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𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐀𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐆, and the damn fire wasn’t helping. He stood stiff in the great hall, the kind of place that felt like it remembered everything. Every broken vow. Every death. Every war.
And now he was here, about to ask for something he wasn’t sure he'd get.
He kept his hands folded behind his back, his posture calm and regal—though his thoughts raced, tangled with urgency and the weight of every decison yet to come.
Then the great doors creaked open.
She walked in like she didn't care who she was interrupting—except she clearly did. Controlled, poised, but there was tension in the way she held her jaw. A kind of anger she was trying to bury under manners.
"Prince Jacaerys Velaryon," she said, her voice soft but firm. "To what do we owe the honor of your presence?"
"Lady Stark," he replied, bowing his head with respect. "Might we speak in private?"
She studied him for the briefest moment then gave a curt nod.
"Come."
Without another word, she turned and led him through the corridors of Winterfell, her footsteps light but certain. Her dark hair fell in soft waves down her back and Jacaerys found his eyes drawn to her already. She seemed steady and proud. There was something in the way she carried herself, like someone who was not used to being commanded.
He followed, silent.
When they reached a secluded passage near the old library, she stopped and turned to him. "I hear you seek my brother's support...against the Greens," she said, her green eyes unreadable. "Word travels fast, my lord."
"Yes, I do, my lady" Jacaerys replied, voice low. "Lord Cregan's full support remains...uncertain."
"My brother has gone to the Wolfswood," she said, folding her hands before her. "He'll return by dusk. If you are willing to wait, your patience will be appreciated."
"Of course, my lady," Jacaerys answered though, his gaze lingered a heartbeat too long.
He studied her — not rudely, but with growing fascination. She was unlike any Northern woman he had seen. There was a warmth beneath the frost, something softer, unspoken.
"You're not like the others," he said, then winced. It sounded stupid out loud. "Shit, that sounded cliche didn't it?"
She raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smile. "Very. And how am I not like the others?"
He smiled slightly. "I meant... i don't know. You walk like you own the place."
"I do," she said. Flat. Dry.
He almost laughed. "Right. Fair enough.”
There was a pause. The air between them still sharp, but charged now.
He stepped a little closer, not enough to startle her, but enough to show he meant his words. "I just meant you're... different from the others… I can’t explain it,” he said quietly, his voice softer now. She was striking. High, elegant cheekbones. Eyes that looked like they’d known sorrow but refused to drown in it. Lips—soft, pink, shaped like temptation.
She raised a brow. "Try."
"It is as though you carry winter's calm...and summer's fire beneath. You're blunt and you don't look like you care what anyone thinks, but I think you do. Just not the way they want you to."
"Well I think you read a lot of poetry, my lord. You've only known me for 10 minutes," she smiled, bittersweet and almost surprised, but her voice wasn't harsh. Just honest.
"Apparently, I'm a quick study,"
She huffed. "If you must know, my blood is not all snow if that's what you're trying to figure out. My mother was from Old Volantis."
Jacaerys blinked. "Ah...that explains it then."
"Explains what?"
"The edge."
Her eyes narrowed. "Careful. Men in the South have a habit of turning 'edge' into something they think they can tame."
"Not me," he said. "I'm just trying to survive the North without losing fingers."
She looked at him like she was trying to decide if that was sarcasm or sincerity. "You're the first person to ever say I seem...different," she added, voice low. "Most see only a Stark. And nothing else, like that's all i could ever be."
He took another step, now within arm's reach. "Then they are not looking hard enough."
She looked up at him, eyes flickering briefly to his lips before glancing away. She gave him a look. Not surprised. Just...weighing him.
"Maybe."
A beat passed between them, charged and delicate.
Then she took a step back. Like she'd remembered why this couldn't happen. Or maybe didn't like what she almost wanted.
She looked at him. Really looked.
"If it were up to me," she said slowly, "would you still ask for my brother's help?"
The question hit like ice. He hesitated.
"I would," he said. "But i'd want your answer first."
A small breath left her nose—half a smile, maybe. Maybe not.
"You're reckless," she muttered.
He smiled. "That's been said."
"We should return," she said, her voice steadier than her eyes. "There is a guest chamber that you can stay in while you wait for Cregan. Want me to show you, or should I send a maid?"
"You, my lady," he said, his voice thick with restrained curiosity.
She nodded once and led him down another hall. Her steps were confident, but there was a slight change now...they were slower. Not enough to notice. Unless he was paying attention.
When they reached the guest chamber, she pushed the door open and moved aside to let him pass, her eyes briefly meeting his before slipping away.
"Thank you, Lady Stark," he said, eyes returning to her face with quiet intensity.
She didn't answer at first. Just watched him, trying to figure out what exactly he thought he was doing.
He lingered at the doorway, his heart racing for reasons he did not wish to name.
"You've come all this way," she said, folding her arms. "What are you offering my brother in return? A thank you? A promise?"
Jacaerys met her stare. "Loyalty. And a future."
She raised a brow. "Spoken like a man who's never been at the mercy of winter."
He didnt answer. He couldn’t. She was right.
Silence
"May I ask you something before you go, my lady?"
She tilted her head slightly. "You may."
"You've got a name," he said. "Beyond all the titles. May I ask what it is?"
She hesitated. Just a second.
"Alarra."
He repeated it like a vow. "Alarra...Fits."
"Fits how?" She raised a brow.
"I don't know. Just... hard to forget."
“Try harder."
A silence stretched between them. He stepped closer—, not touching her, but enough that she noticed.
"Would it be weird if i said you're not what I expected?" He asked.
She scoffed softly. "Good. I'd hate to be a disappointment to Targaryen blood."
He almost smiled. "You're sharp."
"And you're pushy."
He hesitated, then lifted his hand—brief and unsure. One strand of hair had come loose. He brushed it back before he could think better of it.
She didn't move. Didn't stop him.
Her cheek was warm. Not cold like he expected.
Neither of them spoke.
He pulled back, suddenly unsure if if he'd crossed a line.
"You should rest," she said finally, voice cool again, but not unkind. "The guest chamber is yours. I'll have a servant bring you something warm."
He looked at her a second longer. "Will you?"
She blinked. "Will I what?"
"Bring it yourself."
She tilted her head slightly, a flicker of curiosity—or warning—in her eyes. "You are very bold for a man who came here asking favors."
"I'm just curious," he said. "You don't say much. Makes a man wonder."
Another pause. Then she stepped back, just enough to break the spell.
He smiled faintly. "You don't like being looked at, do you?"
"Not by strangers."
He laughed once. "Fair."
"You're lucky I don't have you waiting outside."
"You still might."
They stared at each other for a breath too long.
"Goodnight, Prince Jacaerys."
He bowed slightly, more breath than movement. "Goodnight, Lady Alarra."
She left without looking back.