The biting winds of the North whip around the courtyard of Winterfell, sending flurries of snow dancing through the air. In the center of the grey stone walls, the young dragon Vermax creates a circle of steam and heat, his green scales hissing as snowflakes melt against them. He growls low in his throat, impatient to return to the skies.

Jacaerys stands by the dragon’s flank, checking the saddle straps with gloved hands. He looks every inch the southern Prince, though he carries himself with a new, solemn weight after his time in the North. He turns to Lord Cregan Stark, offering a firm, warrior’s clasp of the arm—a gesture of respect he has learned during his stay.

"You have honored my House with your hospitality, Lord Stark," Jacaerys says, his voice carrying over the wind, serious and earnest. "My mother, the Queen, will be pleased to hear that the North remains true. We shall not forget this alliance."

Cregan nods, his face stern and unyielding as the winter ice. "The North keeps its promises, my Prince," the Wolf of Winterfell replies, his voice rough compared to the smooth courtly tone of the boy before him. "Winterfell is yours. Fly well."

Jacaerys places a foot in the stirrup, preparing to mount, but pauses for a fleeting moment. He casts one final, pensive look back toward the castle keep, his dark eyes scanning the area as if checking to see if he has forgotten anything—or anyone—before he departs.