𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

23 | Summons

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
S U M M O N S

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The small parchment feels stiff between her fingers.

The wax seal— garnished by the head of a direwolf— glistens in crimson red beneath the flickering lantern light. It is half-opened, its edges slightly torn by wind and weather.  

Viserra sits alone in her room, her knees brought to her chest and her back leaning against her bed. Her mind— shrouded and florid— struggles to be put at ease. The erratic thumping has returned to her chest, the same as earlier; as though a bird were trapped inside her ribcage, screeching to get out.

Her hand, the one not holding the scroll, taps restlessly against the bed frame.

She ought to throw it in the fire and pretend it had never found its way to her. She ought to go to bed and forget all of it.

But she cannot. Instead, her thoughts churn in endless contemplation, refusing to yield.

The heat of her palm has warmed the paper slightly, and she holds it close to herself. She glances down at it once more, feeling almost wary.

She opens the thin parchment again. She cannot help it.

Viserra, the beginning of the letter reads.

Not Princess, or My Lady.

Cregan has never been a courtly man. Perhaps she has found it within herself to enjoy his rough-hewn sincerity.

Viserra. The name of a sister, the name of an ally, the name of a beloved.

She tilts her head, unfurling the paper fully. Small, intricate letters bare themselves to her, painted in faint ink.

Viserra,

Whispers of transgressions in the Riverlands have been reported by our watchmen. Whether true or not, I cannot say, but I trust you to know what needs to be done.

My men are wary. They need to prepare whether or not they'll be met by friend or foe.

I leave this matter in your hands, as your decision may yet turn the tides.

C.S

She sits in silence, staring at the words until they blur together into a unified mass. A slight frown finds its way to her features.

She knows what he asks of her.

No articulations or intricate words could have put it more clearly.

But how could he find it within himself to reach out to her? she wonders. She is not her mother. She is not the queen. What assurance could she grant him that would not prove meaningless?

Cregan is not one for flattery or riddles. His words are simple but resolute, heavy with the weight of Northern pragmatism. He trusts her to act decisively.

But what authority does she truly wield? Her mother would bristle at the very thought of Viserra involving herself in the war beyond mere counsel. She rides the mightiest of all her mother's dragons, and yet it is Rhaenys who will fly to Rook's Rest and meet Cole. She will be alone, surrounded by vipers, and Viserra will remain here— restrained and held in bitter yoke.  

She feels ill at ease, uncomforted by the halls surrounding her. Her grip around the parchment stiffens.

She ought to throw it in the fire, the thought echoes once more.