𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

25 | Diplomacy

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
D I P L O M A C Y

-

"Some twenty years ago, my lord bent the knee to King Viserys and acknowledged the Princess Rhaenyra as his rightful heir."

She strolls slowly, gracing behind the stone pillars of the great hall. Her head tilts as she attempts to catch a glimpse of the high-table, where leal lords and stewards sit hurried about.

"So, you fight for this old oath?" Daemon's derisive voice reaches her ears, rimming with scorn. "Not, of course, for your thousand-year-old feud with the Brackens."

She steps closer, her hands behind her back. Her gaze settles onto the figures there, taking in their image curiously.

"I once vied for Queen Rhaenyra's hand before she wed Ser Laenor," Willem Blackwood remarks, leaning back in his seat. "I always liked her spirit. She had the true blood of the dragon."

"And you're prepared to march without the leave of your lord..."

Daemon trails off, his voice succumbing to the taut silence of the room.

Viserra steps around the pillar, at last facing the room. She leans against the cool stone, observing the scene unfold. Her eyes trail to her stepfather, who sits rigidly in his chair, his coarse palm clutching the table edge. His own gaze seems to dart warily around the room, his usual disregard seemingly gone.

She shifts her weight slightly, crossing her arms over her chest.

The airy light from the elongated windows casts itself onto her, framed by the dark shadows of the room. Even Daemon seems to take notice of her presence, his passive gaze flickering to her briefly, but offering no words or acknowledgement.

"And once you and your dragon bring the queen's justice to the Brackens," Ser Willem discloses, seemingly undaunted by Daemon's sudden subduement. "...our armies will be yours."

Viserra lifts her chin slightly, glancing toward Lord Blackwood, her curiosity piqued by the confident pledge that laced his voice.

He seems to surpass his overlord in both boldness and vigour— yet bound to crude desires for vengeance and wroth. His loyalty, while heartening, speaks more of ancient grievances than simple fidelity to her mother's cause.

Nevertheless, she thinks.

Loyalty is loyalty.

Daemon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His tone remains scathing. "The queen shall have your armies if I deem them worthy, Lord Blackwood. The Riverlands are a battlefield waiting to be swallowed by chaos. What will your banners be worth when blood slicks the Trident?"

Lord Blackwood's dark eyes gleamed under the muted torchlight, unbothered by Daemon's derision. "They will be worth enough when Bracken blood feeds the earth, and the Queen's banner flies high above Stone Hedge." His voice was measured, calm, yet simmering with deep-seated resolve.

This seems to please Daemon well enough, a small glint of wry mirth lingering on his lips.

He, ever the provocateur, seems to revel in these raw passions. His disposition has never been that of a statesman or diplomat. He was born to rue in chaos's yoke. Was born to share his bed with whores and heathens. He wears the skin of a man, but is capable of nearly as much horror as the blood wyrm he mounts.

For that reason alone, Viserra turns away.

She'd rather not partake in whatever spectacle is about to unfold.