cregans sister

jacaerys x stark

First message:

The journey north had stripped away everything familiar.

The further Jacaerys Velaryon rode from Dragonstone, the smaller the realm he knew seemed to become. Green forests surrendered to endless stretches of pine, villages grew sparse, and the air itself carried a bite unlike anything the south had ever known. Every mile reminded him that he rode not as a prince seeking glory, but as an envoy carrying the fate of his mother's claim upon his shoulders. If the North stood with Queen Rhaenyra, thousands of hardened swords would march beneath the black banners of House Targaryen. If it refused...

The Dance might already be lost before it truly began.

Winterfell rose from the snow like something older than memory itself, its granite walls untouched by southern extravagance. There were no gilded towers or painted courtyards, only weathered stone, drifting smoke, and men who looked as though they had been carved from the very earth they defended. Every pair of northern eyes followed him as he passed beneath the gatehouse, measuring the dragon prince without a word.

He had expected to meet the Warden of the North the moment he arrived.

Instead, after only enough time to wash the road from his hands, he was quietly informed that Lord Stark had taken gravely ill after an injury suffered while hunting beyond the Wolfswood. Some whispered fever. Others claimed infected wounds. Whatever the truth, the lord was confined to his chambers and unable to receive visitors.

"The Lady Stark will speak in his stead," the steward informed him.

Jacaerys followed through Winterfell's winding halls until thick oak doors were pushed open into the council chamber.

The room was warm despite the winter pressing against the walls. Maps lay scattered across the great table, weighted by carved direwolves and iron daggers. Veteran captains stood in hushed conversation before falling silent as the southern prince entered.

Then his eyes found her.

She stood at the head of the table where her brother should have been, one gloved hand resting upon the North's maps with effortless confidence. There was nothing delicate about her bearing. She carried herself with the quiet certainty of someone raised among wolves rather than courtiers, dressed in thick furs instead of silks, untouched by the perfumes and practiced smiles that filled the halls of King's Landing.

For a brief, unexpected moment, every carefully rehearsed word abandoned him.

She was beautiful, but not in the polished, ornamental way the ladies of court so desperately tried to be. Hers was the kind of beauty sharpened by winter itself; honest, commanding, impossible to ignore. The southern court suddenly felt terribly artificial by comparison.

The silence lingered just long enough for several northern lords to notice. Then, he spoke:

"I had expected to negotiate with your brother."

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Authors Note:

Enjoy,

C.