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It’s uncomfortably hot. Sweat covers you head to toe and through your thick dress that is made for the whipping winds of the north and the snow that is consistent on the ground of Winterfell along with the ice that covers the trees throughout winter but melts in the summer. The ground is slick for those few moons and then the ice is back and worse as winter makes its presence known in the most horrible of ways.
It’s still enjoyable though. Memories of playing in the snow and climbing the ice slick trees and kneeling in front of the great weirwood tree in the heart of winter are some of the most enjoyable ones that you have. Cregan had never encouraged you to go out much during the winter moons nor in the autumn where it is not as bad but still prone to a weary brother and bundles of furs stacked on top of thick fabric.
You breath out shakily and wipe sweat from your forehead, cursing yourself and your handmaidens for not thinking of changing into clothes suited for the heat of Kings Landing. Petra Clare sits across from you, the youngest daughter of a merchant who was all too willing to let his daughter stay with the sister of Lord Stark when they had bonded in the course of four days. Her breathing is heavy and a pout mars her beautiful face, with a sharp chin and red hair the color of leaves on the weirwood trees along with bright green eyes; Petra was a kind of pretty that was rare in the harsh north where most features of the women there reflected strength and forces that could knock down the Wall with a simple cold look.
She lets out a long sigh and looks out the wheelhouse window, it’s open but the breeze isn’t enough for you nor Petra who has her face halfway out. She pulls back and looks at you with a dramatic expression and fans herself vigorously. “I’m going to die before we even get there,” she proclaims, slumping in her seat.
A laugh comes from you as you shake your head. “Might save me then.” Hopefully, if it were to happen that you two died of the heat then you wouldn’t have to meet the man you were bound to marry.
It was not so much the man, it was the location. Snakes littered King’s Landing, a new pit of different breeds rested in every corner that made up the Red Keep. With their fancy talk of twisted words that could either mean salvation or doom, not that it matters really. It ended the same either way, reputation torn apart into grains of sand that slipped through untrained fingers or laying face down on the ground, raped and killed and blamed for such a thing to happen with no true justice given for the deceased.
Petra gives you a stern look. More than once had she heard you grumble and groan about the crown prince. Soon he was to be king in the years after his own mothers reign. Already he would need a wife and…heirs. “He’s not horrible,” she tried to say convincingly and with a small smile that should raise hope but only supports your doubt. "From what I have heard at least,” she shrugs, once more leaving against the open window and panting like a dehydrated dog.
You snort and lean back, arms crossed with a mulish temperament that you had gained the moment the betrothal had been announced. It had taken Arra having to bribe you with sweets to have your door open and your good sister had provided the sweets along with a long talk that made you want to disappear.
With her descriptions of the bedchamber you had only heard about through girlish whispers made from sewing circles of eight blushing girls. You were sure that your face was red, the heat on your cheeks warming you from the slight chill that had seeped through the warmed walls of Winterfell. Arra had been thorough in her talk and afterward you found yourself not being able to look at your brother for days.
“You’re little spies are biased,” you pointed out and Petra didn’t bother to disagree, “they come from the south much as you do.”
Nodding, Petra only moves closer to the widow that you now want to close. A putrid smell had made its way in. Ghastly it was and it choked you with a fierce grip but Petra had seemed to not notice the smell. “I had seen him once when we were younger,” she tells you. She had told you this once before with the other girls around the circle, squealing about how he looked and how kind he was. Another thing that you found yourself less inclined to believe, child crushes and the behavior of children—royal children at that—could change to the measures of the extreme. “He had the chance to turn handsome.” She smiles at you wickedly. “Hopefully he is.”
Presentation hadn’t been what you cared for when facing the prince. You were sure that he would be handsome, many said so over the years coming in the form of traders and girls from the Vale and the Riverlands who had seen the second heir to the throne. “As long as he doesn’t raise a hand to me, I wouldn’t mind if he looked like a horse,” you stated plainly.
Petra’s mouth goes wide as she pulls away from the window with a gasp. “Surely you jest,” she said with wide eyes, unbelieving of your words.
You shake your head. “I do not,” you insisted firmly. “As long as he is good conversation and wise enough to not hit me, then I could not care less about his appearance.” It was simple and plain but not a request that was too outrageous. If anything, it was more modest than the most that wished for chivalrous knights and charming princes to sweep them off their feet.
A smirk graces Petra’s features in a cat-like manner that puts you on edge, it always had whenever she did such a thing. “What if he decides that the Streets of Silk are more of his liking than you?” She asks.
It’s a rude question and if you weren't so hot, you might have done something about it. It was also true as you knew that the prince's uncle had a tendency to spend more of his time in the beds of whores than his own wife’s. “Then that is his decision and when the time comes,” now you smirk, “I will go back up North and sully his name forever,” you say and Petra laughs and claps her hands together.
She wipes away the tears that had formed at her waterline and then leaned forward, coming closer as if you two weren’t the only ones present. “If he is good enough, then perhaps we could share him,” she says, her voice low and sultry.
Your mouth opens wide with a shocked laugh and Petra giggles as you push her back. “You are horrible, absolutely horrible!” You exclaim, laughter taking your breath away with firm grasps as you two laugh joyfully.
Soon enough, the wheelhouse came to a stop in the courtyard of the Red Keep and from the still open window, you could see five people standing. A white haired woman stood beside a man that looked like her but older, the Princess Rheanyra and Prince Daemon. Standing far away from the was a red headed woman, her green dress stood out against the red and blacks that were adorned by the four that seemed to not notice the space between them.
Beside the two older ones were two boys, both with brown hair and matching eyes but the shorter one didn't stand as still or as sternly with a clenched jaw and hands clinging together with white knuckles along with a slightly tapping foot on the ground below.
The heat of Kings Landing seems to only get worse when you step out of the wheelhouse, now the sun is fully on you. The urge to throw up is strong and resilient but you try to hold on as much as you can through such a thing.
The woman with the red hair stepped forward before anyone else could, a smile plastered on her face with practiced diplomacy and a routined grace in her steps that seemed to heighten her presence in whole. “Welcome Lady Stark,” she says, reaching forward and placing her hands upon your own. You were sure that it was unpleasant, if it was she showed no signs of disgust or displeasure in touching you. “I hope that your ride was pleasant.”
You nod. Cregan and Arra alike had told you of the dangers of the south, of how even the slightest of misplaced courtesy could be placed as disrespect and the consequences that came along with it. “Thank you. It was but,” you laugh at yourself and gently pull away your hands from the woman, though she does not seem angry at such an action, “I had not anticipated the heat.”
A chuckle comes from her. “Yes, many don’t.” Lie. She gestures over to a man standing a few feet away from her, clad in armor with a serious expression on his face. “I can have Ser Cole escort you and your handmaiden to your chambers if you wish to be refreshed,” she offers.
You breathe a sigh of relief and nod. “That sounds lovely. Thank you, Your Grace.”
The silver haired woman steps forward and you look at her, our eyes betraying you for a second as they dart over toward the older boy. The Prince Jacaerys. You betrothed. “How about Jace?” She asks the queen before turning towards you. “He can escort you, Lady Stark, if you so wish.”
You had not wished to be near him so soon and with only Petra as a companion, supposed to make sure that nothing indecent would occur but you knew her better. She would leave you the second she saw the chance, all for the take of a jest that she would laugh about later.
“Oh.” You scrambled for words, not knowing what to say that wasn’t the truth. No, I wouldn’t want to be escorted by your son. I’d rather not be near him at all. “That would be welcome,” once more your eyes darted toward the prince who stood stiffly, uncomfortably, “if the prince is willing.”
He steps forward and walks toward you, stopping right in front of you with a slight smile on his face. Dark brown eyes stared into you with a feeling that you couldn’t place. Contempt or playfulness, opposite feelings but muddled in the brown eyes of Prince Jacaerys. “It would be no problem, my Lady.” His voice was soft and light, not too deep but not squeaky like some could be. Soothing, the type of voice that you could fall asleep to or listen as he read or talked.
A good thing to have in a future husband, you could at least stand his voice.
You nod and grab his arm, firm but so much that it hurts him. Last thing that you wanted to deal with were the rumors that you were a barbarian, that Northerners were barbarians. You weren’t and even if the words were said, the Targaryens weren’t much better and had many more evidence supporting such a thing. “Then it is settled,” you say.
The walk is silent for a while, only with a few history facts that Jacaerys—Jace as he told you to call him—told you that weren’t written down in the history books. They were interesting and even Petra threw in some questions, letting you revel in your interpersonal silence of swarming thoughts and turmoils that hadn’t been patted down in the long ride to the south.
In time, you finally reached your chambers. You nodded a thank you at him and winced when he returned it and went to leave. Cregan did always say that you were more ice than flesh, that it circled around your veins viciously and choked all of those that you did not wish to know. That was another conversation between you and him; a conversation about letting Jacaerys Velaryon in and getting to know the young prince. Jace was only your senior by one year and even then, from the whispers and the talks, he seemed decent enough to warrant some kind of kindness.
You clear your throat, gaining his attention. “Pardon me for asking but I was wondering if you happened to have a weirwood tree?” He nods but his eyebrows are furrowed, seeming to have remembered the traditions of Northerns and the weirwood trees that you pray in front of. Such a strange thing to those like him, perhaps he looks more kindly to those of the Seven or his own Targaryen Gods of Old Valyria. “I have missed a moon's worth of prayers and I rather not test the God’s patience anymore,” you chuckle out, feeling a spark of accomplishment when a smile comes to his face.
It’s a pretty thing, his smile. You find yourself not minding to see such a thing until death, for the years and decades of passing moons and seasons to come.
His hands go behind his back, it makes him stand straighter and look taller than he actually is. “We do, in the Godswood,” he replies, it doesn’t match his small smile the way he says it. His words are plain and rehearsed, boring and dull and you want more than diplomacy if you want everything to work out in the future.
Taking in a small breath, you look him in his eyes and try to give him a warm smile. “If you so wish, you could show me after supper. I have yet to know my way around and I would rather not get lost. Your company will be quite welcomed as well, to get to know you would be…an honor.”
That smile turns into a grin, it’s boyish and bright. You fall into it and ignore the sweat trickling down your back. You hadn’t noticed the heat until now, the way that his voice distracted you was something that made you both scared and pleased. Good stone foundations made for sturdy castles rather than those built from mud and sticks twined together by flimsy straw. “Well when you put it that way, I do not know how I could decline,” he says almost teasingly.
“You truly can’t, my prince,” you say.
A playful sigh comes from him but that grin still remains intact, you weren’t sure if it could be knocked down. “I have told you that you can call me Jace, Lady Stark,” he says.
You raise an inquisitive eyebrow at him. “You do not call me by name?” You ask.
“You haven’t gave me permission but,” he smiles, it’s all teeth like a snarling dog but you do not feel scared by their presence, “shall I?”
You pretend to think for a moment. “I do not think so,” you tease.
His head tilts, brown hair moving in front of his eyes. You resist the urge to sweep it away with gentle fingers but you were sure that if you did, they would start to trace the rest of his face and further until urges took you by storm. “Why not?” He asks.
“I am not sure if I like you yet,” he frowns and you resist laughing at the pout that has formed on his face, “but I’m sure that fondness will come in due time.” You shrug and move your legs to pivot around and take leave into your chambers. “Perhaps, later tonight even.”
He steps forward and takes your hand in his own, gently with calloused hands from handling swords, both metal and wood alike. “Then I