𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

33 | Moat Cailin

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
M O A T C A I L I N

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The pathway along the Kingsroad was narrow and veiny; at times, a little more than two narrow dirt tracks, winding back and forth on itself. Snow clings stubbornly to the ground, though the march of hundreds of men, horses, and wagons have churned it into a slush of mud and frost. The morning air is crisp, tinged with the scent of damp earth and pine, the remnants of last night's frost still clinging to the edges of fallen leaves. The army moves at a steady pace, a sea of northern banners rippling like dark waves against the pale sky. The sound of hooves against dirt, the occasional clang of steel, and the low murmur of men fill the otherwise solemn march.

Viserra rides near the front of the column, her gloved fingers tightening around the reins as her mount steps carefully over the uneven terrain. The cloak draped over her shoulders does little to keep the cold from creeping in, settling into her very bones.

Sleep had not come easy the night before—not that she had expected it to. Nevertheless, it had been strangely calm and uneventful. There had been no hidden dreams nor whispers in the night. No lingering sense of aversion on the tip of her shoulder, like a blade waiting to be culled. Nothing but quiet slumber, pouring into her a dithering hesitation, previously unbeknownst to her.

Perhaps there hadn't been much dignity in her departure from Harrenhal.

But there was relief.

"The wind bites cruelly today," Lord Dustin mutters from her side, pulling his cloak of heavy furs tighter around himself. "The gods surely test our patience with this bitter air."

They test more than that, she thinks quietly to herself without looking away from the road ahead.

"I was told the ride would be short," she says.

"It is," the old knight answers, glancing over at her. "The barrowlands are wide but not unending. When the plains subside Moat Cailin should not be much further."

Viserra nods absently, her eyes fixed on the far distance.

The remote outline of bare trees and frost-covered hills stretches far into the horizon, endless and unyielding. The lands are dry and barren, leaving little room for growth or livelihood. There are no inns or villages gracing the side of the road. No signs of life or living anywhere to be seen.

The north is a battered, unyielding place. Even to its own.

"How many await us?" Viserra suddenly speaks up, her voice breaking through the momentary silence.

She lifts her head, turning to face Lord Dustin once more.

He exhales, his breath curling in the cold air like ghostly tendrils. "A few thousand, I would venture," he tells her. "Mostly archers and men-at-arms."

"And Moat Cailin can hold such a number, as well as ours?"

"Our stay will not be long," he says. "It will merely fortify our army before beginning the march down the Neck."

She tilts her chin down. "And which way will you go, my lord?"

Lord Dustin offers her a grim, slanted smile, the creases around his eyes deepening.

"My host of greybeards will be the first to meet with the Lannisters," he says, seemingly finding a great sense of delight in the idea itself. "We shall march until we reach Harrenhal."

The faintest of smiles tugs at her lip.

"A generous aspiration," she hums.

"Well, I am a generous man."