𝗕𝗟𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗕𝗢𝗨𝗡𝗗 || Cregan Stark

36 | Parley

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
P A R L E Y

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The Twins— two opposing, formidable castles, identical in every respect with the bridge arching between— had guarded the crossing for centuries.

High curtain walls, deep moats, and heavy oak-and-iron gates protect the approaches, the bridge footings rise from within stout inner keeps, barbican and portcullis on either bank, and the Water Tower defending the span itself. One glance was sufficient to tell Viserra that the castle could not be taken by storm. The battlements bristle with spears and swords, and there is an archer at every crenel and arrow slit. The drawbridge is up, the portcullis down, the gates closed and barred.

The direwolf banner of House Stark flaps and flutters atop the lance of the two guardsmen standing before her bear. Viserra cannot fully see the river from here, but can feel how close it is. The smell of salt is heavy on the air whistling above.

The wind whips around her as she sits astride her pale mare, the bitter cold lacing her breath with mist. She stares at the keep, looming ahead. Her gaze sweeps the ramparts, assessing the banners that hang limp in the stillness of the morning—the silver crossing of House Frey rippling slightly.

Behind her, the minute column of riders shifts uneasily in the cold, horses stamping against the hard earth, breath fogging in the pale light. A silent host, waiting.

Lord Dustin rides up beside her, snow dusting the shoulders of his heavy cloak. He follows her gaze toward the towers, his mouth set in a hard line.

"Well?" he mutters. "Do they mean to parley, or piss themselves behind stone?"

Viserra's eyes do not leave the towers. Her voice is quiet, but iron-edged. "They'll come, my Lord."

They have to.

He scoffs, a sound caught between a grunt and a laugh. "Cowards, then."

The wind cuts sharper now, tugging loose strands of hair from her braid, whipping them across her face.

"They'll come," she repeats.

Far up, Karnax's rumbling cry echoes like thunder across the sky. The sound, low and primordial, ripples across the frozen plains, its resonance stirring the draught winds. He moves with grim ease, his large body cutting through the air, encircling the grand keep from above. The breeze picks up again, howling through the bare trees as the dragon's shadow stretches across the snow-covered ground, his massive wings beating with slow, deliberate rhythm.

Viserra glances up, her eyes following his movements, but she remains undeterred.

Suddenly, yet another noise reverberates through the air. It is the deep groan of grinding chains—the unmistakable sound of the portcullis beginning to rise. Viserra straightens in the saddle, lifting her chin as the gate creaks upward, inch by grudging inch. Slowly, deliberately, the drawbridge lowers with a grinding clatter of chain and winch, its aged timbers creaking against the frost.

A small line of men emerge, the sound of hooves clattering against stone echoes from the far end of the bridge. The young man in the lead pulls up his horse a few paces short of the bridge's midpoint. Clad in thick furs, a blue-and-grey cloak hanging from his shoulders, he sits tall—hand raised in signal.

Viserra nudges her mare forward, the hooves crunching over the brittle ground as she follows the lead of the small retinue toward the gate. Cregan, who had previously lingered behind them, falls into step beside Lord Dustin, his presence silent but unmistakable.