𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

35 | The Long Night

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
T H E L O N G   N I G H T

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The march would resume similarly to before.

As the host trickles down the causeway through the vast plains of the Barrowlands and spills out into the Neck beyond, Viserra's resolve only seems to grow. She masks her apprehension behind a face kept still and stern, yet they are there all the same, growing with every league they cross. The days were anxious, her nights restless, and every raven that flew overhead made her clench her jaw.

Yet despite the momentary wariness lingering behind her eyes, she rides at the head of the column, Karnax flying somewhere far above the mist-throttled sky. Her black cloak billows behind her like a banner of both mourning and dissent, a startling contrast against the snow.

The sun is little more than a smear behind clouds when the host makes its slow descent into the reaches of the Neck. Damp earth squelches beneath hooves, and the still, grey air clings to every breath like a prelude to rain.

Cregan rides close beside her, his mount keeping pace with practised ease. He does not look at her, not really, though his silence carries its own language—guarded and weary.

There's a weight to the air, something more than the creeping moisture or the sluggish winds. It presses on her chest, coils around her like an unspoken warning. Viserra focuses on the path ahead, though her thoughts continue to churn in quiet contemplation. The bog stretches out before them, an endless morass of damp, sinking earth, where even the trees seem reluctant to grow.

Her hands clutch the reins. Her fingers curl.

They feel bare, but no one knows that, save for her.

"I think I should join you in your treaty with the Freys," her voice breaks the silence, though her words feel like they stumble from her lips.

Cregan's gaze shifts to her, then back to the path ahead.

"Very well."

The answer is quick, simple. She does not know what else she could've expected from a man of his sort. Still, faint surprise settles over her features, as though she had expected opposition from him.

Silence lingers on her lips, her lack of acknowledgement causing him to turn his head.  

"It was meant to be your dealings anyway," he adds.

His words were true enough. The Crossing is the key to the Riverlands. Such knowledge had been impressed upon her since she first arrived in Winterfell, all that time ago. It remains equally pressing now.

She offers him a slight nod.

"They'll expect something in return, I suppose," she says.

"They usually do."

Viserra had spent her life learning the name of leal lords, memorising sigils, and reciting house words— but of what use would such knowledge be compared to matters such as these?

She bound the Manderlys to her cause with the promise of marriage. She bound the Starks to her cause with the promise of sons and daughters. What more promise can she bring forth?

"What do you think they want?" she murmurs, her eyes gracing carefully over their surroundings. "You know Lord Frey better than I."

He hums, his gaze equally fixed ahead. "I would not say we are very well acquainted."

She smiles faintly. "No?" she says. "And here I'd hoped you were hiding some deep and ancient friendship with the old man."

Cregan huffs, the first real sound of mirth she's heard from him that morning. "If the Freys have friends, I've yet to meet them."