𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

22 | Curse

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
C U R S E

-

"The winds are looking sturdy, my Lord!"

The horse's steps are slow and measured, heaving through the heavy mud with gentle ease.

Cregan glances over his cloaked shoulder, his expression still and cool-toned.

His deep grey eyes find those of his bannermen.

"It will lessen when we reach the end of the plains," he says, his tone clear and assured, spoken with a grown man's will.

The retinue trudges through the muck, their banners whipping in the cold winds that sweep from the eerie sky. Though the sun peeks weakly through the clouds, its warmth does not seem to find them. The shadow of winter looms heavily over the grass-laden lands before them, stretched out and daunted.

He knows it will not be the end of it. There will never be an end to it.

The young lord shifts his gaze back to the path ahead, the weight of his long sword resting against his hip.

Another figure approaches his side, tall and poised, as only a northerner can be.

"We ought to put up camp once we find ourselves at the river," Lord Dustin says. "We need fresh water for the horses."

Cregan does not answer. He only stares out into the open, frozen expanse— the warmth of his breath pouring vapour into the air.

The march had been manageable, though not uncomplicated. The days were long, and the nights longer. The sight of castles and hearths had grown distant, almost dream-like.

The wind tumults his hair and clings to his cloak. He tightens his grip on the reins, his jaw set against the cold. The chill of winter is in his bones now, but that is not what weighs on him.

He cast a glance at Lord Dustin. "We'll camp at the river, but only until dawn. I want the men ready to march by first light."

The older man, hewn from weir and winter as he is, inclines his head, "The men are weary. A longer rest might—"

"They'll rest when we win, or when they're buried," Cregan cut him off, his voice cold as the winds of the North. "The greens won't wait for us, and neither will fate."

He glances away, but feels Lord Dustin's gaze on him still. Neither daunting nor unapproving.

There is a slight pause, laden with promise.

"You speak like a battle commander, my Lord," the man huffs beside him, his voice ringing with agreement.

Cregan does not share his sentiment.

"I speak like a Stark."

And that was enough, it seems.

The name carries a thousand winters, and with it, a thousand burdens. Cregan does not need to look at Lord Dustin to know the man understands. In the North, they all understand.

The column of riders pressed onward through the biting chill, each man grim and determined. The wind howled through the barren plains like a restless ghost, rattling the steel clasps of their cloaks. They had marched far and long, yet there was a feverish urgency that gnawed at his bones, refusing to let him yield to the cold or the weariness settling into his limbs.

He ought to be solemn, and perhaps he is.

Bound to fate, to duty, to—

"The White Knife runs long and deep... it trickles all the way to White Harbor," the voice beside him echoes once more. A small smile draws at Lord Dustin's hoary features. "We might find better repose for the men there."