[img]https://atlasoficeandfireblog.files.wordpress.com/2017/01/winterfell.png?w=529[/img]

[u][b]The North[/b][/u]
(With [@AtomicNut] )

The dishes and japes alternated throughout the hall as a reduced but very vocal host attended the dinner in the keep. Truth to be told, there had been little to no need to actually send off ravens or make the gossip spread the news. Everyone from the surroundings had seen the dragon, and had acted accordingly to the news that a Prince had visited Winterfell. Even the bards who were playing during the dinner were making an extra effort to show their talent, albeit the North was often far too cold for the throat and the fingers played. Lord Cregan, seeing the display, decided to actually dedicate more servants and food to the banquet, although only the Lords and the Prince would eat the freshly hunted Venison, cooked in generous spices. And yet, even cooked vegetables and salted meat were appreciated by the retinues of the men, who sometimes could get ahold of freshly baked bread and pies that were passed around. The wine however, was far mor generous. After all, men could live without wine, as long as water existed, so the stock for the winter was a no concern regarding that.

Cregan, as his condition of host, had decided that it was the Prince the one honored to seat in the best seat next to himself as honored guest. He was wearing fine, yet rather simple clothes and pelts, and sometimes he took a bite or two off the food, eating it in a steady fashion, which showed neither apathy nor ravenous hunger. He however, was sometimes dedicating frowns and stares to the improptu cupbearer that was serving them.

In the end, even lord Cregan Stark could not keep his sister secluded in the room, and he had decided, after pondering that it would be better if she had some part in the banquet. After all, Cregan feared, there would be a long time until the next big event. Arsa was dressed in her finest embroidery, and even she had spared some time to let her hair combed and wear some sparse accessories. Even if she was just a bastard cupbearer, she did look more like the noble sister of Lord Cregan than a Snow at this point.

Not far from there, an Umber and a Mormont were arm-wrestling for a pork meat pie, while a disenchanted Manderly shook his head, sipping some fine Reach winery. On their side, Ser Mors Bolton shifted around, surprisingly armed with a quill and a pen, drawing what-knows-bodypart of his food, while he carefully poked at it with the knife.  A Reed woman was explaining the size of her latest capture to a taciturn Karstark. What was more surprising is that the tables were a gradual transition with no clear segregation. High Nobles, Low nobles and even sometimes rank and file and bastards feasted and talked as one, exchanging japes and food.

The wild abandone, at least in comparison to the South, of the Northern feast brought something of a permanent grin to the young Prince's features. He sat, in his place beside Lord Stark, in a doublet of black, trimmed with red, and the sigil of his house sown into the torso. With the hearths roaring, it was almost possible to forget the chill of the North. At least, as a Dragonrider, the Prince was used to biting chill and wind in comparison to most of the Southern lords.

The Prince sipped from wine, and took odd bites from the food, as he watched the events of the hall unfold, pausing for a few long moments to evaluate the much-watched arm wrestle, his smirk extending for a moment, before he turned back towards Lord Stark to speak;

"My thanks again, for this welcome to the North." He paused as he sipped again from his wine, stiring the goblet in his hand, before placing it down. "I must admit, while there may be less...planned, entertainment, the guests are certainly more lively." He chuckled, stealing a quick smile to the rather finely dressed cup-bearer at her brother's behest.

"Tell me, my lord, where would you hold this parlay that so many of us want?"

Cregan scratched his chin, as he took a sip of his cup. He eyed the rest of his guests with bemusment. "In the North, hospitality is a matter of life and death. We might not be the most warm folk, but each and everyone of us is a brother and sister before the dangers of cold and winter." The Wolf said eminently, as he eyed the prince, before formulating an answer.

Only to be interrupted by a coarse shout. "MORS, STOP PLAYING WITH YOUR FOOD!" The Umber wrestler cajoled to the Bolton Knight. "FIND A WOMAN!" He continued. His opponent, the Mormont, did not miss a heartbeat.

"OR TWO!" Racuous laughter deafened the halls for a brief moment, even lord Cregan indulging in making a chortle that looked like the yelps of a drowned puppy. " A place, huh?" He added after the jape.

"Oh, I bet he would say King's Landing godswood!" Arsa piped in as she refilled both of their cups. "Nothing like an old fashioned oath by the old gods!" She chimed, beaming. Cregan simply shook his head and eyed the prince.

"Harrenhal." He stated. "So that we may never forget what could have been of the Seven Kingdoms if we went to war." 

Jace chuckled along with the Lord of the North at the outburst of the two Northern lords, as much from the absurdity of it all, as genuine amusement. He laughed again at the exchange between true-born lord and bastard sister, shaking his head slightly.

"It seems your brother is less conservative than you believe, huntress." He smirked a little more, before replying to Cregan; "Mhm, central too, even for those from the far corners of the Kingdoms, ships can travel along the Trident. A fitting location, if any." No better option could show the full might of dragons brought to wrath than Harrenhall, and there would be plenty of that, should the war prove unavoidable.

"But, I suppose we can wait to discuss wars and their making till after we are done being jolly."

"Dorne is another good option." A mellow voice snuck from Jace's back, the mumblings of lanky Mors Bolton almost a gutural whisper, as he shifted his sight almost like if he was some kind of owl towards the prince. "Also, blood from the heart is bright red and the one that returns to it is more faded.Did you know that, prince?" 

Cregan eyed Mors Bolton, choosing to ignore the latter...out of place rant he had. "Well, that is a fair point Mors." He looked at the Prince, with a complicity stare. Apparently he said things like this all the time. 

"I suppose we can discuss wars after the feast." He asserted, as he eyed Arsa's hip swaying who was being pretty exaggerate now. He nursed his head. He probably was going to have a problem of teenage love in the making. And there she was, leaning towards the prince to talk in accomplice words.

"He is just a grumpy wolf who would rather put a scary face so that everyone is in peace. He is a softie at heart, believe me. He spoils Rickon rotten, and he does the same with me." She whispered in the prince's ear.

"I did, actually, I've spent a good while studying with the Maesters, and that did come up." The Prince managed a somewhat awkward smile in response to Mors Bolton's somewhat out of place statement, before he replied to the more relevant suggestion; "While Dorne may be quite the setting in of itself, I doubt they can be trusted to not use it as an opportunity to rid the world of my good-father." He chuckled slightly, Daemon had certainly earned himself a number of foes, something that was coming back to haunt them all the sooner.

The Prince titlted his head, ever so slightly, away from Cregan as he responded to the Northern maid suddenly whispering in his ear, not so obvious as to dramatically offend a host, but enough to keep their conversation between them; "I cannot imagine he is alone for wanting to spoil one such as you, for different reasons no doubt," His grin did not leave his face, even as he continued on a more serious tone; "Mhm, one should seek the council of grumpy old wolves, with winter on the way."

"I will say it now." Cregan sighed, deciding to take a more direct approach. "Your life and maidenhead is your own problem. But what you are doing is not advisable, Arsa. Stop bothering the Prince." Cregan spat, simply turning off any kind of pretension of diplomacy, before fetching the pitcher from her hands and serving his wine himself.  He grumbled afterwards, looking under the table. The snout of Marrow was there, crunching bones from the deer as he licked the marrow, his favorite meal. He decided to toss the Direwolf another bone. Arsa stood there, her mouth agape. She did not believe what Cregan had just said. It would take several moments to even process his words.

"But yes, Dorne could feel too ...tempted for such a thing. And they are the only kingdom with the honor of being dragonslayers." He added as a concern. 

Jace's outward response was little more than a raised eyebrow, his eyes flickering between the two Northerners, before releasing a breath, carrying on with the latter line of conversation as if the former had not occured. Diplomacy, after all, was the most pressing cause of his visit.

"Mhm, although, I wouldn't mind a brief trip to Dorne, I hear the beaches are quite lovely. " He chuckled faintly, before continuing; "But yes, poor connotations for my family at the moment. The Eyrie usually remains aloof from outside politics, but with Lady Jeyne being a childhood friend of my mother, I highly doubt the Greens would accept that. Harrenhall, or another riverlander seat, seems to make the most sense, without involving foreign soil." He sipped his wine, calming himself further, even if his gaze momentarily searching for Arsa and her reaction, slow as it was.

Arsa simply recomposed herself, and smiled and bowed politely, subdued like a servant more. That is, until she grabbed another pitcher of wine, and offered it to Lord Stark. All over his head.

The party went silent, all eyes went wide. Umber, who had won the wrestling match, stood there, the pie falling from his mouth. Mormont's wine cup clang to the ground silently. Reed and Karstark both decided to distance themselves. Manderly was livid, trying to rein in his nerves as he shook visiblely. The bards stopping singing.

Underneath the table, Marrow let a loud whine. Cregan stark barely reacted, wiping himself out of the wine, and stood up, his icy eyes overseeing the scene, before eyeing Arsa. Fury was visiblely seen in his factions.

Arsa's eyes shifted from fury to dread, after realizing what she had done. Lord Stark's nostrils flared, as his voice, thin and crackling as new ice, spoke.

"You know, Arsa Snow." He said, before grabbing yet another pitcher. "You are a very clumsy cupbearer." This time, the red tide splashed her. "Look at how your dress is ruined now." 

It was Mors the first to laugh, and soon others followed. And then from the underside the table, Marrow came out, and tried to lick Cregan's face to no avail. Only for the now drunken dire wolf to trip Arsa directly into the Prince's lap.

Mors reaction sold it all. "Oh dear, my parchment got soaked."

And the laughter of Northmen roared. Before long, Arsa had joined the laugh aswell, and Cregan did, in his own peculiar way.

What was a flurry of motion and wine, was equally tempestuous within the mind of the Targaryen Prince, from cold dread at the initial 'spill' unto Lord Stark, Jace had been wondering how his first official act of diplomacy had gone so very wrong. He had stifled a laugh at Cregan's reaction, in case it was simply part of a much more serious punishment. Then, when the room had erupted at the comments of the unusual Bolton, Jace had joined in with the boisterous laughter.

It was in the midst of this that a rather damp Arsa landed in his lap, almost spilling them both over, but Jace was not so slight as many princelings, and so held them both from tipping, his eyes catching those of the woman now sat atop him.

"Well then, found yourself in another spot of trouble?"

"At least I get to die in a prince's arms." Arsa flirted back as she readjusted herself with surprising dexterity, as if she was a cat in Jace's lap. "Oh, but I got your garments ruined, my prince! How can I ever repay you?" She said, as she eyed Cregan standing up after fending off his own drunk direwolf.

"Please excuse this poor of a half-sister, my Prince." He said, quickly bouncing back to being somber and worrying more that Arsa's mess had spilled unto the Prince. "Arsa, go get a change of clothes." He said in a rather brotherly coaxing. "And apologize." 

"Well, I am dreadfully sorry, Prince Jacaerys. This humble servant will accept any kind of punishment." She said, as she finally got up from his lap with the same dexterity she had positioned herself.

"...and bring me another parchment." Mors voice was heard in the background, before Mormont roared. "AND WINE!"

The Prince, as a young man, had already become acustom to the advances of women, in some form, but this was a rather different ordeal. With the feline grace of Arsa shifting in his lap, Jace was moved to a restrained silence, at least for the moment. When she moved away, it was a mixture of relief and frustration for the Prince, although he quickly recovered into a laugh and smile.

"It is no matter, black and red doublets are hardly a rarity in my family." He smirked, waving a hand as if to cast aside all worry. " I am...ah...sure, that your own dowsing has quiet evenend the score." He just about managed, diplomatically, at the girl's final words, before she disappeared with her lists of demands, a strained sigh escaping the Prince.

"The North may remember, but I doubt I will be forgetting it, either."

Arsa bowed down graciously, as she went in a rush to get changed and supply the demands of those present. Cregan still on his condition as host, sat once again, and stroke his chin, he was obviously thinking on something, probably the events that had happened.  He was murmuring something. "Old Gods, Cregan, you really have a tough choice here." He paused and pondered.

"Tell me, Prince. What shall I do with her?" He rubbed his temples. "She has brought considerable distress to you." He said to his guest.

"More so to yourself, I wager, than to me." The Prince responded, leaning back in his chair as he spoke, his clothing barely damp in comparison to either of the Stark-born. "On my account, I'd have you do nothing, but, I suppose, a cupbearer cannot be allowed to douse her lord in wine." Jace chuckled. While the North was not so different from the South when it came to such things, he found it difficult to seriously advise in the matter, when he may not know quite how seriously matters were taken.

"Perhaps take away her priviledge, if only for a short while." He offered, genuinely and honestly, before a slightly more devious thought crossed his mind; "Of course, Southern courts are stricter, she may learn how best to serve you, my lord, among halls that will gasp, not laugh, at her antics."

"South, huh." Stark sighed. "I dont think anything short of dragonfire will temper her. She is wild as the north, prince. A true northwoman at heart." He paused. "But she should serve you well." He said, as he scratched Marrow behind the ear. "In the end, it works for me. The people here expect at least a token punishment, and to show my love for my kin. I can do both that way." He said in a low voice. "Please try to return her alive after all is said and done." He finished. [i]Even if you two end up in bed[/i]. "We shall meet after the feast to sort out the details."

"Tame, perhaps not, but the ability to control herself, can only benefit both yourself, and her, in the long run." Jace mused quietly, his thoughts quite elsewhere, on the subject of their conversation, rather than hall itself. He paused before answering Cregan's more personal line of questioning; "I promise, no harm to her, and that was not my intention...with the suggestion." It was a half truth, Jace would have never been so bold as to openly act so, he was not his uncles, but the wildness of the North was infectious, but not so much as to make him obvious.

"Details a plenty, my lord, not merely may matters of your kin, but my own, and the people across these Kingdoms."