𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

19 | Murderess

CHAPTER NINETEEN
M U R D E R E S S

-

The men linger restlessly at each side of the painted table, their hands folded together in a stern hold.

Their voices overlap, like thread, spiralling together into a continuous hum— and amidst it all, stands Rhaenyra herself; bare-faced and dull-eyed.

"It is yet unclear how the Keep itself was breached."

The queen's stillness draws the room into a precarious balance, as though the very walls of Dragonstone held its breath with her.

Viserra keeps her eyes on the painted table, tracing the coastline of Westeros with her gaze, taking in each city and stronghold, each boundary that now holds a different weight. War has reshaped them all somehow, she thinks. Has shifted the current of their ascendancy.

"The boy's head was severed from his body."

She sits in silence, her gaze taut and strained. Beneath the table, her hands grasp nervously onto one another.

She had felt something coming, that was sure.

But not this. Never this.

"And they are accusing me of having a hand in this?" her mother asks, though the answer is as clear as it was when the raven arrived with the news of Jaehaerys' death that same morning.

Of course, they accuse her. They have no choice but to.

The Greens will forever aim to sully her hands, no matter whose blood they are forced to use.

The boy will become a martyr. Everyone knows it— a relic of what was, and what could have been, flaunted and paraded through the streets. Elated guardsmen will urge those witnessing the procession to condemn the Dragon Queen for her wicked doings, and they will do so gladly.

They, too, will yearn for justice.

"We must double our guard here and in Driftmark," her mother says then, lifting her chin, though a certain wariness remains remnant in her tone. "There will be swift retribution, in one form or another."

"I have seen to it, your Grace."

Viserra glances away, still silent.

Before her, her brother steps forward, a newly found elation in his step.

"Let me fly out on Vermax," Jace declares. "Rhaenys is needed in the Gullet, and I can watch for movements."

His words bear a charming boldness and valour. Like the fervent, kingly boy he is.

But such words are feeble against their mother's resolution.

"No."

Lord Bartimus leans forward, then, steadying his arm against the table. His eyes are shrouded in worry.

"It must be said that the damage to our position is immeasurable at a time when we need loyalty to our cause," he says, his head bent.

"But it is a lie," Rhaenya ushers, her eyebrows furrowed. There is a meek desperation which elates from her skin, of want and confusion and fear. "Having lost my own son... that I would inflict such a thing on Helaena, of all people. An innocent."

She is met with silence.

The men surrounding the busy table glance about warily. Though usually impatient to utter their disapproval, the council seems strangely reserved.