𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

26 | Seeds and Rivers

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
S E E D S   A N D   R I V E R S

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She is alone and they are coming after her.

But it is alright, she thinks, because the last thing she wants is more silence.

Her steps are slow, almost dragging.

There is no end or beginning to the scenery surrounding her. The shivering cold sticks to her, like a second shadow. The ends of her skirts, spoiled by mud and snow, leave wet marks on the ground, tracing her steps.

Now, she'll never get away.

It feels as though she has been walking for hours before the long hall finally ends in a steep hill of stairs, descending into nothingness. Viserra looks back behind her. The torches are withering away in the far distance. One after the other gutters out, and the darkness begins to move, creeping towards her.

As she watches the light succumb, she hears something else coming, shuffling against the stone floor, closing in. Terror fills her. She cannot go back and she cannot stay here— but how can she go on? There are no doors or windows, and the steps go down, not up.

Her legs feel leaden, yet they obey. She descends the stairs, her hand grazing the stone wall for balance. The air grows colder as she moves deeper, a chill so biting it seeps into her bones. Each step echoes, swallowed by the darkness below.

Viserra dares not look back. She knows if she does, she will see them.

She moves, on and on, and can no longer tell what is up and down. Stone walls warp around her, moving like braided tapestries, embracing her, trapping her. The darkness is a living thing, curling around her ankles, whispering her name. The cold is sharper now, like icy needles prickling her skin. She grips the wall tighter, her fingers numbing against the damp stone.

She pushes forward, faster this time. Her skirts tangle around her legs, dragging heavy and sodden with snowmelt and grime. The air grows colder, impossibly so, and her breath clouds before her. Snow curls in her lungs, sharp and biting.

The steps end abruptly. She stumbles forward, her balance wavering as she reaches a flat stone floor.

Before her now is a cavernous hall, brimming with familiarity. The skulls of dead beasts look down from its walls whilst crimson banners leap from the high ceiling. Upon the towering iron throne sits an unknown figure man clad in rich robes. His limbs, long and thin, twist beneath his weight.

His eyes find hers. The depth of his pupil turns violet, then green, then black.

She does not understand how he can see her.

Still, she does not dare show fear. She steps forward, carefully.

She attempts to make out his face, but the image only blurs. His voice, distant and hollow, no longer sounds like words— more like a humming echo. At first, she thinks it is singing, but then she realises it is laughter. A maddened mirth, unbeknownst to her.

The noise swirls around her, echoing off the cavernous walls, reverberating like the toll of a death bell. It fills the vast hall, spilling down from the throne of swords as if the stone itself were mocking her. Her heart thunders in her chest, but she does not strive to flee.

Viserra takes another step forward, her gaze fixed upon the twisted figure on the throne. As she moves, the banners ripple, as though stirred by an unseen wind. They gleam a deep, visceral red, darker than blood. The shadows dance along the walls, shifting, stretching, almost alive.