"Do you truly think it wise for us to involve ourselves in Southron politics?" She asks, slinking into the large leather chair opposite Cregan's desk, unladylike in the way she tucks her feet underneath herself and leans an elbow onto the smooth surface in front of her. The question isn't meant to imply his decision is wrong, on the contrary, Aoife's more than certain it's likely the right call – but as she was often want to do, as she was often meant to do, it was best for her to play Devil's advocate. To ask the question that some mouthy lord fresh on his father's seat would feel the need to direct at her brother. "You know as well as I that this isn't something likely to end . . . politely, not when both parties are flying fire through the skies and burning those who have chosen to disagree with them."

For his efforts, Cregan looks as though he's trying to ignore her pestering. He looks as though he is making his best attempts to not fall into the trap that certainly is this discussion, when he hadn't even heard the full terms of what it was Rhaenyra was asking for – not that it had mattered much. He'd been prepared to offer some aid, though it wasn't likely to be nearly as much as she asked for; it was as much as Winterfell could spare, given the upcoming winter . . . given what lingered on the opposite side of the Wall.

"All the worse if we deny them both and give them a common enemy, no?" Cregan replies, barely glancing up from the letter he is scrawling upon. "All the worse if instead of one dragon threatening to eat your favorite horse, there is an army of them burning every Northerner to a crisp."

Aoife can hear the upturned corners of his mouth before she sees them, can hear the teasing, ever present nature of their relationship played out in his answer to her as she wrinkles her nose and flicks over the wax stamp, sending it rolling across his desk and into his hands.

"If his dragon eats my horse, he will have me to answer to, and from the looks of him, I do not think it would be much of a fair fight."

Cregan laughs, his gaze traveling up from his letter to meet his sister's, twin worn grey eyes upon each other as he shakes his head. "Spoken as if you've ever fought fair in your life, Fi. But rest assured, should his dragon eat your horse, I will let him know your vengeance will be untimely and annoying at best."

A roll of her eyes as he speaks, but her lips pull into a smile, until the soft clearing of a throat comes from the barely cracked door, and Aoife's favored handmaiden, Byrdie, appears from the darkened shadow. "Beg your pardon, Lord Cregan, but Lady Aoife, you asked me to come fetch you when it was time to dress for the feast. Mischa says everything'll be settled in the kitchens soon, and . . ."

Without another word to her brother, Aoife shifts up from her seat, waving a hand in Cregan's direction as she follows Byrdie out of the study.

"What am I wearing tonight, little bird?" Aoife asks, stepping in time with Byrdie. She was little more than six and ten, taken into Aoife's retinue of maids alongside her mother when they'd sought refuge in Winterfell from the lands of House Bolton. Aoife hadn't been able to deny them, and hadn't wanted to.

"Mother and I finished the silver and ivory dress this morning, and the cape for your shoulders – mother was . . . well, I was thinking perhaps you might want to look nice for the prince." Byrdie replies almost sheepishly, the apples of her cheeks flushing a light shade of pink as she directs her gaze to the floor, avoiding Aoife's inquisitive brow as she holds open the door to her chambers.

"Oh, you thought that I might want to look nice for the prince?" Aoife asks, her tone teasing and conspiratorial, brushing the younger girl inside with a shake of her head. "And why, pray tell, would you think that, little bird?"

The doors to Aoife's chambers shut tight, drawing up a sleepy gaze from the direwolf sprawled across the furs of her bed, taking up the entirety of it before there's a huff and back to sleep he goes. Byrdie's fingers pluck at the fabric of her apron, her teeth considering chewing at her bottom lip.

"Just that – it's important to make a good impression, isn't it? And Prince Jacaerys is . . . handsome, and mother says she heard the girls in the kitchen say he's not betrothed to anyone which means that he could be –" As if she's gotten ahead of herself, Byrdie's lips press into a thin line, her cheeks reddening as Aoife levels her with a quick, unamused glance.

"Betrothed to me?" Aoife asks, motioning for Byrdie to bring the new dress from the closet as she toes out of her boots. "Little bird, this isn't a fairytale." And Aoife has no taste for marriage – not after how terribly her first foray had gone, not after the man her uncle had attempted to give her away to. The idea now unsettles her stomach, but that isn't something Byrdie needs to know about – nor is it something she ever intends to speak to the girl about, an agreement between Aoife and Byrdie's mother that some things were better left unknown, that the girl didn't need to know why her mother had simply known, for more reasons than one, that House Stark would protect them if they managed to find their way to Winterfell.

That seems to settle the matter for Byrdie, her voice grown silent as she focuses on work, on ensuring Aoife is more than presentable at her brother's table, even if she says she has no reason for good impressions on the prince. The gown itself is more than capable of such a feat; a stunning creation taken from Byrdie's sketching fingers to her mother's expert stitches. A flowing ivory and silver chiffon skirt, hand embroidered and beaded corset top, and the silver cape for her shoulders, emblazoned with two wolves at the clasp.

"Hair up or down, my lady?" Byrdie asks once Aoife is dressed, her fingers settling at her shoulders.

"Down."