Winterfell's Great Hall is raucous with life as Jacaerys settles down into his seat beside Cregan, the little wolf Rickon to his father's right, and an empty seat in the space next to Jace that sits unaccompanied and daunting. It is far more lived in and bright now than it had been earlier in the day when he'd taken his guest's rights, laughter and warmth pooling from each table and rising high into the air . . . and even still, he could not quite place his finger on what was missing. His goblet is filled almost instantly, mead poured high as his gaze travels to the entrance of the hall then back to the tables – that is when the realization settles, a matter that seems to be transpired across his own features, as the serving girl offers what looks like a knowing grin.
"She is often a little late, your Highness."
Before he can question her, the girl is gone – but her world encircle around his mind; she is often a little late. She. Lady Aoife. He brings his goblet to his lips to distract himself, a deep swallow of the mead that offers a welcome reprieve from a momentary reminder of how stricken he'd been by her mere presence. A warm hand claps to his shoulder, spilling drink from the sides of his cup as he moves it back to the table, a wide, beaming smile upon his lips as he turns to look at Lord Cregan fully.
"I hope you've brought your appetite, Prince Jacaerys, my sister did not tell tales when she mentioned a meal of venison earlier, though it is hardly just that. I imagine she was mostly trying to put you off, so as to not lose all of her favorites too early." Cregan says with a laugh, his hand squeezing at Jace's shoulder before letting go and looking out into the hall. "I know I have said as much already, but you are welcome here – and we are glad to have you, for as long as you deem yourself wanting to stay. Should you wish it, and want to face the cold to see it, I could take you to the Wall; I know it is oft little more than a thing of story to those who have never seen it."
Jace's eyes light up at the offer, his head nodding before the words can fully form upon his lips. "That would be a fine favor indeed, Lord Cregan. Though I fear my flesh may come to regret the choice when I am half frozen atop it, I cannot imagine leaving the North without managing to see the greatest feat of building."
A fine plate of food is settled before Cregan, Jace, and the little Rickon, steaming warmth, the smell so heavenly Jace's stomach rumbles in reminder of his hunger. His gaze focused and settled so greatly upon the meat and sides, he doesn't hear the stilling of voices; the volume of the hall growing pin drop quiet. It isn't until Rickon is attempting to shift out of his seat, and Cregan's stern, fatherly voice stills him, followed by a whisper, that Jacaerys' attention flickers up to the doors of the Great Hall.
"Gods be good." Cregan's voice is a low grumble, the annoyance palpable in his tone. In truth, Jace had been thinking the very same . . . for an entirely different reason.
Crossing the floors of the hall, a vision in silver and white, a large black direwolf at her side – brown curls spiraling down along her cheeks, and making her look all the more wild, was Lady Aoife, and by the subtle shift of the attitude in the hall, he hadn't been the only one to take note of her in such a way. Lord Cregan, however, huffs as his sister approaches the dais, though he raises from his seat and offers her a forced smile just the same, before directing her to sit next to Prince Jacaerys.
"Must you always cause a scene, Fi?" Cregan asks once he's seated again, gazing down the table at his sister as he curls his fingers around his goblet.
"Must you always be so dour?" Aoife retorts, settling into her chair without so much as even glancing in Jace's direction. He chooses to not take it too personally, chooses to believe it is more a matter of bickering with her brother that keeps her attention from him, rather than the fact that she is outwardly trying to ignore him.
Clearing his throat, Jace casts a sideways glance at Aoife, violet eyes traveling over the delicate features of her face now that they're so close in proximity. Lingering on the strong Stark brows, the gentle button nose, her full pink lips . . . petal soft, and made for kissing, no doubt. But then he was almost staring again. A piece of food brought to his mouth and chewed, once, ten times over, before he swallows and offers Aoife what he hopes to be a charming smile.
"I think you look beautiful, Lady Aoife."
Would that he could commit the smile that creeps onto her lips to his memory for life, all wolfish and predatory – a teasing glint in her eyes as she looks over the top of her goblet, first at Jace, and then at her brother.
"Thank you, Prince Jacaerys. How very sweet of you to say. If only more men were capable of recognizing beauty, the kingdom would undoubtedly be a better place." Her words almost feel pointed, though to Jace, he has no understanding of her meaning. What he does have, however, is a smile and flushed pink cheeks, a growing sense of butterflies and dragons in his belly at the mere thought of her.
"Please, the both of you may call me Jace, there is no . . . need for the formality between us anymore." Jace says, nodding between Cregan and Aoife, once again picking at his plate.
Cregan shifts, nodding plainly before he smiles back. "Aye, suppose you do have a point there. Though truly, only if it is your wish. My sister and I may poke fun, Your Grace, but we do not mean to cause offense. Isn't that right, Aoife?" There is a shared look between siblings, one Jace recognizes – though in this, he supposes his family and theirs differ. For the demand of respect is being asked by Cregan, the younger of the two siblings, and yet that is how society dictates it. For her part, Aoife seems to allow it too, for if there's any annoyance or ill-begotten feelings about it, Jace can't find it within the fine features of her face, only a pleasant, acquiescing smile.
"Yes, of course." She replies, softly, easily, as if it were the least strenuous thing she'd had to think about that day.
From there it seems all but settled, the dynamic between the three of them a comfortable silence, sometimes filled with small talk between them, others where they are merely feasting upon that which is set before them. It is something Jace finds comforting, to be in an environment where there is no distinction that he must act or do something – that he has been afforded the luxury to just sit and watch without so much of a worry.
With his belly full, and his mind buzzing after . . . perhaps a few too many cups, he leans back in his seat, watching with a curious gaze as music begins to lull out from the corner; a troupe of musicians in the corner striking up a song that is unfamiliar to him. But the Northerners seem to know it just fine, and before Jace can fully grasp any sense of meaning from the chords, men and women have started to couple off to dance. Spinning and laughing warmly, up and down aisles along tables, rosy cheeked and clearly enjoying themselves – a pang of wanton jealousy settles in his chest. A desire to have that as well.
The mead has done little to quell his interest in Aoife, and in a blaze of honeyed courage, he stands and turns to her, offering his warmed hand to her, palm up. "M'lady, would you – could I . . . convince you, perchance, to teach me a few steps to this song?"
"Only a few?" Aoife asks, the corners of her lips curling into a smirk, her eyes narrowing momentarily as they sweep over his features. She seems to consider him fully for a moment, taking in his presence – the height of him, the way the red and black of his tunic holds to his frame tight and taught, the muscles of his hand flexing as he waits for a response. And then . . . a relenting of sorts, a softening in her that seems almost unfamiliar as Aoife raises from her seat, unclasping the cape from around her shoulders and allowing it to fall into her chair, before placing her soft hand into his.
Her fingers are cold, dainty things, quickly enveloped by the heat of his much larger palm as he leads her around the dais, though not before he takes note of the look upon Cregan's face – unreadable, but intrigued nonetheless, as if he's deep in thought about what he's seeing.
"As many as you see fit to offer me, Lady Aoife." Jace says sweetly, finding a small area of unoccupied space for them upon the lower floors. Whether that was merely coincidence or on purpose, he couldn't say – that he hadn't noticed the way half the crowd had shifted an entire table down the hall to make more space for them, was merely just another reason to be added to the list of his inability to focus in her presence.
"Just Aoife is fine, or Fi, I am only a lady when it serves me." She's teasing him again, he realizes, as one hand moves to rest upon her waist, the other still holding her warming fingers.
"Just Aoife, then. Although, if you don't mind me saying so, for not being a lady save for when it serves you, you still make for one of the prettiest I believe I've ever seen." The words fall from Jace's mouth before he can stop them, spinning her 'round in time to the quickening pace of the music, falling into the grey of her eyes.
"Is that why you've asked me to dance, little prince?" She asks, that predatory smirk returned to her lips as her hand settles fully on his shoulder, pressing her fingertips into the flesh of him through the fabric of his tunic. "So that you can whisper sweet nothings into my ear without the prying eyes of my brother to stop you?" Her laugh is heaven-sent, all poking and prodding still, and yet . . . Jace can't help but want to hear more of it. To be the reason behind it all the same.
"No! No." He begins, cheeks flushing a darker shade of pink. "I – will concede to wishing for a private moment with you, away from your brother, but I swear upon my honor that I did not do so to . . . whisper only sweet nothings at you."
"But to whisper a few of them at me, in the least." Aoife clarifies, an arch of one singular brow as they continue to dance in time with one another, her fingers on her shoulder tapping in a rhythm to relay the beat of the music to him. "You aren't made for the cold, little prince. Don't stick your fingers into the snow." It sounds like a rejection, of that he is almost certain – but her words stoke a flame in him, one that'd long since been little more than an ember. One that presses him forth to hold onto her a little tighter, his fingers at her waist pressing into the fine chiffon fabric as he twirls her in closer.
"What is a little snow to a dragon, m'lady?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper as his lips graze across her ear – another spin 'round their small floor, her fingers on his shoulder falter for half a second, before finding their time again, and when his eyes meet hers once more, they no longer remind him of sadness nor grief. This time, the gaze in Aoife's eyes is steel, tempered and sharp.
"Shall we ask yours how she feels about a little snow? I seem to remember your arrival being one of less than accustomed to our weather, Your Grace, I would hate for the courage you have found in your cups to make a promise your mouth and body are not prepared to keep."
He almost wonders if he's offended her, fully prepared to ask for her forgiveness in the next breath when her laughter rings loud in his ears again. The breath of relief sighs heavy from his mouth before his laughter joins hers, intermingling in the space between them.
By the time the song has ended, Jace has found himself certain of one thing – that her company is worth more than any riches; that she is witty and kind, and teases so deftly, it would put his Grand-Uncle Daemon to shame. But that alone, save altogether, is far more dangerous than any war – the interest he feels for her. The pull of him to her whenever she was near, a great cause for concern and worry. Especially with his mother a raven away.
He'd grown up being told that his future was not entirely his own to wield – that he would have the idea of a choice, but that it would ultimately rest in the hands of his mother; that she and she alone, along with the rest of her council, would decide his fate. Would make the decision of his wife for him, would decide that he should love their choice and their choice alone for that was what duty was. But the choice had yet to be made – despite a few offers that still lingered on the occasion of his mother's mind, something that was undoubtedly being held onto if necessary for a bargaining chip to ally more houses to their cause. Yet it still gives him cause to wonder if there would – if there could ever be a world in which the choice would be given to him; if his mother would ever allow the decision to be placed in his hands.
And if it were, what choice would he make?