𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

34 | The Ring

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
T H E   R I N G

-

Cregan finds her as she returns from yet another excursion on dragonback.

Above, the sky begins to darken, the last vestiges of pale light swallowed by the evening air. The sun, now half-hidden by clouds, settles further down at the horizon, offering only a dim glow against the vast, snow-laden expanse.

Nevertheless, Moat Cailin remains bustling with life. Soldiers move through the courtyards, their voices rising in the cold dusk as preparations continue. Fires burn in the canisters, casting long shadows against the ancient stone.

Viserra takes off her gloves, wiping her palm over her leather riding attire, and adjusting the strap at her waist. The dragon's flight had done little to warm her. Even high above the world, where the air was thin and the land stretched vast and empty beneath her, the cold clung to her like a second skin.

She flexes her fingers, still stiff from the chill.

The Lord of Winterfell watches her with a measured gaze, arms drawn behind his back.

Her eyes find their way to his.

"You were gone longer than expected," he says.

"The land is vast, and I wished to see it fully," she hums, tilting her head. "Or did I worry you?"

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, though he does not entertain the question. "What did you see?"

She exhales, shaking the frost from her gloves before tucking them into her belt. Her eyes flick back to him, keen and discerning. "The Neck holds, as we knew it would. No banners on the horizon save for yours."

Cregan nods, as if he had expected no other answer, and watches her make her way past him, entering the wide opening of the nearby communal tent, held agape by rope and latches. Inside, a far-set table stands, covered in maps and scrolls and ink. Viserra moves toward it, her steps deliberate and purposeful, despite the weariness in her posture. She rolls her shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering stiffness from her flight. Her fingers hover over the scattered maps, the ink black and sharp against the paper, the lines of the terrain drawing her eye, though her mind seems far from the details of the land before her.

He steps into the tent after her, the coolness of the wind following after him. His eyes linger on her for a moment before he turns to the maps himself, his sharp gaze scanning the ink-drawn paths and territories as if seeking something himself. Viserra doesn't look up as he approaches, her fingers tracing the lines of the map, her thoughts drifting somewhere far beyond the parchment before her.

"You should not stall much longer," she murmurs after some time. "You should take advantage of the serenity whilst it still remains."

Cregan raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking from the map to her profile. "Serenity?" he asks, his voice low, tinged with a quiet irony.

"The roads are calm and the lands are vacant," she explains. "But such quietude will not last forever. You should make use of it whilst it lasts."

Cregan watches her for a long moment, his gaze assessing, though his expression remains unchanged.

"We will march."

Viserra knows that. Everyone knows that.

"When?" she asks.

"Tomorrow."

Viserra purses her lips, her fingers tapping lightly against the map. "Good," she says simply, though her gaze remains distant, thoughtful.