𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

32 | Winter's Weight

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
W I N T E R S W E I G H T

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Viserra stands by the long, heavy table, the air thick with the scent of pinewood and burning tallow. The tent is dimly lit, warmed only by the great hearth behind them, its embers crackling softly. The northern lords watch in grim silence, their eyes fixed on the map sprawled before them—parchment marked with inked paths of war, shifting borders, and red-marked points of impending conflict.

Cregan stands at the head of the table, his expression carved from stone. His hand rests on the wood, fingers pressing into its grain, digging. The flickering light of the fire casts shadows across his features, washing the youth from his skin.

He does not speak, nor look at her. His silence becomes him.

She does not need to utter a word to know what the men around her are thinking. They oversee her carefully—some with curiosity, others with the veiled caution of men who have learned to trust sparingly. A dragon among wolves. A dragon among men who know what it is to bleed, who have left home and warmth, knowing they'll soon bury their kin in the frozen earth.

Their voices resound, shifting and piling, one after the other.

Viserra listens feebly, her arms folded. Her gaze drifts across the map, to the faces of the men who speak, to the embers curling in the hearth. None of it seems to reach her.

"The splitting of our army will not progress easily," Lord Karstark—a grizzled man with a scar cutting through his brow—leans forward, his voice weighted with measured doubt. "Though it might aid us when confronting the southron armies, it assumes the riverlords will allow our passage through their lands."

A grunt of disagreement rumbles from Lord Ryswell.

"We need not their permission, my lord," he huffs. "What might Grover Tully do to stop us when the old dullard cannot even rule his own bannermen?"

Viserra's eyes flicker to him, her gaze cold and distant as his words hang in the air. The harshness of his tone pulls her from her quiet contemplation.

"I'll not have our men trudge through the Riverlands like cattle," Lord Karstark's voice cuts through, his tone firm. "Not when we do not know the nature of such travels."

Lord Ryswell's lips curl into a wry smile. "We'll march regardless," he says. "If the gods are good to us, none of the remaining traitors will persist by the time the Blackwoods are done with them."

An outraged sneer empties into the empty air, as yet another man steps forward, taking hold of the table. "I will hear no more of such slander," huffs the man, whom Viserra recognises as the Lord of Breakstone's Hill. "The Blackwoods's doings have brought shame onto the Realm."

"Shame? It was about time, I would venture."

"To slaughter women and children in their homes?"

"A necessary evil."

"There is nothing necessary in dishonour. Unless you seek to sully our hands with the doings of traitors?"

"May I remind you, my lord, that the Blackwoods sought only to punish the turncloaks who undermined the Realm's rightful ruler."

"And by what means, Lord Ryswell?" Lord Karstark mutters. "They laid waste to fields, maimed innocent smallfolk, and left Stone Hedge a smoking ruin. Yet you expect me to break bread with men who'd rather slaughter the innocent than swallow their own pride?"

Viserra watches the exchange unfold before her, the men's words hanging in the air like the bitter cold creeping in from the open tent flaps. For a second, Lord Karstark's gaze flickers to her, as if sensing her quiet scrutiny. Just as quickly, she is rendered unseen once more.