It is half past midnight when Aoife pads into the library, one hand curled 'round a sleeve of honey apple wine, the other allowing Ciar to lead her in the darkness, a candle tucked beneath her arm for once she's made it to the desk she's claimed as her own for years – but upon slipping through the large doors, the gentle glow of light stems from the corner already, dragging out a low grumbling growl from Ciar, and ultimately jolting the man who'd seemed to have the same idea as she from his seat. For his best efforts, Prince Jacaerys only fumbles slightly, his quill scrambling and scraping across the bottom half of his letter, before he drops the quill altogether and quickly shoves the paper into one of his pockets. His eyes are wide in the dim light, violet hues shifting from the large shadow of teeth and fur at Aoife's side to her face.

"Lady Aoife –" He begins, but she waves him off with a laugh, a shake of her head as she steps closer, bare feet on the stone floor. She releases Ciar's collar, allowing him to approach Jacaerys tentatively, sniffing at him for a moment before he chuffs, and turns away, seemingly uninterested and unimpressed. Aoife moves to lean her hip back against the desk, settling the sleeve of wine and extra candle onto the surface before she gazes up at Jacaerys with a curious look upon her face.

"Restless night, little prince?" She asks, nodding to the small vial of ink and the quill now abandoned by him.

"Something of that effect, I suppose." He says sheepishly, his fingers patting at his pocket to ensure his letter is carefully secured within it. "You as well, my lady?"

Aoife shrugs, leaning to curl her fingers around the sleeve of wine, uncorking it carefully before taking a small swig. "Something of that effect." Her tone mimics his words, the wine warming down her throat as she sighs and rests one hand down at her side, Ciar's large head moving to place itself beneath her palm half a second later. "Is Winterfell to your liking?"

Jacaerys shifts to stand next to her, leaning against the desk, his shoulder grazing hers in the process, an accidental touch – and yet neither of them make mention of it, nor does Aoife care to rectify it in the moment. He seems to ponder the question at hand, his fingers tapping against the surface of the desk lightly as his gaze drifts over to Aoife's hair, her wild brunette curls seeming all the more windswept in the shadows around them.

"I find it most . . . comforting, to be truthful."

Aoife's brows quirk at his answer, an unexpected one at that – her head tilts, trying to figure out just which angle it is the prince is playing at when he continues.

"It's unlike anything I've experienced, your lives here seem – removed from the game, more pulled together and familial. There is less political dramatics, less intrigue or worry of dissent."

At this, Aoife laughs a little, taking another swig of wine before she offers the sleeve over to him.

"I fear you may be looking through rose colored lenses, Jace. It may seem so now, but not so long ago – Cregan and I were in a position not so different than the one in which your mother finds herself in. A little different, yes, but . . . the idea the same, sometimes it is the family you are not closest with that you should keep your eye on the most."

Aoife runs her fingers through Ciar's fur atop his head, shifting towards the large direwolf so that she can look at Jacaerys more head on – watching as he drinks from the wine sleeve before she continues.

"When our father died, Cregan wasn't old enough to take the lordship without aid – our father's brother Bennard was his Lord Regent until he came of age, or was meant to be. But when Cregan came of age, Bennard refused to hand over the title and the power, he – made a last ditch effort to wed me off to another house to bolster his support and . . . it did not end well for any man who supported Bennard."

She carefully skirts around the details of her former betrothal, a matter that isn't of note in this conversation, or so she tells herself – but the rest of the subject matter, does lend credence. Does shed light on why Cregan feels so strongly on House Stark's support of Rhaenyra, they'd been in a similar position not but a few years previous, and it was only correct to lend the aid she asked for. She was named King Viserys' heir, and so had the realm promised to place her upon the throne – it was a distasteful practice to simply decide that the king must have changed his mind in the past few desperate hours of his life. A dishonor to his memory to not allow his daughter to sit the throne he had intended for her. If Aoife knew anything of her brother, Cregan would feel the same down to his core – unconcerned with the worry of a woman sitting the throne; unbothered by the idea of matrilineal rule.

Jacaerys grows silent as she speaks, listening to the words with an intense interest in them – nodding as he comes to the realization that perhaps he had envisioned and seen what he'd wanted to see here, had not seen the iron beneath the snow. Even still, another realization that the goings on of the North seemed to be a mystery to those who were not there, no word having flown south of any of this – at least, as far as he had been made aware; nothing his mother had saw fit to mention before sending him off. He could only imagine that the Starks had deemed it a matter not meant for the rest of the realm, a family matter to be handled swiftly and quietly. Would that the Targaryen line of succession could be managed so easily, perhaps it would not have to come to war.

"I was not aware Cregan had such a difficult time coming into his lordship." He says finally, softly as he hands the wine sleeve back to Aoife, their fingers brushing for a brief moment, causing his cheeks to flush a light shade of pink. "Nor was I . . . aware that you had been betrothed, though I suppose I also did not ask. Are you – betrothed, Aoife? Or a woman married?"

There is a moment of silence as Aoife's fingers curl around the wine sleeve, a look of almost disbelief crossing her features as Jace poses his questions. Her hand moves from Ciar's head to gently shove at his shoulder. Rough and quick, stronger than the prince had imagined could come from such a delicate creature as she.

"I've just given you a better hand for your discussions with my brother, and all you can think to ask of me is if I am betrothed or married?" Aoife scoffs, taking another swig of the wine before settling the sleeve behind her on the desk and moving away from it entirely now. Spinning around to stand before Jacaerys, who even while leaning back against the desk, stands such a height taller than her, that her gaze only meets his chest before she tilts her head to look at him.

"Aoife, I didn't –" Jace begins, his quickness allowing him to catch her wrist as she pulls her hand away from his shoulder, his fingers gentle around her flesh.

"To offend me?" She asks, gently flexing her wrist against his fingers, her gaze drifting down to where he is holding onto her, a decision left to whether or not she wants to fight him off of her. "I'm not offended, but I am also not – this is not . . ." For the first time, in a long time, Aoife almost seems flustered, thrown off her sense of confidence as she swallows thickly. "I am not betrothed, nor do I wish to be, Your Grace."

Despite the attempted conviction in her tone, Jacaerys reels her in a little closer, his large frame moved away from the desk, her hand now pressed to his chest, over the quick beating of his heart. "Why?"

A simple question, his breath close enough to shift a few of her curls, to send a shiver down her spine, the tone of one word matched with the intensity of his gaze. From her side, Aoife hears Ciar move, stepping closer, as if to offer a reminder to Jacaerys that he should watch himself, and yet . . . were it any other man who'd held her so close, Ciar'd have taken a bite of him already; something Aoife knows down to her core. A sigh as she exhales, pressing her fingertips into the fabric of his tunic for a moment before she shakes her head.

"Goodnight, Prince Jacaerys."

A quick pulling of her wrist to freedom before she spins on her heels, one hand slipping beneath Ciar's collar before she steps quicker and quicker towards the doors of the library, not giving herself, nor Jacaerys, the pleasure of turning around to view him once more before she exits.