The wind hadn't been so bad until he'd crossed the Neck. At least, that was what he'd been telling himself after following the crosswinds east and stopping at White Harbor – a short stop with House Manderly to warm his cheeks and fill both his and Vermax's bellies before the final jaunt to Winterfell proper. But the past few hundred miles had been bone chilling, unmistakably so, the frost feeling as if it hung to his eyelashes; the snow feeling as if it filled his very lungs with every deep inhale. Were it not for the warmth of his dragon beneath him, Jace would've frozen to death – of that he was certain.

Winterfell's outline on the horizon was such a welcome respite, he might've shed a tear, were it not for the worry that it would freeze to his face the moment it trickled onto his cheek.

His landing is less than ideal, a gentle confusion amongst the castle that besets a larger one – until it is Lord Cregan himself directing Jace to land just outside the keep so as to not set alight any kindling. With his feet once more upon the ground, and Vermax satiated at the idea of resting her wings, he didn't tarry much with his instructions to the stablehands, brief enough to allow them to know not to bother her and to give her some place warm and inflammable to rest, and away he was, his boots crinkling the freshly fallen snow as he all but rushed into the gates.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Prince Jacaerys." Lord Cregan says with a nod of his head, bending down to one knee briefly before rising again, large and tall – nearly towering over Jace despite his own lengthy frame. "Let us get you inside before the snow seizes you as its victim, aye?"

The laugh that flows from Cregan's mouth is warm and hearty, his hand gently clasping onto Jace's shoulder as he leads him indoors.

"Thank you for such a kind welcome, Lord Cregan, and for understanding my plight with the snow. We dragons aren't much made for such . . . chill, I fear." Jace's own laughter mingles in as they step inside the stone walls, warmth immediately hitting his cheeks and encapsulating his body, soothing the chill from him in an instant.

"You received the raven from my mother?" He asks, keeping step in time with Cregan, following him carefully through each turn until they've entered what appears to be the Great Hall – though it's empty at this time of day, with no sense of crowd or sign of life, save for a massive pile of white fur around the large seated throne at the head of the table. It takes a few moments for Jace's eyes to adjust to the light, for him to realize that it isn't merely a pile of furs, but fur attached to a living, breathing, beast of great size. ". . . Gods be good. Is that?"

Before he can finish the question, the beast is slowly rising from the floor, languidly stretching each limb across the floor – before gently clambering over to Cregan to lap at his hand.

"A direwolf? Aye, this is Solas. No need to worry much about her, she's no temper like her brother. Sweet thing she is, let's my boy do all he wishes with her." Cregan replies with a nod of his head, rubbing at the beast – Solas' – head before his lips press thin. "I've read the raven from the Queen as well; she needn't worry about where House Stark finds itself allied, my father told King Viserys he would recognize her as queen, and so shall I. A matter we can discuss specifics of in time, but she will find us steadfast in our honor."

The words alone bring a settling comfort to Jacaerys' shoulders, one less thing to find himself overtly worried about. .Of course, House Stark was known for being honorable; known for following through on a promise at any cost – but so had been more than a few of the houses that had originally sworn their word to his grandfather.

"I appreciate your candor, and your willingness to hold true to words that were not initially yours, Lord Cregan." Jace says with a kind smile, his gaze flickering to Solas before it rests upon Cregan once more. "Your word, joins that of House Arryn, and of House Manderly, though the latter told me they would undoubtedly defer to your choosing on the matter." He laughs a little, now understanding the dynamic of the North a little more certainly – now understanding how so many of the Northern houses often deferred to House Stark not merely out of the power the Starks held, but because of the respect and dignity of the reputation they'd built.

Cregan waves his hand, moving to sit in one of the seats, remarkably, not the Lord's seat, but rather merely just another chair, pulling the seat next to him out for Jacaerys as his booming voice carries throughout the hall once more. "Mischa, ale and a plate from the kitchens."

From a place he cannot quite see, Jace hears what appears to be the acknowledgment of orders; finding himself settling down next to Lord Cregan, though not before being nudged by Solas in a bid for attention herself. His gloved hand roams over the pale white of her fur, delicate as if she might flicker and fade away underneath the pads of his fingertips, before she seems to grow satisfied enough and shifts away.

It is a few minutes later, after tangible small talk, that a secondary door swings open, and in waddles what appears to be little more than a babe, his fingers clutching tightly at the plate of food – deadset on not dropping it, though his grey eyes, Stark grey, Jacaerys notes, widen and brighten at the sight of Lord Cregan, who begins laughing as the boy grows closer.

"And who is this strapping young servant?" Cregan teases, sweeping the boy into his arms and settling him onto his lap, the plate of food carefully set between himself and the Prince. It becomes apparent to Jace that this is Cregan's son, the little wolf, but all ability to focus upon Lord Cregan and his son is lost as his gaze travels back to the small servant's door, violet eyes drawn back to the sound of ale sloshing in a cup . . . and frozen onto the features of a beautiful Northern woman.

Those eyes, again. Stark grey, worn and tired, but flickering with a light mischief. Pale flesh and the same warm brown hair that's settled atop Cregan's head, and yet . . . she wears it better, no doubt. Prettier. Curlier. Somehow more wild and tamed all in one delicately failing braid.

His mouth is dry, and he is staring. Something he knows he shouldn't be doing – something years of manners and training yell for him to stop doing, and by the Gods, if he doesn't hear his mother's voice to behave like the prince he is. It isn't until Cregan's hand claps him on the shoulder that Jace finds himself free of his momentary stupor, his throat clearing as he reaches for the mug that's been set in front of him and hears the formal introductions.

"Prince Jacaerys, this is my son, Rickon. And this foul creature to his left, is his Lady Aunt, my sister, Aoife."

"Oh, come off it. Foul creature my –" Her voice rings through the room, light and airy, as her hand nudges her younger brother's shoulder. "I believe what Lord Cregan means to say, Prince Jacaerys, is that we are all very delighted to meet you, and welcome your stay."

Jace can feel the light flush settled across the apples of his cheeks as he takes a large swig of his ale, nearly choking as he sets the mug down and nods. "Right, right, of course. A pleasure, little Rickon, and . . . Lady Aoife." Her name on his tongue is foreign but right, he decides, a fitting name for someone so effortlessly stunning. So easily captivating that even he of all people found himself struggling not to forget himself.

"No doubt you've had a long journey, little prince, have a bite and then bid my brother to have someone show you to the Guest House so that you may rest before tonight's feast. I hear we're having venison." Aoife's gaze is nothing more than appraising, the flush on Jace's cheeks darkening as he realizes what she's called him – and for the fact that he doesn't feel the need to correct her in the slightest. "Isn't that right, brother?"

Cregan's eyes roll, his head shaking as he offers a warm grin to Jacaerys.

"Pay her little mind, Your Grace, her bark is far worse than her bite."