𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

24 | Lord Paramount

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
L O R D   P A R A M O U N T

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Her eyes open, facing the endless black abyss. Viserra stays still, her limbs taut and cleaved.

In the dark, her body feels eerily small, hidden away, stolen. There is a lingering tinge of familiarity around her and inside her, looming like a shadow, second to her own. A shroud of rime drags along her body, covering her bare skin in a paralysing coolness. Her lips tremble and her breath is a faint wisp.

In the dark, she pretends to be dead. She pretends not to move until the danger is gone.

She is a child once more, but perhaps never again.

Something— someone— holds her, keeping her still. Fingertips brush delicately against her scalp. The sensation bathes her in a strange kind of calm, reducing her to a lulled, honeyed creature.

Despite her searching gaze, Viserra cannot make out what surrounds her. Darkness floods her eyesight, and she can only make out a distant humming sound, closing in on her. She hears words, whispers, tales of old— painting images in her mind of monstrous beasts and men, of prophesying maidens, of bloodied sheets and hollow cries.

Her body is limp, embedded in warm arms that are not her own, wrapping around her shrunken body like a cradle. A woman holds her close, breathing in her coolness, muttering melancholy melodies in a language Viserra once spoke, but does not understand anymore.

She glances up at the figure above— wary of all her strange, soft ways— attempting to make out her features in the dark. But she sees nothing. She sees nothing but the outline of the humming woman; her neck and jaw, arms and hands.

Her heart swells and bursts.

"Rest."

The shadow of a whisper arrives.

Viserra knows those words are meant for her. But she does not know why.

"Rest," she is told again.

Do not resist, is the true meaning. But what they— whoever they are— do not understand is that all her life she has resisted. She has no other choice but to.

"Rest."

The word has become a summoning, a magic incantation. She is a secret box of pain and she opens up the voice.

"Rest."

She opens her mouth, but no noise comes out.

"Rest."

She cannot rest. She never has.

That thought alone causes her to succumb to a sense of unease. Viserra attempts to move, but she is trapped. Snares grow around her, tightening with each breath she takes. Her body—a child's body— grows heavy and fragile, like a spun glass on the edge of shattering.

Apprehension surges through her veins as the grip around her tightens. The vision warps, shadows twisting and contorting like hidden spectres. The humming woman fades, dissolving into nothingness, but Viserra remains– bare and unmoored.

Her breath comes shallow and fast, her young, faint heart pounding against her ribcage as if seeking escape.

"Rest." The whisper echoes once more, distant now, distorted by the void.

She cannot rest. She can only watch.

Before her, above her, around her, another figure looms— made of promise and relics and old gods.