galt snorts. Gunthor tenses.
Jacaerys can no longer see Karrl, but he can hear the slide of steel against sheath that means the man has pulled at least the base of his sword free.
"I meant no harm," Axe rasps. "I would not—" Axe inhales a ragged breath "—it was a mistake, m'lord."
All is quiet while they await Cregan's response, and Jacaerys gets the distinct impression that although the man has downplayed the time he spent here with the brothers of the Night's Watch, whatever he did with them, he left an impression—for of the two men pressed against the side of the cave, one has a very evident lack of support. And it isn't the man who regularly beds down with the majority of the group.
"Watch your tongue when speaking to my prince," Cregan growls. He shoves Axe against the wall once more, pulling a strangled sound of pain from the man's lips, and then drops him. He takes a step away from Axe, but when the man tries to rise, a knife goes zinging through the air. It lands tip-first in the wall, the handle quivering so close to the top of Axe's head, Jacaerys reckons the brother has just had at least a few of his hairs sliced off.
Nobody breathes.
"I meant no harm," Galt mimicks in his frosted drawl, grinning into the quiet of the cave. The glow of the fire makes his grin look maniacal, the crackle of the burning logs enhancing the sneer somehow, and a shiver goes through the prince. Galt already has another blade in his fist and is flicking it around again as he keeps his eyes trained on Axe. "Shall we continue with this game? It's one of my favorites."
It's in that moment that Prince Jacaerys realizes something he hadn't before about the clansman. On the ride up to the Wall, Galt was one of the first to point out the prince's flaws and aggressively suggest corrections in a manner that was…less than proper. Jacaerys had told himself it was because they wanted him to be able to defend himself, and he thought he had believed that.
He didn't.
He does, now.
The change is heartwarming, despite the fear threatening to choke Jacaerys' lungs, because he realizes in that moment what it's like for the very first time to have a piece of what his mother does in her Queensguard.
To have supporters.
Men who would do anything to defend him.
The only question nagging in the back of his mind as Galt continues flipping his dagger, as Gunthor cracks his knuckles and Karrl stands guard just behind the prince is whether or not he deserves such a thing.
He, a bastard heir.
Jacaerys' thoughts are torn from the topic when Lord Snow, at long last, clears his throat. "Enough."
Cregan wipes his glove on his cloak. "Prince Jacaerys and I are going to check on the horses," he announces, lifting his gaze to look at Lord Snow with a hard expression.
Jacaerys frowns, for he does not wish to step back out into the cold. Yet when he realizes that Cregan and Lord Snow are communicating something in silence, he rises to his feet and tugs on his gloves. It's clear that a conversation will be happening whilst Cregan and Jacaerys are away, and that the latter must be away for the conversation to happen—so he does not argue the point.
"Karrl and I will stay here," Galt decides, leaning back with his maniacal grin still plastered to his lips. "Gunthor will join you." He's still playing with his second blade, and the message is clear; no tongue shall rise against the prince whilst Galt remains behind.
Gunthor does, indeed, follow them out of the cave—but he remains at the mouth of it, exchanging a subtle nod with Cregan as the lord leads Jacaerys towards where the horses are tied.
Outside of the cave, the chill is maddening. The wind whistles through the dark evergreens, wraps itself around Jacaerys' body, and makes the prince feel as though he's been plunged into the icy depths of a frozen lake despite the dryness of his furs.
Still, his anger—his humiliation—is hot enough that his cheeks are warm and his fists are shaking. He waits until they are out of earshot of the cave before rounding on his lord. "I should take his tongue for that," he seethes.
Despite the tangible anger that had rippled through the lord earlier, Cregan sighs at Jacaerys' statement as though he is put-out. "We are no longer in your realm, my prince. You could not."
"We will return," Jacaerys shoots back quietly. "I could have his head, too." He shakes his own. "These men. They do not respect me. They treat me as a child. A fool. Yet I am a prince—the heir."
Cregan takes Jacaerys' hand into his own, tangling their fingers together as they walk through the line of horses. "They do not treat you as a child," Cregan corrects in a tone of voice that makes Jacaerys irrationally angry. "They treat you as you are."
Jacaerys works his jaw, turning to face Cregan—
"A prince," Cregan clarifies. "A member of the royal family, who will soon return to the comforts of his silk and furs, whilst they remain clad in the black ringmail of their living funeral rites." He frowns. "I have told you before that this is an honor, and it is. Yet it is also a boon, and for some, the heaviest burden they will ever carry."
Jacaerys snorts. "They know nothing of burden." He grinds his teeth together. "There are no expectations upon their shoulders, no demands—"
"Save their lives," Cregan says sharply.
The prince knows he's being unfair, but he can't help it. Can't help the frustration bubbling up inside of his body and mind. "The lives vowed to my throne," he says, scathingly.
The moment the words leave his mouth, they feel wrong. Entitled. Like something his usurping uncle might say, and it makes Jacaerys feel awful. Heat washes up his cheeks, humiliation even worse than when Axe implied he is a bastard, and he bites his lip—looks away from Lord Stark as the man remains silent.
A moment passes as he considers what he's just said, what he's just implied, and he clears his throat. "I apologize," Jacaerys says quietly. "I am aware that their purpose is important. That their lives matter. I have only been caught up in my frustration, for it—" Jace shakes his head and looks back to Cregan "—I did not realize that rumors of my heritage had reached even here." He frowns. "It has been an unwelcome revelation, and I have not handled it with grace."
Cregan pulls Jacaerys into a nook between two horses, and then cups his jaw. "My prince," he begins slowly, "you are the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and your mother is on the precipice of war. Of course the realm has heard these rumors."
"Yet they use them to ridicule me while respecting Lord Snow," Jacaerys hisses, still upset. "He is a bastard as well."
"Aye," Cregan responds quietly.
The wind swirls around them, howling into the dark night, and Jacaerys feels vulnerable all of the sudden. He looks up into the silver gaze of his paramour and frowns. "I envy him," he admits. "Lord Snow is a bastard without lie. He need not hide who he is to demand the respect of his people."
"Bastards begin anew here," Cregan reminds Jacaerys. "The crown…"
"Is different," Jacaerys murmurs. "I am well aware." He leans into Cregan's body; the warmth, the comfort. "Sometimes I wonder what my life would be, had Vermax not hatched."
Cregan strokes a hand down Jacaerys' back, rubbing at his spine, and the prince cats into it without any sort of shame. "You are more than your dragon," he murmurs.
But after a lifetime of whispers and rumors, after the events of this evening, Jacaerys can only shake his head sadly. He tugs at the bond on his chest, drinking in the faint caress of heat like lifewater, and then lays his head against the chest of the lord he is coming to trust more than anyone in the realm as he considers this.
If he is more than his dragon, than why—on the very first eve that his flame has all but been extinguished—have allegations regarding his birth already risen up against him?
He and Lord Snow are not one in the same. Lord Snow has risen above his station by joining the Night's Watch and embracing that which would have made him Other below the Wall. He is a leader, a lord commander, because he was chosen by his men as such. He was not born to this. It was not expected of him, and perhaps that is the difference.
The truth of Jacaerys' birth and birthright are unique, and it means that regardless of all other circumstances—regardless of who he meets and what occurs, regardless of how other bastards are treated across the realm—his curse is his alone. It is an isolating truth. Jacaerys was not chosen by any man to lead, he was born to it. Born to become king—and when he was born with dark hair instead of white, with dark eyes instead of purple, his birthright was threatened. Has been ever since.
Yet the one element that has allowed him to hold his ground all these years is the fire-breathing beast he bonded to in the cradle.
And so, as Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands in the snows with his trueborn lord paramour, the connection he forged in the cradle reduced to a wisp of the full bond, he's forced to ask himself the question that he's realizing the old gods are forcing him to consider as well; could it be that he is nothing without Vermax?
Nothing at all?